It wasn't until noon that eyes first cracked open. It wasn't until one that they were opened fully and the lean muscular form of your fine fencing fellow rolled upon your bed. Tangled covers and disheveled hair are the remaining evidence of the wreck that was Edward Meurelle and Valan Montague...
A collision of epic proportions, my friend. What a wreck. I can't wait to see you. To do it all over again. And I smile, even before I'm even fully aware. This is what you do to me. What you do to me. Dieu. The first stretch tells of sore muscles. Knots of flesh in motion we were. I lost count around 4:30AM. But when eyes opened, really opened, I found your note. Held it. Fingered it. Felt you on it. I think about keeping it... but I set it aside on the endtable and wander naked to the bathroom.
You are not here to see what dreaming does to me. Upright. If you were here, I'd want you to roll me over and send me aching. Pleasure. Again. I showered. It had to be two before I stepped out of it. Three, before I was finished dressing and the hair was done. Perfection thy name is Montague? Not quite, but... the look will suffice.
It was four when I padded, barefoot but otherwise clothed, to your kitchen. Slender feet slapped against tile, even though I'm trying to be quiet. And you're on my mind. You're always on my mind these days, Edward. Almost as often as you are on me, period. I poured a water, grabbed some fruit, opened my laptop on your table and emailed my father. By five, it is dark and I am in your living room. Sitting cross legged on the sofa -- lovely house service, by the by -- still barefoot. Wearing brown trousers of brushed suede, a wine colored linen shirt, button-down and untucked. Top three buttons undone. Garnets at my throat.
Fine golden hair drapes forward as Valan's head is bent. Fingers dance lightly across the keys, eyes watch the screen of his laptop...
He wished he could be there. Even after he suggested that you sleep, Edward lingered as long as he could. Is this how you look when you awake? How handsome you are. His fingers explored your face and shoulders -- locks of your hair. Another thirty minutes or more he was given, before he too had to succumb to what he is.
Maybe it would be difficult for any Kindred to forget what he is. Edward's nights are so natural, so filled, that he thinks not that it is the punishment for what he is. In his world, he is still mortal...just one who keeps overnight hours. Such understanding is not problematic when you sleep alone. Ah. Alone. Easy to make up whatever one wants when you're alone. No challenges to the theory, no complications, no odd moments. But you bring odd moments now, Valan Montague, to a bed and a man content in his world. You are a reminder...of what he is not. Not any longer. Playtime is over, Edward, wake the fuck up. Shall you lie to him indefinitely? How many reasons can you make up for early morning departures? Ten? Twenty? And that is your own creativeness. What about the simple fact of Valan asking you to stay with him?
But fingers caressed anyway, seeing the path ahead brimming with the beginnings of light. I know where this will go. You are not different than the Rest. Maria has warned of this time, in her gentle way, but to see it and prepare to walk the route still aches and seems to head only for eventual sadness.
He got up, Edward did, pulling the covers over you and heading for the shower. His was not so long, for Time...Compressed Time...moves rapidly. After the first few yawns, safety was compromised, and so he quickly wrapped a towel around himself and made the march to the first floor and the secret panel at the rear of an inner closet. Downstairs for the night... and I have not been here in ages. I'll have to dress before calling it a morning...
"Hullo!" comes the voice, a little before five. Did you ever hear the front door open, Valan? So quietly he moves. "Valan?" he calls, entering a little disheveled from the foyer and to the open living area. A peep around the kitchen wall. "Hey," he smiles, head sideways, cut off by the doorframe. He's hiding something, that grin shows, even if it's just himself. "I'm back..."
Oh, your fellows. They will fold their newspapers crisply with the Just So of a thousand years. Clucking tongues and warnings. I Told You So translated into twelve tongues. Je vous ai dit. Vi ho detto. Eu disse-o. Le dije. Ich erklarte Ihnen. I told you. But what does it matter. What will you tell him, Edward? There are choices. Love him and leave him for what he is. Love him and take him for what he is and can be. Nearly a thousand years ago, a young man with golden hair was facing the same decision. Tongues wagged then and eyes rolled. But what would this earth have been like had Guillaume d'Angevin, eleventh comte du Poitou and Duke of Normandy, never lived past that last day that whipped with sand and blood?
