The house reverberates with his presence. That throb of something living in Knightsbridge. The bee nestled in the heart of the flower. The echoes of activity, like music dwindling, move throughout the house where he has passed by. Boxes and packages moved upstairs. Your gift when you barely parted last night. And gifts for you. Preparations made for Switzerland. For the first shared holiday. And though you were not with him to see him gloriously tended by the finest in London, in his smile you lived...
In the reflection of his moving form in a store's glass window...
In the reflection of the mirror in the fitting room. Ah... yes...especially there. Unclothing for you, as if you were there all along. Clothing with such aristocratic attention...
He is wearing one of your gifts now, especially to greet you. The black shirt is made of some sheer material, soft like silk, pliable as nylon. Collarless -- and falling at his clavicle, so as not to spoil the view of garnets. Long sleeves fitting at his arms, flaring in a French cuff at the wrists. The shirt clings at the fencer's tapered waist, where deep green and black pants begin. Not vinyl, but with its shine. Python, the colors mottled. In the light, he will be iridescent. Darkly iridescent. Beneath these, boots of black leather, rounded at the toe...
You now have a new pet snake. In a manner of speaking...
Valan moves from the kitchen to the living room/den. Stride slow and not soundless... but quiet. A glass of wine in his hand...
Look there, at the wall when you pass into the living room. He is dressed darkly still, in black pants and a fitted shirt. Ambers gleam at his throat, and already he is barefoot.
And so he stands, stiller than still, as you pass him at the shoulder. It is Death Manifest, Valan, and he is your Lover.
Arms are crossed, and he is silent. Unbreathing. For a moment shall he watch you, until you recognize, feel him once more in the house.
You are beautiful. I love you.
Those who live life to the fullest embrace Death as fully. Easily. Ah, this he should tell himself in some human rationalization. Perhaps those words shall leave his lips one day...upon the edge of: I love you.
Valan moves easily in the quiet house, the house that lives now only with the sounds he makes. There is no television, no soft music playing -- though that shall soon be remedied. Valan first regards the wine held in the delicate glass. Deep red, as best fits the season. He lifts it, closes his eyes, he breathes in the flavor of it. And lastly... a swallow.
The sound is followed by a soft thud of glass to stone -- the glass softly placed upon a coaster resting upon the coffee table. And he draws to the panel you showed him before. For music. Remember, Valan? He smiles to something thought, held in the mind, as the music collection is thereafter displayed and he goes about selecting the sounds that shall welcome you home. You hear a sound...
Humming. Low and sweet. A high-range baritone he has. The song is formless, just plucked from the ether. And what else? In your silent study, you may smell the recent shower. The spice cologne he wears -- just a touch, it is very subtle. Sandalwood. You catch the gleam of his hair, recently aided in its golden streaks. Recently trimmed to preserve the present Mod cut. Beneath it all, his heartbeat. Thudding rhythmic. Living.
Hazel eyes lift, not to a sound but to an expectation. He is waiting for you...
Mortal senses may miss the subtle changes. The faint smell of recycled air. The waft of mist and damp. It faintly clings to him, left behind in the boots. But Edward continues to stand, grateful for the moment of invisibility. Is this what it is like, when you are alone. So beautiful in your surroundings. Comfortable. He sees nothing of you that he would not see if you knew he was present. That, above all, is what makes him smile.
Expectations are fulfilled. Reach out, Valan. I am here. Feel me, beginning to expand, reveal myself to you here. Maybe, Edward smiles, one day you would never go so long without Knowing he is about. Maybe, one night, when things are different.
He thinks of you such now.
Something easier to catch. Edward finally shifts, arms unfolding, and he manifest in the sound of skin leaving skin.
Though you wish for me, I am already with you...
You see him as He Is. And in this invisible study, you know that what you have seen... this is Truth. He lives it. It is expressed forthright in his bearing. As much as it is in his sounds when he is earnestly beneath you. That is the height of truth, when he calls your name...
And when he whispers it before sleep claims him...
