He opened the door for you, your gallant. He left you with a kiss at the door. Warmth that held upon the chilled air, breath holding in frost. It is autumn for everyone else. It is summer for you. He drove you to your house with your directions. Laughing. Brilliance in motion. Liking the way the machine moved beneath him -- ah, this is how it must feel to be you when you are in me...
And now in your foyer he lingers. Your modern lover. And love is in his eyes and he does not hide it. It softens him around his eyes. In greens. In browns. In golds. Cool touch of keys are placed in your hand as warm mouth pulls upon your own. We are home.
"And a fine driver you are," Edward teases, parting his lips and returning the kiss with his eyes wide open. A grin remains as he stops and bends, picking up something at the floor of the door. Slip is captured, your man rising to read the scribblings quickly. His brow furrows faintly, and then a smirk angles as he shakes his head and pushes the door closed with his foot. "From a friend," he finally remarks off-handedly, giving you his attention again, while removing his jacket.
Upon the lovely side table, the note is set down. As he squirms from his jacket, Edward's eyes are upon you, staring. His chest and arms are once more exposed, soon to be more so. "Did the Cobra's turbo bother you?" he wonders, picking up the conversation again. Keys tap on the pad, and the door is silently locked and alarmed as the jingle of the tossed ring chimes on the table as well. Jacket is hung on a post, and Edward's hand extend to take yours.
On the paper, the familiar scrawl of Davydd Llewelyn. Only the D is of particularly fine scripting. The rest is hurried. I've gone to put breeze up Norman. I'll get you on the way back. With ever-cordial affection, you ass, The Prince of Wales. Beneath that script, there is also a second note: Ps... tell William I'm on the way and I'll pound you into dust and make you think you did it. ~Davydd. How he loves you, Edward...
"Why thank you," Valan says, quite blithely. As if you meant it. But the grin, the grin is wicked and wide. Is that for comments on his driving or for you unclothing? It is hard to say. For certain. Both, most likely. "Thank you for reminding me to drive on the left..." Of course, you did shout it. Good thing too. Moving forward into the house proper, Valan removes the brown suede jacket. A twist. A turn. A glance to you over his shoulder. "Would you like a drink?" playing host in your house. He smiles for it. "I will get you something..." Let me get you something...
My eyes do not leave you long. Cannot. They cannot. That is the word. And the truth. The silences, when they come, are crammed with This. You and I...
The wine linen shirt, untucked as it has been all night, falls about his hips. And it beckons on the air as he moves to your living room. That stride. It is slow. It allows you to see so much. The suede... loves him.
That man. Edward takes a last glance at the note, twisting to hang your jacket beside his own. You could not leave the house if you tried.
"Yeah, sweet, a drink would be nice." He momentarily distracted again by other mail. Fingers make short shrift of the pile, flipping through the envelopes in rapid speed...as if over files. Hmm. Nothing interesting. Edward sighs and slips out of his black shoes, preferring to be barefoot.
"What's in the bar," he smiles, watching you and the suede move with rapt appreciation. Leaning against hallway and foyer corner, Edward crosses his legs and folds his arms, wishing to see the whole picture. You in the house. "Well, I guess a better question is...what is not in the bar," he grins. "How about...a whiskey," beautiful. Eyes blink languidly, filled with the sight of what...who...he desires the most. He is quiet then whispers, "You...are beautiful to watch...and..." Edward grins, "I cannot believe...that you're here." In London. In my home. With me. I can't tell you how happy I am. His head tilts in smiling study, the velvet shirt long too now...unkempt as your own. I have...someone.
That man. To know him is to love him. Or something. But now he will be William's problem. He would have been yours tonight had he not grown so impatient in his own boredom. You will find a few messages from the Prince In Transit. Trying to find you. Yes, Rose kicked him out of the house again. What he doesn't say is why. Notice, he never really says why...
The whole picture is before you. Valan, moving in your space. With growing comfort. As if some part of him knows he belongs here. With you. Something known upon the blood, like instinct. You are South, it is winter -- he has flown straight to you. Can you imagine how it would be were he to stay? Were he to be a fixture in your home. Among the things most you. Can you imagine how it would be... he can. He imagines it when he looks up from the bottle in his hand.