But you know, Edward, Valan has not begun to question. So far... you have only had four nights together. There has not been reason, not time to wonder. You can taste that in the blood. Is the residue of him yet there? But ... yes... that is the inevitable. Either way it goes, you will be the love of his life. Whether his life be forty more years or four-hundred...
"..'allo!" he says in exuberant reply. Laughter following the rather bad rendition of an English accent. What follows is even worse English, but it sounds, from that mouth? Beautiful. Valan looks up and hazel eyes are a splay of three colors, gold and green and brown. "Good afternoon, Edward... how was your day?" And he grins. A finger presses a key and you hear his computer repeating English vowel sounds. Teaching himself the language? Valan tugs and two tiny ear pieces, nearly microscopic headphones, are removed. Another key is pressed and the laptop shut for the now. Play time over. Valan rises, unfolding from his seat. He dresses in textures... as much for your pleasure, perhaps, as his own. "I ...should... hmmm... practice?" using English. He chuckles, goes a bit red. "Bad... oui..." And he drops into French. "So!" hands gesticulate, and he heads your way. To swallow you in a welcoming hug. "You have eaten? Rested?" What shall we do...
I know what I want to do. It must be branded on my face. It's got to be obvious. I wish it weren't, in some ways. I cannot be subtle around you, ami...
"Excellent!" Edward smiles, English on his tongue. He's proud. Impressed. Maybe you are thinking the same...and so you are already taking the time to learn English. He grins with the realization, but for now, hands want to hold you. "We will practice," he murmurs, hands at your hips, moving and massaging. Reminiscent of last night. It too is in his looks and touches. "I have not eaten," Edward grins, speaking French pulling you to him, "I have rested some," he smirks, rolling his eyes, "...and my day was...well, I can't recall all of it, so it must not have been so important. And you? I see..." head tips the direction of the computer, "...you've been working on my business language, eh? Right smart of you, laddie..." Ah, but do you know that word?
He waits not for the answers, knowing you can talk while he embraces you. Arms join, sliding together, and his lips leave soft touches at your cheek. "I hope your day was alright...I'm sorry I had to go out..."
English is a swirl. He can understand it more than he can speak it. But you can see his eyes nearly cross with the effort to keep up. But he laughs. Quietly. "I do not think we need to practice this..." comes the French. A lilt, a roll, a tug of tongue. Massaging hips. You... grabbing me. Me coming -- and frequently. Non, this we have down to an art. "I like trivialities. The glory of the mundane. So... I have been watching a little television... trying to learn more. But not so much. I watched the news. It's going to be... cold tonight..." And this pleases me. I will be warm. "What is this... laddie ..." Laddie ... the word tried in English. The a is long and flat, the d is short and the e is long. The accenting? It is all wrong. Of course. And the word never sounded better. Golden eyebrows lift, even as arms curl around your waist. Fingers ... finding their way against your back. But... he is mindful of the gun. He learns quick, this one. "Mmm... and...my day was good... I slept late..."
Ah, and the grin for that. I am the devil's son. But I can't help it. You are near me. And I like the corruption. How every look and phrase has two meanings, neither of which are holy. "No need to apologize...I understand... business." No questions, Edward. His lips brush against your own. "Even though... I do not understand much Business English. But... it is improving? This is good. I will... need the practice..." And need to know it. But he has missed you. And the brush becomes a kiss. "Would you like to go out to dinner then... or... shall we order in..." The lilt of French is at your mouth. The lyrical tongue tapping your lips.
"Laddie..." Edward slaughters with an accent mimicking yours, "...is...like...ami. But Scottish, moreso. And yes...dinner..." he sighs, "....would be brilliant ." English nuances but French tongue. He seems hungry. But Edward returns for kisses, as if they shall serve for food. "A nibble here," he whispers at your ear, "...one there..." at your throat. "Maybe we should practice...over a meal..." Edward chuckling as his tongue strokes over a particularly soft spot. "I don't know," his voice distracted, "...if you wish to see the City...then maybe I could get us into Gerard's or some place else tonight." On short notice, even. Arms are loving now, swaying you both as he keeps with Distraction, somewhere below your ear and locks. "What do you want to do, Valan..."
"Show me your London..." The words are in French. London is Londres . His voice is distraction. Quiet, holding to his throat. He moves in the sway. It is... like dancing. And to that he smiles. He moves. Easily. A fit you are, one to the other. Against one another. Suede brushes softly. "I will treat you to dinner... take me... to your favorite dinner place..." Gold hair, honeyed, falls back as he tips his head to the kisses you leave on his throat. A hand leaves your back for your hair. Fine hand loses itself against dark hair. "We will... practice... over a meal..." He does mean learning English, right?