His hands have plucked the selection, and with a glance to the nearest clock, Valan turns toward the player. In the moments that follow, there is the sound of low music. Miles Davis. Jazz. He can feel you. You can see it move subtle and slow against him. You can see his form tighten in expectation again, and he turns. But he does not see you yet. His right hand scoops up his glass and he takes another swallow of it. I love you...
He closes his eyes, the smile spreading and lingering. I can almost feel you. I can almost smell your hair, your skin, your cologne. I can almost feel the brush of your skin. The rhythmic fall of your voice. A breath through his nose chimes against the glass. A murmured sound of his voice amid the jazz...
"I love you..." Does he know you are here? Does he know you saw his toast and tilt to him? That you knew of his thoughts?
A man resplendent. Edward's head tilts to the side, the smile turning into crimson. Hearing that. Realizing thoughts are more and more becoming manifest. You know his mind too, it seems, he unable to keep even that thought hidden.
"Touching my mind are you now, as much as you touch my heart, hmm?" Edward pushes from his perch, moving softly against the carpet. Home feels gentle to tired feet. Edward yawns sharply, muscled arms rising above his head in a long stretch. Pull left, pull right. His fingers clasp, palms up to the ceiling.
When he brings them down, they come around you...as he is suddenly there.
Surprise...
That which was imagined is manifest. I thought of you, and you appeared. Like a summons or some conjuration. The wine was swallowed hard. The heart fluttered and the mortal's body reacted with the lightning strike of adrenaline. You can taste it on the air...
You were waiting in the darkness. And I smile... eyes still wide... as you capture me. I hold the glass in relative safety -- it's red. Your carpet will thank me later. "I spoke my own..." Valan whispers, his other arm circling you. "But it pleases me... mais oui... to hear the sound of it echoed back by yours..." His other hand lifts, glass held pendulous. "Drink, amour?" Love. Lover...
The shirt is thin, to the point of being sheer, but it is opaque. You cannot see through. But, upon pressing in that hold, you can feel his form so easily beneath. You can smell the light scent of sandalwood. The sparkle of garnets. Darkly brilliant. And he tastes of one of his Bordeaux. Another gift for you...
"You feel wonderful," Edward admits, smiling warmly. His hands are eager to be reacquainted with you, sliding from the new pants to your collar. He shakes his head negatively on the drink, content to fill his hands with you. "Sorry if I stared too long," he teases, grin highlighted by rising cheekbones and bright brown eyes. Edward sways you both, brows arching as he glances to the wine. A kiss is placed at your cheek, then at your ear. "Miss me?"
The pants are both cool and warm. Smooth and slick. Python, and he within them, moving serpentine. They fit him both loose and fitted. Neither too loose nor too tight. The shirt has an odd and appealing texture. It is like nylon. Very thin. The textures of Valan. He never wears anything that is plain to the touch. As if chosen with your hypersenses in mind...
"Ah oui, I did," comes his murmur in the French you share. "I could only console myself by spending money..." Laughter is throaty and warm, deep and held in his chest with mischief. "And ... how long were you watching me?" he wonders, head tilting back and eyes curious. "You have a marvelous still quality, yes? You may stand still... and become... a part of the house. You will have to teach me this quality sometime..." His eyes close and his mouth parts at your neck. Kisses left there and the reacquaintence of his tongue to your skin. Tasting. Carefully, his hand yet holds the glass. But... he can feel his fingers sliding. Forgetting. Wanting to be elsewhere.
"I better ... put this down... Edward..."
He assents, but only barely. Edward's mouth has remained at your ear, but his feet move backwards, towards the nearest endtable. It is as good as it's going to get. His nose rises, lifting strands of your locks. Remembering a scent.
"I..." he glances barely to see that the glass is set, "...was not there so long...maybe...three or five minutes," he reassures. "But...it's a talent I can show you. One day," he chuckles and whispers, hands tickling as his lips nibble again.
The wine chimes against the glass. The glass whispers against his skin. He sighs and the sound of it lands at your ear. And then the shirt follows his contours as he bends. And there is a thud of glass to stone again. Now both hands are free, and arms surround you. He submerges himself in matters You. Smell and taste and touch...