Whiskey. A very fine scotch. He is no scotch expert, but he imagines you would have nothing but the best. It is held up, for your acceptance. Valan smiles, but it is not to the discovery of whiskey, but to your words. Though the smile is slight, it is warm. Heated by several degrees. "I... hoped... I would be," he murmurs in return. "After that second night... and... here I am..." You see his eyes stray over you, your form, the velvet that lies over it. "It sets you off like a jewel..." he says. I said it . Words that would only have been uttered in the ether within his mind and heart, now are audible. Admitted. Shared. His hand twists off the top to take a sniff. "Merci..." to words of beauty, honestly received. "...et vous, mon ami..." Ami from his lips, with that look and the timbre of his voice... it is amours he means. "I... love being around you... watching you... being with and under." Lips pull into a slight slant. "But it is... not just that. Though ...it is true," such a blithe expression, "... we are good at that..." Valan can't help the grin that follows. And he lowers his gaze from you finally. To pour.
"We are," Edward confesses, grinning from ear to ear, "... very good at that," voice lowering. "I wonder why..." posited softly, he still statuesque against the wall. He grins, knowing you may see him stare, and sighs softly as he looks to the fireplace. Lucinda has been here today to clean.
"Would...you like it to go on?" he asks through a mumble, chin down at his chest. Eyes at the parquet where he stands. "I...would," he lifts, brown eyes resplendent. Not green, blue, or anything so fantastical. Just an ermine brown. "I would..." he says firmer, arms tightening across his broad chest, "...as long as you'd like. Even..." he smirks, "...well...I do not know your plans...but I was considering holiday in Switzerland." Yes, you may guess the rest. Eyes look at you expectantly, words gentle, "And...I want ... you with me for the season..." Is that drink done? Edward exhales, having gotten it out. He bites his bottom lip, head cocked as he fidgets upon your answer.
"Err...well, you...don't have to answer now..." he chimes in, suddenly fearing a negative. "Maybe...well, think on it..."
Gold liquid pools in the glass. A hint of ruddiness and age. The scent of scotch, a fine single malt. I am too far away. Too far, when you speak such things. The bottle is set aside. There is as of yet no grin. No wild reaction, as he is wont to do -- so far as you can tell. He carries your drink to you and before you stands. His right hand offers your glass to you -- his left cradles his own and he leans. "Yes," is murmured against your cheek, words become a kiss. "I want it to go on, Edward. And... " now he smiles, "... I have thought about it... I would love to go to Switzerland for the holidays.... and spend them with you." And I hope it is not the last. Not the last we will know. "I... do not think I would be able to go back to France without you, Edward," comes his whisper. Bare truth, unclothed in pretense. Naked and honest. His mouth brushes your cheek again. "I want this ... I want you."
Valan closes his eyes. You can feel the barest touch of lashes against your cheek. He is smiling. He is serious. He is nervous as you. He trembles. And he lusts. He loves. "It was only going to be ... the same old parties," Valan murmurs in French. "The same ...old conversations... even the same gifts. Until you, ami..." And now it is all different. And I can't go back to what it was before.
"Me too," Edward whispers, closing his eyes to your touch. His fingers coil around his drink, fitting together gently. We think the same. Relief and happiness wash across his aquiline features, and a small smile shines through, despite the drop of his gaze to the drink in his hand.
"A friend...has a place near Mervillne-aix-Ponteverde. It.." he bobs his head, shrugging his shoulders, "...it's a small town not so far from the Morelleix Ridge..." he chortles, "way brilliant slopes." Edward's voice falls a little, hearing himself. You know where it is. "So...we'd have a chalet to ourselves, with a few staff." A place decent enough for you. "I dunno how long you'd be able to get away, but I'd planned on almost three weeks...unless that's too much for you."
Now that drink. Edward grins and lifts it to his lips, watching you over the lip of the short old-fashioned glass. A pause, then he finally takes a small taste.