There is no space between us. Only the layers of clothes. That is it. Skin would whisper to skin if not for that. But I can feel you beneath. I have learned the way your musculature moves, how your form reacts. And it only makes me press the more. Seek more. Want more.
"Should I change clothes, Edward?" Valan murmurs, eyes closing. He tilts his head. Warm, the parting of his lips at the crook of your neck. It is good you hold me. I should tumble otherwise. And it is all I can do to not pull back... and pull you to a surface with me.
"Fuck," sputtered in English. He is falling with you, and the word only serves to snap him back to the here and now. To your question. Edward's head lifts, his brown eyes closed. "If we're going someplace, we'd better go," he smirks, loosening his grip. "How about...we get a late reservation at Gerard's...it's a Islander joint," ah, for the colonies, "... and ... maybe...hit a few places?" Now you are separated enough so that he might see your face. "Unless you want the car-sightseeing sweep?" Hands slide to your rear, bringing you both flush again. His hands pat over the curve, tapping out some tune. "Most of the clubs don't really hit stride until later, of course..."
That word. Fuck. It is among the best that English has to offer. It causes an instant grin. "Mm... oui.... I would like that. It is too early for dinner... I had lunch... not too long ago... you can wait to eat? I would like to hit a few places. Maybe tomorrow... you can show me the city... after you get in," he assumes you will be working. No reason to assume otherwise. "Tonight... I just... want to ...be." And be with you. See the things you have told him about. How you live. He wants to watch. Ah... a voyeur. Of a fashion.
You pull him flush. Hands lift -- a balancing reaction, circling around your broader shoulders. The kiss is sudden, sweet and shows the frayed ends of his restraint. "Hmm... I say... we ... make a ...late reservation and hit your favorite clubs after. I want to... dance with you. You promised," he adds, as if expecting protest after. Valan smiles wide and warm. His eyes sparkle with it. So alive...
And so affected by you. A swirl of emotion and lust. Lust that is fed by a heart filled with butterflies and a groin full of fire. Around you, away from you... it does not change. He nearly trembles with it. Everything is Now and with You. "We have... all night... oui?"
"Alright," Edward yields easily, all smiles. Feet are planted into the floor, spread slightly apart. He pulls you closer, asking, "So...what are we going to do until dinner?" Looking down, his brown eyes widen. "Well, one of us needs to change into something more late evening like," he guesses, not having expecting the evening to evolve this way. "But..." wrist rolls at your waist, his hands still there, "...gah...it's early. Guess we'll have to occupy ourselves until dinner." A wince and glance over, "I should go ahead and call and see when we can get in..."
He's reluctant to let you, however. "When I did I say we'd dance..." his smile pulling sharply into skeptical humor. "I don't recall this..."
What is this? That holds me to you. That makes me want to give into every smile. To lie, to nearly plead for you to cover me. What is this. That will not let me sleep, unless wearied from lovemaking. That halts appetite for all but you. That will not let me be around you without touching you. I want to be with you when I am not. When I am with you, I want to be under you, on you. What is this? Love, but I cannot tell you...
Valan chuckles, "Nous pouvons prendre un aperitif. Est-ce que je servirai?" Yes... an appetizer to the evening. "We can go upstairs... we can pick out... something for us to wear... yes? I think this may be ... too casual. London... is ...more conservative than Paris, yes? Will I get in, looking like this?" Like a beautiful French hipster. His mod haircut. His lean and strong form clothed in untucked wine linen and suede. Who would not permit him entrance? But yet he asks. And seriously. Valan inclines his head, laughter calming into a grin. "You want a glass of wine. Point me in the direction... I will serve it..." Gallant, isn't he. Born long after thoughts of chivalry burned to ash and blew away on enlightened winds...
Dancing. Yes. I want to do this with you. To sweat... upright. As a prelude...or perhaps epilogue?... to sweating with you...horizontal. To lose ourselves in music, in rhythm. To find one another there. "You said... in L'Empereur... jazz was not your scene... but we would dance in London..." I am paraphrasing, of course.