I may speak of the trip, but my heart clings to what you said. Eyes drop again, hearing the words. Mulling over them. "If...I haven't said it, Montague..." he grins at the use, "... I ... want ... whatever is happening between us too." Just so you know. He shrugs sheepishly and takes another taste of his whiskey.
The smiles come easily again. To eyes. To mouth. He yet stands in your shadow. His form brushing yours. It is not a press. It is just an impression. A touch. A stroke of linen against velvet in the raising of his hand, his drink to his lips. It is sipped. Another swallow and it will be finished. "Three weeks ... can we leave room for four... just in case?" Tilting, the grin crosses his mouth. Full and forming French beautifully. "Snow... brilliant," that one word said in English, "...slopes... and you... ahh...how shall I stand the pleasure?" And he means it. "I'll do my best of course," he whispers, leaning in, words spoken against your ear.
So we will talk of the trip among other things. You and I. "I can take as much time as I like... I am no man's... but yours..." He chuckles at that suddenly. Liking the sound of it. Liking what it means. "When do we leave? I will have to detour in Tours... to get my gear and pack..." There follows a pause and he lifts his glass, finishing the scotch with the third swallow. Fingers slide against the velvet... for texture first. There follows after a tug. "Come to the sofa..." he whispers. A question. A desire. A suggestion of his own.
We talk of the trip, and of the greater thing behind it. Montague grins as you do. "Oui... I have heard it, Edward... when you say my name..." Though he smiles, his hazel eyes hold a serious, earnest light. "It gave me the courage to speak..." Leaning in, Valan closes his eyes. You feel the warm brush of his mouth against your cheek again. He seeks your mouth. He will wait until the scotch is gone.
Come to the sofa. Edward grins and pushes himself from the wall, tripping at your insistence. He laughs a little, turning the drink up and finishing it in a quick inhale. There. The kiss is returned, heated with a burn. A quick inhale rushes some of the fumes away, and as he tumbles to the sofa, the empty glass is set aside. He and the sofa both make airy noises, dissipating into quiet. Edward leans at an angle, one leg extended to the floor, the other open along the sofa. Between the two, plenty of space remains for you. He looks up, expecting no less, his hand extending an invitation.
"We could try for four," Edward goes on, "...I do not think I have anything on my schedule. But I'm glad to know that you're no one's...but mine." Indeed, so. Edward's free hand pats between his legs, fingers rapping the cushion. "We could leave in a few nights," he explains, "...back to France, then a flight to Chateneuf, near the ridge?" How does that sound. "But..." finger lifting, "I wanna hear more...about what you hear when I say your name. And here...I just thought I was saying your name!"
Fingers curl against your own, then are lifted to his mouth. Mouth strays there a moment, but even though your hand is lowered, it is not turned loose. Not yet. "When you said Valan ," he murmurs, settling on your lap and sofa both, "...I heard the word, of course, but...your interest was there in how you spoke it. When you said Ami ," Valan continues, turning his head to you as he sits against you and sofa both. Comfortably. As if he has finally found his place. "... it came with such warmth... with such a look... that I thought... it might be true that I was not alone in how I felt..." A grin forms as he lies back, his back against your velveted chest. "And tonight... when you called me Cher ... I knew I could finally speak it. That is what Montague heard." Observant is he not? "And when you groan my name..." He leaves that hanging there, a grin spreading wide behind it.
Fingers lift to his shirt, your hand resting now against him. One by one are buttons loosed. The wine colored linen falls more slack about his form. "Three at least... it will be nice. Plenty of time to ski... slopes...maybe some cross country if you would like. And we will lose no time for... warm rums and a warmer bed." He has quite the appetite. Your intense, young man. Valan grins, turning his head and looking to you again. His shirt unfastened, he leaves it open against his skin. Garnets gleaming at his neck. "Hmmm...oui...none but so, Edward," Valan whispers.
"Ah...Chateneuf!" Excitement, tangible. "Yes... leave in a few nights, provision in Touraine and head for the snowy paradise and peaks." Hazel eyes close, garnets gleam, and the mortal you hold... the mortal you love... exhales upon a grin. "Leaving old conversations, old parties, old ways behind. I like this. A new start, a new year. This is good..."
Arms do wrap gently, making sure of the fit. He listens, his own amber touching the nape of your neck. "You are terribly observant," Edward chuckles after hearing your treatise. "And here I thought I'd made a slip that you'd ignore..." Not so likely and with his chuckle, he well knows it.
A lingering quiet moment, and Edward breathes deeply, leaning his head against the sofa. "A new start," he whispers, making sure the sentiment is real. "I feel as if...my eyes are open now, ami. As if...they were closed. I could not see...and I missed out on everything." If you can understand that. Edward's hand aimlessly wanders at your chest, flittering upon the skin as much as the panels of your shirt. "Do you think..." he posits, "...that...we are...going too fast?" A laugh, "We met a week ago, oui? And now we are off to Switzerland for three or four weeks. Maybe...we shall hate each other before it over?" Unlikely, and he knows that too. But...he has to say it.
I smile. I turn my head and though the position is awkward, I find your eyes. Dark. Do you see how my eyes are fearless? "Sometimes, Edward," comes Valan's voice, a gently lifting and quietly falling cadence, natively spoken French. "... the mind ...the heart... it does not have to debate so much. It knows what it knows. What I know," he speaks for himself, "... is that I want to spend the time with you. That I can think of no better way to end and to begin a year than with you. The journey... you are right... for many this would be soon. But perhaps it is the right time for you and I. A month more, a week less... what does it truly matter..." We go by our own time. Who afterall can proscribe the time for such?
Golden hair catches the light, honeyed, and holds it. Valan sits up, and with the rolling of his shoulders sends the wine linen downward over his arms. A finger catches it, sets it aside. Turning, he faces you. "I will not hate you," he murmurs. "Such a reversal of my feelings... this should go against all laws of science. We will have fun... we will be together... we will see... what we will see. And at the end of that, we will know what we know..." laissez-faire, yes? A philosophy straight out of Alfonso's Brujah library. He smiles then your lover and he shifts to straddle you and face you -- partly upon the sofa...mostly upon you. A hand brushes your cheek, your mouth.
I am not worried. I do not know why. Perhaps it is ... a confidence...in knowing how I feel. And in knowing how much I enjoy you and being around you. Perhaps it is... simple truth. I have tasted it, therefore I Know.
"You are," Edward smiles warmly, "....a confident man." An observation. He shifts to accommodate you, pillows and sofa holding him comfortably upright. "We shall see then," he grins, agreeing with you as he nods, eyes wandering downwards.
How well does he wear the gift of amber you sent him. A rich color set in the darker tones that is him. Firelight against ermine, flickering orange and ether green against deep red and violet. Edward's hands rest gently at your waist, his thumbs circling the skin. "Did you enjoy the food tonight, Valan? I know," he chuckles, "...it was spicy. I tried to warn you about dumping Scotch Bonnet sauce on your meal." His hands firmly grasp, shaking in a slight tickle, but they resettle, strong and gentle. A man aware of the possibilities of his touch. Tonight he wishes to embrace though, so Edward sits up, his hands moving around to your back.
He did not expect an answer for his teasing...it was simply tossed out there. Edward's eyes close and his nose meets yours, a great sigh rushing from his heart, running silent.
It lies against your skin like fire. And you seem...elemental. The fire is you and you are it -- and it is captured, hardened and fashioned into a string of amber around your neck...
A confident man? Honeyed brows lift to that and, settling upon you... one elbow propping him up just a bit... Valan smiles. Archaic. An impression of a grin at the corners of his mouth. It is upon his expression something like the first explosion when the universe was made -- a ribald grin in its infancy. "Ah, it does no good to warn me... I must try things for myself. The university of life experience, oui? Though..." laughter erupts and likewise the smile. In colors of his eyes, varied. "...my eyes and mouth sometimes get me in to trouble, do they not. So...how many shades of red did I turn? Could you count them all?"