A swing and a sway, then your muscled lover drops his hands. He'll need them for the phone, "Gerard's is pretty hip," Edward murmurs, handing pointing towards a cabinet where glasses are likely stored. "Look in that pantry there for a bottle," finger moves, and so does he...towards the phone.
"Did I say that?" Edward chuckles, crossing the kitchen to a nearby counter. He turns and leans against it, getting a good view of the kitchen and you in it. A celphone appears from a back pocket, and other hand fishes the gun from his back. A push of a button and soon the small phone rests at his ear. "What if I told you that I'm not the best dancer, ami..."
"Hullo?" English spoken here, "Oh, hey, Cecelia, 's Eddie. How goes?" He pauses, giving you a wink in the interim. "That's brilliant, bird...hey...can you do me a favor? Think you can get me...a table for two tonight? About nine-thirty?"
"If you dance like you fuck... it will be an amazing evening. Vertical even..." Fuck was said in English for emphasis. It does not sound so...brutally sexy in French. Eyes widen a little and amazement rests upon your lover's brow. To hear your English... spoken so well, and ... with an accent. Honeyed brows arch upward and he smiles. Will I ever speak it this way? To please you, I will try. Tall Valan reaches into the pantry, pulling a bottle down. It is late autumn. It is a good time for berries and heavier reds. Something to sit upon the bones, to stoke fire . "You said something like it..." comes the roll of his voice. Something like a purr translated to Francais. "I want to dance with you. I want to get gloriously drunk..." He is murmuring as you are speaking on the phone. And he grins. Wide, slanting. "Eddie..." Ha!
Two glasses. They chime with the touch of his fingertips and against one another. In greens. In golds. In browns. He looks to you across the way. Garnets catch the light. And immediately eyes seek amber. He crosses over to the counter and to you. Glasses set down. "Screw?" he whispers. Then smiles blithely. As in ...corkscrew...
Eddie? He looks up and smirks, eyes flying open at your loud use of the horizontal expletive. "Huh? Oh, nothing Cecelia...ah, yer a great girl, really." Edward drops the speaker, whispering at you when you mention the screw, "Yes," but not now. He chuckles, then goes back to the phone. "Excellent, C. We'll see you then. I owe ya." A wiggle of his brows, and Edward flips the phone closed, tossing it on the counter.
"Now what was that?" he smirks, slithering your direction. "Your English is improving quickly," his French slurs. "Fuck...screw...anything else you'd like to toss in there?" And instantly he is upon you. One instant there, one instant here. No one moves that fast. But his arms are already snaking around to retake their former position...you'll need to hold bottle and corkscrew up. "What was that again, eh? Maybe I should teach you what to do with those words..."
"I have...an excellent teacher..." Laughter claimed every syllable. French danced from his tongue, from his lips. And then you move. Eyes only have time to widen, arms to raise. And he is caught against the counter and in your arms. Glasses are safe on the counter. For now. He didn't have time to yelp, but caught... he laughs again. "Hmm... I can say..." He pauses, translating. "Suck...?" A question on that. Brows lift and the smile spreads. "I love to learn," he says innocently enough. "And ... from such a master of the tongue?" Hazel glitters in a wink. "Ah... I ... hmm... better set this down... yes?" The bottle. Valan twists a little, shifting him in your grasp. "We have time for a lesson... three hours... or so. I should learn a lot ... in that space of time, do you not think, Edward..." He didn't call you Eddie, but he did like the look.
Twisting, the bottle is set aside. Safely enough. Left hand frees itself from the grasp of the corkscrew as well. It clatters a little on the counter. "Ah, sorry.... ah! I can say... " A pause for translating again. "Kiss me..."
Kiss me. But he doesn't ask again. Leaning in, he takes one for himself. Even as he gives it. And in your grasp, the suede is supple over tightening flesh...
Kiss me. Edward smiles and agrees, though you move faster than he does. His forearm wends around your back, and with nary a heave, Edward lifts you to the floor. "I'll get that," he says softly, mumbled between your joined lips, and his hand reaches out to swipe the bottle you set down. "We'll need it," he breathes, turning you both around and walking towards the nearer living room. Upstairs is unnecessary.
"You say that too well," Edward's face beams. All humor and light is he. "Your friends might wonder what you've been learning from me when you get home...oh...you forgot a few though," he chimes, passing the threshold to the living room and angling towards the fireplace. "You missed... lick," said with English intonation, followed by his tongue at your lips, "...and...oh yeah.... more ..." word exaggerated by a wide-eyed look. "There are...others..." he suggests, licking your nose now.