His skin is warm. His heartbeat... steady. Strong. Skin whispers to skin as he lowers, his arms shifting. Hands sliding against you. Fingers lift strands of your dark hair. Toying. Losing themselves in them. Enjoyment. This is pure. This ...this easiness. This tells me that Switzerland is no mistake. I know what I know. He breathes you, as you do him. In the silences that are full, nonetheless, with a kind of conversation of the souls. It has been like this...since you met him. There are no awkward silences. Merely sharing quiet... interrupted by spiraling words.
"We should put on music..."
His brows perk. "That's...eine gute Idee," Edward blips, Switzerland on his mind. He twists under you, glancing around and behind to see a wall. "There's...a panel there. The selection is behind it, if you will choose for us?" A fine word, us . He grins, and it is like a mountain moved. The sun rising behind a formidable creation, brightening and changing the contoured landscape.
Edward's right hand pats your rear, giving allowance to depart as much as encouraging it. "Something...classical...maybe? Or...jazz?" He knows you enjoy it, and that is enough for him to also want to hear it. To share the sounds as they wash over you both. "Oh..." he blinks, coming totally upright, "...something to drink, eh, ami?" Preferred now over laddie . Easier to say with each breathing of it.
It is hard not to think of it and its thousands of possibilities. A chalet. Snow. Cold. A heated bed. Drinks and laughter. Being seen with you. For one who so loves adventure...you are his greatest. A lifetime of journeys could not outdo what you bring to him. And if he only knew. If he truly knew what it was he held. Who it is he loved. Another world has opened up for him, and he is walking into it with the courage such as mortals possess. To move forward. Willingly. Blindly. With a life-force of exuberance. With a charge, not unlike your Medieval brothers. Into the thick of the fray...
With a kiss, he leaves you, thighs bearing him up. Your fencer for whom straddling and lunging it second nature. And how it has benefited you, yes? In moments of pleasure, how such skill has come in handy. Valan turns, eyes scanning the living room and the panel you direct him toward, and then to you again with a smile. "Ah... oui... leave it to me, ami... I will ...handle it all. But first... while you wait on music... the drink. You wish to stay with scotch...?"
Pendulous upon your desire, Valan waits. Midway between both drink and music. He stands with a confidence. His eyes bright. His head lifted. Do men spring up from the earth of our France with so much... confidence? Is it something the Loire itself engenders?
Sometimes he looks at you with such wonder. To be waited upon, instead of doing the waiting. To move because of command or because it was necessary. Yet now, you treat him as the lord he once was, for a while. How such memories have faded with time. Nights as this, when lazy dozing was broken only by the occasional roll between fine linen. He was never a brash Prince of a man -- nothing like his cousin, for instance -- knowing where Blois' future lay. The power was with the crown soon. Jeanne d'Arc saw to that. Families as his could already smell the sweet blood of death. It would be another couple of centuries before the real wounds would show.
Brown eyes roll up to watch you, his smile grand. "Um...yes, that would be good, ami, thank you," Edward graciously grins. God, thank you. Thank you, Valan. Thank...whatever. I am so grateful...
"So, you never said...what think of you of my Fleurilil?" the castle. He chuckles with half-smug humor, knowing there's not much to say, save it's big . "It's hard to be a man trapped in a functioning mausoleum." Shall you ask him who with? Parents? He laughs though, "I guess I should not be so ungrateful, hmm? I do have more...normal tastes..." his eyes wandering around the living room.
You slip into the easy roles of lord and vassal. Subconsciously. Time slips through collective fingers. Past yours, memories. Past his? Something more of Becoming. You would be amazed perhaps to hear that he was never this gracious. Polite, yes. But this...gallantry? He wants to do it. It... sets the universe right somehow. He adores you and gives freely of this adoration. The give and take of a knight and his squire. And he has... no idea. It merely seems... natural...
Shall I tell you how beautiful you are when you smile? Are words necessary, amours? Look at me when I look at you grinning as you are. Caught for a moment. Pendulous for a second. Resplendent for a third. "Scotch it is," comes his voice in soft and deep tones. I move, but in languid ways. Half of myself left behind. Held captured by that smile.
He has gone to your bar. Not far from you, but to the side, slightly behind the sofa. "I have never known a man who lived in a castle before," he says it openly. And hazel eyes are bright as he glances to you -- he can't help the constant looks -- and he grins. "You know... old families and their older villas. I suppose for the Loire, the land of Chateau, it is not so strange." He chuckles. "It is... beautiful. I would hate to clean it," he follows up with a wink. A chuckle, and he is on the move again.
The sounds of your Valan Montague. How he walks. Soft stepping. The stride of one who has played at safe wars, but he has learned the fencer's walk. The heartbeat. The breathing. The brush of suede thigh against suede thigh in his motion. Unconsciously loud. Mortals move... so carelessly natural. So beautiful. He pours you an 'old fashioned' -- and for him also. And he leaves the bottle upon the small table near the sofa. There is music left to do. "Fleurilil is ... quite astounding. It is in such excellent condition. Restored very nicely. I would get lost in it..." He chuckles. "Ah, you do not sound ungrateful. Your home here is very nice too... and more...ah, hmm..." Valan twists to look at you as he stands at the panel. A grin slides in a slant. "...modest? Ah, humilite..." Said with that French mouth in French fashion.
"Ah good... it allows for a selection... a variety," he murmurs, turning to the panel, the equipment, and the music now at his disposal...
"No, I couldn't clean it either," Edward admits, moving his boxer's form onto his side. Better to watch you with. "It has held up well, hasn't it?" he says with such pride. "I was surprised, really," he confesses, halting his voice. The imperfect tense. Bad idea . "In that...as I grew up, noticing how it was so well taken care of. Many places...have not been." As you rustle by, he quiets to watch, piping up again once you move away.
"There are tours now," he murmurs, "...along with the vineyards. It keeps costs a bit less than if not. At least I...we...have managed to keep it out of the Culture Ministry's hands..."
"That is fortunate... else... they should have horrible Medieval theatre and reenactments on your front lawn. And let good vintage countryside go to waste..." His voice comes slowly as he ponders your collection. Ah, there is one. Jazz. And another...something classical but not sedate. Valan turns his head. "Our villa... well, it is a villa... but it has been in the family since 1580, they say. It is amazing... how structures can retain their strength along with their spirit. Perhaps... it is their spirit that lends steel to the mortar..." He wonders on this. "Did your family keep it all this time... or regain it...? Your neighbor, Chinon... and the vineyards along the Vienne... they are like you, I would imagine. An old family... managing to keep its ties to its home. Do you allow tours to go within the structure, like Chinon?" He speaks so casually about one you know so well. Chinon, the treasure of your cos and close friend. That brash Angevin, the Norman prince. Valan chuckles, and glances past a shoulder to you. "My tour of Fleurilil... I shall never forget it..." The first night you and he were together. The first time you filled him. The first time you felt him beneath you. And Fleurilil was witness to it. A castle contained it.
You covered your tense so well, he did not notice. And in truth what is there to notice? You are as he. A young man, wealthy. Of aristocratic background, though modern lives have changed aristocratic scope, non? One disk is in. A second. A third -- this is something more swirling, house dance -- but of the more ethereal of strains. A fourth is operatic aria. A fifth -- American rock... a group called Morphine. One by one he drops them in. A button is pressed. And music begins. Soft -- the sound level mid-range. It is enough for the two of you to listen... and yet speak.
Hand lifts his scotch as he returns to you. A sip, and then he settles on his knees at the sofa's edge. "Anything else... I may do for you?" he murmurs.
"No," Edward whispers. Somehow, while you were gone, he'd managed to lose his shirt and slacks. They rest on the floor, leaving him in a set of black briefs. London changes everything. "I think...we are set for a long while...until I must see about work." That story. He smirks, arm extending as he returns to his back, expecting you above him once more. A glance, and he checks if drink is near to hand. It will suffice.