Jesus. I am not light, but you carry me like a pillow. I like it. Someday... I will have to watch you fight. Someday... I want you to watch me. I am going to invite you to watch me. Dieu, that would be...amazing.
There is no resistance to your lift. He moves with you. Warmth upon his features. Living light. Just like you. To him, you are nothing but living. No... you are exuberance. Your every moment, every motion is filled with the intensity of life lived to the fullest, in each moment. It is ... that intensity that first drew him to you. It is that intensity of spirit he is attracted to. It is an intensity he shares, albeit his is more... languid? Not unlike William. If William were twenty-six and blonde. And shorter.
"They will think I was learning English from... vids... sold in dark rooms," the words pull with deep laughter. "But... more ..." He tries that. More. The lilting R. The lilt lands upon your lips, his tongue flitting there. "More," is murmured again, muffled in a parting kiss. This time, the lilt of his tongue upon the Reases against your own. The kiss is wide and warm. Brief. Valan inclines his head. "Vous etes etonnant..." You are amazing, Edward...
Really? Few have flattered him as you do. "Nothing wrong with...some things in vids..." Edward purrs, still holding you slightly from the floor. "Here, hold this," he whispers, lifting arm to give you the bottle.
Once done, a burst of strength comes forth. The arm tightens, but pivots, swinging your legs and causing him to crouch. Suddenly, same legs are in his arms, and he is lowering you to the floor. You shall not have to kneel or bend. "How is that?" he asks, the horizon sinking for you both. You did not know you had a knight at your disposal, did you, Valan? In truth, he had forgotten the Old Ways, such practice no longer interesting to this age. But for you...ah...he should carry you across all thresholds.
On one knee, he looks past you in his arms to the pillows, settling you there. He smiles, liking this suddenly, and then looks to the wine. "Next words..." his French shifting to English, "...there...more...harder," then explaining in French, "...a good combination. There. More. Harder," just in case you needed to understand.
No, he has no idea. None. That armor once covered you -- you who could afford it. That you were related to royal houses -- not so distantly as those who claim such today. That the arm that bore him once bore a shield. That the hand that most often moves against him once bore a variety of implements. Swords. Lance. He did not know. Does not know. But if you told him, now... he would not doubt it...
Crimson. No, more wine. More the wine of the Loire. Your lifting of him, how you handle him. He has felt this before... while on your bed -- two different beds, now, has he known you on -- you have shifted him in positions, each one delighting him far more than most have fared with one position. For hours, you and he have wrangled so -- but to be rolled over and intertwined is one thing. To be carried, is another. But he does not question it. No, it happens too quickly. And he is too busy with making sure the bottle makes it through unscathed. Laughter pulls from his throat and chest. "Ah .... non... I like vids. I ... ah... hmm... nearly taped myself once." And then the wine of his complexion deepens. "This is... good," Valan murmurs.
In golds. In browns. In greens. Tri-color sparkles at the English... and then the French meanings. Not truly understood until the French was heard. Understood, but not in context. "Mon Dieu..." Valan chuckles. "Ah... let me try..." He clears his throat and turns his head slightly. Such a look. The French have perfected seduction. Now, it is innate, inborn. Natural. "There..." comes English, more languid than it ought to be, but clear. "...more.... harder..."
"Exquisite," Edward sighs as easily as the pillow does at the foot of the sofa. Only one...he was not expecting to spend his time downstairs. The pillow is set behind you, he now kneeling next to you, hands slipping from their hold to rest on his thighs. "I should get more pillows...a blanket?" Will you make it to dinner? The renewed chivalry burns bright, and Edward turns a heart-colored red for the remembrances. What I was...Before . He smiles sheepishly, his look lingering before he actually moves to find comfortable bedding.
"Maybe...after a while..." and he grins at the presumption, "...we...might decide to...keep a reminder of ourselves." In a closet. He inhales deeply, eyes dancing in the light. "But until then, you should practice your words, so you'll know what to say at the time. Now...again...all the words, with feeling ," his hand waving directorish. Edward chuckles, hands pushing on thighs to send him upwards to seek linens. "Let me hear you..." he notes, grinning as he moves towards a hallway closet.