The sofa groans as he shifts to become comfortable again. "I shall always remember the first night at Fleurilil," he murmurs, finger at your hand. "It...had been some time...a night like that one. I have you to thank for it," his brown eyes meeting yours, "...with so many things, ami." A few nights ago, it was still difficult to say the word. But it rings true. "My family..." he begins to tell you of himself, "...has managed to keep Fleurilil," Edward's head nods, "...for all of its existence. We...may not have lived there, but the house remained at hand." A pause. "I...would like to see your villa sometime," Edward smiles, "...I do not think I have spent much time in the city of late? Is it close or in the hills?"
Come sit upon me, his body says. His eyes say. Edward is reluctant to say the words, but the smile speaks volumes.
Is this the way that you like it?
Is this what you had in mind,
when you called above to the angels
for the six hundred and sixty sixth time...
Ami. It came reluctantly at first but now... it tumbles upon the end of nearly every sentence. Echoed in every look. As the deep voice of the singer drones on, a cello as his partner in duet, Valan smiles and rises. Scotch is swallowed and the glass is set aside. He shall become as comfortable as you. His eyes they linger at yours...your mouth...your face, the expressions. And then down the length of your form to the boxers. The legs. In greens. In golds. In browns. You see him hold his breath without thinking of it. An exhale follows upon the edge of his smile. The smile is more of amazement than humor, though humor is never far. "You... are beautiful..." More than handsome. "And ... that night in Fleurilil... it was ... a first in a long time...and... you are like nothing I have ever known..." Effusive French. I am in love...
The suede is unfastened, button fly undone. When it slides away it reveals silk boxers, crimson. Ends falling to just above mid thigh. Thoroughly modern. Beautiful. And yours. The suede is tossed aside and the sofa sounds with his return. Eyes rapt as you speak of yourself.... of your family. "Ah... that is fortunate," Valan murmurs. "So many lost their family homes during the revolution... and then the wars. Remarkable is it not... that such things remain, though we have done our best," as humans, "...to destroy them." Then he chides himself with a look downward and a soft snort. "Ah... no time to be morose, Montague..."
Straddling, he returns to sit upon and against you. The sofa bears part of him up, but mostly, Edward, it is you. And his eyes half close with how sweet it is. How sweet it feels. Valan smiles. "It is in the hills...toward Bordeaux... in the heart of the country. It is midway between Chinon and Bordeaux. And... I would love to show it to you. It would be my pleasure... and my honor..." Valan bends, and his mouth brushes yours. "I have you to thank for my joy," he murmurs there. Syllables transform to a kiss, each one.
What do you want and how do you like it?
How many times is this the right socket...
"Then," Edward kisses, hands soft against skin and silk, "...we shall go there...after Switzerland." Another kiss. Each a punctuation to his thoughts, voiced and unvoiced. Finger stroke downwards, tempting a search beneath the boxers you wear. But a thought comes to mind as he watches your chest, always a good place to focus while dreaming in quiet. "Does...your father know?" And almost instinctively, he moves faintly. Wondering how you deal with... what you are and who you love. Me...and others of my gender. "What will he say, ami?" Edward's nose softly brushing yours. No matter what he thinks, I know how we feel. We shall go on...
Too late for anymore questions...
the preamble is done, the overture's ended
the drawbridge is up, cat's out of the bag
and looking for a sofa to scratch...
Mouth is pliant against your own. Giving and taking in the same motion. He tastes of scotch. A slight burn of it. And something subtle of chocolate. "He... knows but he does not... recognize. There is a part of him... that is not ready... but he knows. He will not say anything..."
And if he did, it would not matter. The kiss confirms it. It takes so little to make your young man burn for you. But the touches are ...all subtle. Gentle. The kisses are more a suckling tug. "My mother... she is more... realistic...more... pragmatic. It will mean something to them both ... when I bring you to the villa..." Valan smiles into the kiss. "They will feed you well, Edward Meurelle, and my father...will boast he has a better wine..."