The din of Gerard's is enough to cover any private conversation. Sitting near the Barbican, enough theatre patrons fill the restaurant to possibly start their own production. Yet despite the tables, there remains a short wait of the hopefuls, those who decided to buck the reservations and attempt a coup. More than likely, it won't happen for them...well, perhaps last seating at 11, if they're lucky.
For you both, entrance was easy. Valet parking, passing the masses, how much more trendy can you appear? Eyes stared, wondering of many things. The answer? Yes. Yes, yes, definitely yes. Whatever you all might think. Edward's grin could only be described as shit-eating, and the touch at your back upon entrance could only be interpreted one way to the initiated. Cecelia served as hostess, and after greetings, prime seats central near a flowered half-wall allowed privacy while being the focus of attention. Just as he likes it...and he hopes you do as well.
"So, what do you think?" Edward smiles, brilliant in a velvet violet shirt and black leather pants. He's done little more than stare at you all night, savoring you as much as the beef that was upon his plate. He served as sommelier, leaving the staff to work around him. "Think...you could be seen here...with me?" A roguish look, slanted smile meant to tug at you. Have you enjoyed it? Tell me that we appear and are happy together.
Hand reaches out to pick up his brandy, the cream tart with chocolate almost gone. Ah, but he likes chocolate. Edward's brows are arched, eyes brilliant and adoring...
Casual Gluttony. Your lover wore his suede. He wore his shirt untucked. He wore a jacket of suede to match. Garnets at his throat and crimson lenses upon the bridge of his nose. Past them, hazel dared. Look at me. Look at my joy. Especially to you, Meurelle...
Look at me. Look at my joy...
The touch to his back. He leaned into it. He turned his head, his golden hair straight and brushed down Mod fell before his eyes. And he grinned to you. I love you. The smile came easy, warm and wide. It spoke to all, loud and clear, of what is between you. Yes. Yes. Definitely, yes. Whatever you all might think. I have it. I am fortunate. He is glorious. And we are only passing through your lives for this instant. Look... hold... remember. Tomorrow it will be gone.
He tried to order in English. His accent heavy Loire, pulling so firmly. Words sounded out, menu handed to you. I can't read it. He called for assistance with a beautiful grin. Had you denied him -- and you would not have -- ten-fold would have come to his aid. You translated in French, arrangements were made. And he dove into his food with pleasure, with delight -- and above all... appreciation. There was conversation. Drinking. A crescendo of watching eyes, swirling waitresses and the Truth that was on his face. For all to see. He has nothing to hide. He has no shame. Pleasure... and what is between you... what is Hoped To Be -- all of it. For you.
"The cake was enough to make me drunk... look, ami," his French rolls from him, dragging...lilting. Valan presses down with his fork... you can see the rum run out. He chuckles. Brilliant. And uncovered eyes -- lenses removed like a gentleman when he sat down -- shine with it. "You are going to have to carry me out... yes?" And would you? There is a beautiful, brazen quality about your Montague. Perhaps it is the swordsman in him. Valan leans in, he smells of chocolate...rum...brandy. "Brilliant," he tries in English. For you. Your word. "Brilliant," he repeats in French. "I am with the most handsome, witty, sexy man in all Londres," he continues in French. "And I would not have ever thought I should be in Londres, in such company." He raises his glass to you. He is effusive when he is nearing intoxication. But he means...every word of it.
His dessert of rum and chocolate cake is dark and rich and more than half eaten. He is on his third brandy. Yes... it will be a wild night....
He continues to stare. To grin. Such pleasure ... of another's company. Not shadows of making time with someone, but indeed sharing joy. Has either of us looked so...in love? Right now, if you asked him, Edward himself would not deny it. Amber sparkles against the velvet and cream at his throat, shuddering faintly when he replies, "I guess that...makes two of us, cher, hmm? You are...a sight for me." A feast. He lifts his glass in greeting, finishing it off with a close of his eyes. I had forgotten what this was like. I've only been playing...
"Mm...I think I am totally...filled. I am too stuffed to dance," he teases, hoping you'd let him off the hook. Edward chuckles, setting empty glass down and leaning in. His own dessert just about gone. "I should kiss you and have a second dessert," he offers, leaning in faintly, "...the rum...you can smell it. Is the brandy the same?" he wonders.
I know what I feel. How is it my lips will stop short of speaking it? I love you. Oh, that is it...