"It will not pain them," Edward whispers, unable to cease his kisses, "...to know that their son sleeps with another man? Or...to think of what we...might do together?" Is that truly how it works? He smiles softly, hands at your back, "You must forgive me," he breathes softly at your mouth, "...my own parents...they are...long to the grave, ami. I guess...I worry a little, mm?" You might understand. "I am glad to know that they will...be as you say." The kiss comes again, his open mouth slipping to a spot behind your ear -- he has come to enjoy hiding in your shadow.
"Tell me, ami," he says warmly, "...what...do you want from me?" And there Edward withdraws faintly, lips pressing at your ear, "Can I...make you happy?"
"It ...does not pain them... nor would you. It has taken many years...but they...understand it, ami." Ami comes with the parting of his mouth, warmth that captures you. It parts with a smile. A turn of his head and his honeyed hair is in his eyes and blending with your dark. "I told them... when I was sixteen. It has been ten years for it to sink in..." A pause. "I am sorry to hear of yours... that I shall not meet them, but I will look for them in you some night and I will greet them in an embrace..." His eyes close as your mouth wanders to a shadow. A spot behind his ear. You, immortal, feel every muscle tighten. "There is no need to worry," Valan murmurs after another moment. "Though... if they are there...they may ask we sleep in separate beds..." That'd be convenient...
I settle upon you because I have no grip on the planet. You are my anchor. You and this sofa. When mouth touches ear, blood boils and surges. I can't help it. You unravel me. You tie me up in knots and then with a word you unravel me...
Valan leans into the touch, and then he bends his head, his mouth finding the line of your jaw. Your throat. "You... already make me happy, Edward..." He is quiet a moment and then he lifts his head. I want you...
"I want you..."
Let me love you...
"Love... and time..." Valan murmurs. I love you. "Love... and time..."
"Love..." he asks, brown eyes open. Mindful of the past, but so looking now to the future. "Time..." Edward's lips pull faintly, wistfully, "I have that. Love..." he whispers, "I do not have..." Unless you mean to give it. Will you, Valan?
A blush warms his dusky features, causing his gaze to trickle downwards. "Now, it is I who speak too much, ami. I..." he looks up, jaw firming, "I am just glad that you enjoy my company ... and whatever I am." Given to you, freely. "I like..." his fingers lift to brush your hair, "...to make you happy...to smile...to feel pleasure..." hand lowering to join the other at your back. "My work...is done."
Time, you have. In surplus. So much, most often it passes right through and right by you. As plentiful as rain and fog in London. And it has been, perhaps, as inconsequential as rain upon your sleeve. Ah there... another decade. Another generation. Another century. But perhaps now... with one in your arms who feels each and every ticking second... you will hear the tick of the old clock...
The blush. Though he does not share the flush -- well, not for cause of what he says or hears -- he enjoys the rise of color. Valan shakes his head. No, you do not speak too much. "You make me happy..." he whispers. "And I adore your company... to be among you, with you, around you. In the smallest detail...the greatest pleasure taken..."
You resolve yourself and your jaw tightens with it. I see it, and my gaze softens. A touch of my hand to your cheek again. A stroke of thumb over your mouth. And then I kiss you. Settling against you even as the music switches from droning modern rock to jazz.
"Good...that makes two of us," he says, softer features returning. Edward lies back, hands brushing fencer's thighs as he pulls away. His lips pull at your thumb, leaving a kiss at the tip not unlike the one you leave upon him.
The blanket he found earlier is unnecessary. As warm as fur, as gentle as matelasse, Edward wraps around you, cradling you to himself. He has no plans to let you go now. Gently he sways, room of dusky colors filled with sound. When the time comes, he shall ask to make love to you again, softly said in the tightening of his muscles and the seeking hands at your back. Edward's legs will part, dropping you firmly against himself, and soldierly thighs will lift and twine, sending his legs haphazardly among yours. His lips will begin to kiss, and once more the choice will be yours.
Somewhere in Spain, a beautiful Spanish woman is chuckling. Not the laughter of derision, but instead of pride and joy. Satisfaction.
"See, nino, I told you so..."
Posted by rowan at February 05, 2001 12:06 AM