Pleasure, delight and joy bind you. Pass between you. It is tangible. How could anyone here miss it? If you look into the glasses upon your table, will you see it reflected there? Reflected... will you speak on it? Effusive Valan smiles at the endearment. Smiles to see you down your brandy. "We are dressed too fine not to... have one dance... but...perhaps, cher..." Valan smiles grandly at the term, "...we should dance first at home...at your home..." Crimson touches his cheeks -- what a fumble, Valan. "But tomorrow night... I want to see this ...club you were speaking of...hmm? And if you do not kiss me," he lifts his gaze, his blush gone. Desire is full-force in his gaze of greens and browns and golds as he leans in toward you. You shall meet halfway, non? "... how will you know?" he murmurs. Kiss me.
Here. Here in this restaurant. Profess it. You will not mistake the Truth when you touch my mouth...
Kiss you. I can see it there. Edward grins, tilting his head over the glasses. Home. "Tonight...we'll see the club," he whispers, "...and then...we can have the rest of the time for ourselves. At ... home."
The kiss begins softly, Edward's eyes closing. Upon the white linen, his fingers touch your hand, seeking them out among the remains of your meal. It is gentle, but pulling as the chair wills him back to its cushions. There. Edward's eyes open, wondering what shall you think of it. I am falling in love with you, it said. I want you beside me. Stay...a while. He breathes then, brow furrowing a little as his own thoughts resound in his brain. I hear it...can you?
It is good I am sitting. I am already falling. There, my fingers lightly grip. Your hand, the linen, the table. For balance. Fingers splay, softly. There is strength there. And in the pull of his lips upon your own, answering. As you leaned in, as the kiss landed, eyes closed. The restaurant faded into white noise. Eyes courted by glances, by pleasure and by casual gluttony are ignored. Forgotten.
Edward, I'm not going anywhere. I am in love with you. Didn't my lips form those words? The brandy makes his head swim. Like he's already spoken them and they linger there, hanging upon the air like frosted breath in winter. His eyes open and he sits back. There is not part of his expression that does not confirm it. His eyes widen just slightly. "How did you like the brandy," he murmurs. He swallows. And Valan smiles. Slow. Spreading. "Was it to your liking, cher?" Cher. Ami. Love.
He is dizzy. He reaches for water. Water! To still him a moment. "I ...love... " hazel eyes lift, "... to be your goblet..." And everything else.
If you only knew. Edward smiles, "It was almost as exquisite as you are, my Valan." I know what I said. He grins, wondering if you caught it, but the reverie is broken by the sudden appearance of chocolate on your nose. He puts finger into his mouth, enjoying it immensely. "When might you need to get home?" he wonders, hating the thought. "Maybe I should fly you myself..." he leers, then laughing at the humor.
Yours. The thought causes the smile to pull wide and warm. Such living light. There is nothing that can out-shine a mortal smiling. All that is beautiful about them is full force when lips curve. Only more beautiful when they bleed at your mouth, or arch under you. When he arches under you. As if he were created to be there. Perhaps he was. Who knows...
Valan settles back, quiet laughter leaving him. Brandy settling in. His complexion is ruddy. "Ahhh... you can fly me tonight. I should like to... soar again as we did last night..." The French comes coiling. Suggestive. But more seriously, he makes a slight gesture with his hand, a slight shake of his head. "I have my office with me, oui? I ... am at leisure to do what pleases me..." He tilts his head, the look entrenching upon his features. "I would like ... to stay, Edward. With you ... for a while. I only need to let my housekeeper know that I will be out of town a while..."
There. I said it. Will the world come crashing down now? Will all the beauty and pleasure fade because I have admitted that I want you... for longer than a weekend? Valan looks to you. Easy confidence about his demeanor. But there is still that intensity. That knowing. The realization of Love.
"Okay," Edward murmurs, relief as well as excitement. He looks down between you both for a long moment, as if something serious needed to be said. A deep inhale -- and you can feel him swell -- sweeps the area you share. Licking his bottom lip, he breathes, "I...have not been with anyone..." brown eyes lifting, "...in...a while, Valan," his head quirking. Do you understand?
Suddenly, another presence is near. A china plate with a slip of paper upon it, handwritten, and a quiet, "Thank you, gentlemen, have a lovely night." The garcon. A bow, and he turns away and disappears as discreetly as he came.
Edward pauses, eyes glancing up. He will not speak until the man has gone, and after acknowledgment, returns to you expectantly.
Relief and excitement is shared. Hazel eyes lift and lower even as yours do, nearly in-time. And then the universe stills, comes to a stop, and the restaurant continues to spin. White noise. The thousand tiny sounds of spoons and china and the swirl of conversations are lost. Valan glances up, corners of his mouth upturning in polite recognition to the garcon. Brief, before the whole of his attention is back on you. Breath is shallow for a moment, and then he inhales.
"I ... have not... not really ever. Maybe... university..." He shakes his head. You are not alone, Edward. I understand. Hazel eyes lower to the linen for a moment. A settling moment. "This is... I..." he exhales and looks up to you, "Even in my French I am...having trouble speaking it." Humorous chagrin. Relief shows itself again. "It is new... then... for us both...?" A slight lift to his voice. To confirm what we already know. We do not want this to end. Both of us...
He almost looks his age again, Edward does. He chuckles at the tablecloth at your confession, but exhales and nods at the question. "Yeah..." he admits softly, not wishing it to sound like fear, but instead some level of inexperience. "Maybe...you'll forgive...mistakes," he ruefully smiles, looking up through lashes to see you. A chuckle and his eyes fall once more, hand reaching to retrieve a flat clip holding a fold of bills within.
"You still want to go out?" he asks gently, willing if you still want. But yes, his preference seems elseplace. Fingers move, retrieving four bills which are left on the china tray. Eyes occasionally wander over you both, and only now does Edward look up to glance about the room. Conversations. Boredom becomes oppressive when spilled in a group setting.
The hundred-pound notes are crisp, the image of His Majesty upon them. Someone will receive an insanely generous tip. The details of the bill...remain downturned. He can guess and leave the rest to minutiae.
"I shall... if you shall," Valan softly and warmly agrees. We have a deal? Golden eyebrows lift in an arch. "Think of it as... extreme skiing. We are both falling..." He grins at the metaphor. Liking it. He takes in a breath, takes a last swipe of the chocolate. "Non...I think... I would like to go back to the house tonight. Plenty of time for dancing..." It is better, oui? When you do not have to live an entire lifetime in three nights.
Napkin is plucked upward, and hands make the last rubbing. A last swallow of water. And he looks to you. And then he rises. Standing. Let's go, love. Valan reaches over, taking up his suede jacket again, tailored for him. His lean, fencer's form. A form you have gotten to know well, mais oui? "I should like to fall against something soft, and onto something hard." Green-gold-brown sparkling wink. And for all to see... in glorious display... Valan leans to steal a kiss as he stands...
He only blushes for that, laughing at your outrageousness. Edward nods and rises as well, moving around the table with fullest extension of his arms. Pulling your chair harmlessly out of the way. "Good," he whispers, eyes looking about, "...I'm in the mood for repeatedly falling into something wonderfully warm and squirming." How's that for tact? He waits for you to pass, then picks up his own jacket, tossing it over his arm. "How about I let you drive..." he offers, fishing for the keys...
Brilliant. Your word for it. His word now. And his laughter. His gaze. The glow of Life around him. He reaches out, hand poised for the keys, and takes a stride ahead of you. A strolling stride he has. In no hurry. With a fencer's practiced grace. How he moves. His body knowing its place in the universe. And now... his place with you. Wanted. "That will be easy to arrange, ami," the laughter tugs at his French.
Ah...he's Continental. That explains it...
He is a golden thing, your Valan. Honeyed hair and something of sunlight that follows him. It would follow him... no matter if he never saw another sunrise. There is something ... of inborn fire in him. Not unlike William, who for all his darkness was ever the embodiment of Midsummer. He moves slowly, making certain you are within touching and gazing range. The departure is as gluttonous as the entrance was sometime ago now. He basks in it. His pleasure, his delight -- pleasing and delighting you.
I have found my place. It is with you...
Will You... Won't You...
Suede and linen. Brandy and rum. Gold and garnet. You and your lover were brilliance. Motion. You set the night on fire. The restaurant will never recover. You left a wake of energy behind you. Couples glanced and wondered... was it once that way with us? From Gerard's to the night air. Chilled November.
There were words, love. That tumbled from our mouths. And even in the silence we were speaking. Speaking of the things we almost say. Our circles are drawing tighter. We are getting closer to the day when we call it was it is. Love.
Posted by rowan at February 04, 2001 11:04 PM