You remember that his hair smells faintly of sunlight, faintly of honey -- something in the shampoo. Behind his ear... that is where the sandalwood was placed, and the spice scent blends for you there. Heady. Purposely chosen...
His hands are firm and strong and grasp and lightly skim. His body is agile and full of grace, subtle strength -- you know he could uncoil with a vengeance. You feel the muscles shift and quiver at the tickling touch. And he comes to you in fire. And he comes to you with gentleness. And he kisses you with all the force of missing you, but with the tenderness of loving you. Even as his mouth remembers the taste and the touch. His fingers recall what it was like to grasp you.
"I did not hear you over the pouring wine," he whispers at your mouth, chuckling. "And... one day... I will look forward to surprising you thus. Until then... I will content myself... to shock you in the usual ways..." A finger hooks at the waistband of your pants and gives a slight tug to reinforce his meaning. "Welcome home, amour..."
He groans, a sound of relief. "I'm glad to be home, ami," Edward whispers, immersing himself in recent and past memories of sandalwood. "Mmm," he inhales, squeezing tighter to fold you against him. In this embrace, he plans never to release you.
A swing left and right lets his hands explore the serpentine pattern. "I like your outfit," he says softly, finding some rhythm to keep with the music. "I could get used to this, if you're not careful," Edward teases, breath warm in fluttering bursts. "Or maybe, that's what you intend?" he pulls back, smirking a little. "Hmm, I should think better about all of this..."
"It is no trap," he murmurs, voice pulling smoothly with humor. "But...do I intend to please you and spend as much time as possible doing it?" Lips curl, the grin that Knows. "Mais oui... I do..." Mouth created for kissing, sensuous and full, slants in a grin. Ribald and smoothly wicked. "So... what shall you do now, Edward?" he teases in return. Chin tilts upward and brows lift. But he is caught, yes? "For all this talk... you do not seem to ... want to let me go, oui?"
In greens...
In golds...
In browns...
Three colors flicker in the wink, and he curves against you and your hold. His hands tug at your shirt, fingers seeking to sneak beneath. You feel the first warmth of his touch moments before it ever lands. "I must tell you... and admit.. you know," he chuckles, "... I do not want to be set free. Liberty is in your arms... not out of them..."
"I have," Edward blushes, exhaling and looking up to avoid your seeing eyes, "...no plans on letting you go," he sways, "...and if this..." he shakes you both, "...is liberty...where resides egalité and fraternité, eh?" Frenchmen you both. He has never been so delighted to be one. "Hmm. In expensive snake, apparently," he teases, hands cupping the curves so easily at his fingers. Gaze returns, and what is there is a combination of adoration, love -- even of the brotherly type.
His first kiss upon your mouth is soft. Just a touch for now. "Maybe...we could talk about this...never wanting to be free stuff," he teases, patting.
Teasing ends at the kiss. Soft, the touch -- the kiss returned. Just a press. Just a slight tug. And the look softens. "Good..." A moment of seriousness. Most times between you it is seriousness, earnestness beneath layers of laughter and humor. "It is good to see you," he murmurs. It is still so new. This, being with you. Truly being with you. Not merely falling into bed -- though that happens often and thank god for that -- but in this. In holding. In conversing. In teasing. It is easy to miss. "I did miss you... and mais oui," he murmurs at length, "...very expensive... but indestructible." He chuckles. "Hmmm... well...we shall see about that..."
His eyes lift and lower from your own gaze, as your hands cup him. He looks down to where you are joined. Where bodies are pressed the one to the other. Darkness meeting darkness. Strength, strength. And in each lifting of his eyes, there is adoration there. There is love. There is fraternité...egalité...liberté...Hazel eyes sparkle and a smile slides across his mouth. "Maybe we could... over wine and upon pillows..." His own hands splay against your back, beneath the shirt. Fingers curl and uncurl in the rhythm of your swaying. Swaying that soon becomes a dance.
As the jazz transforms into something more swirling and electronica. Though the rhythm is quick, you and he move to a sub-beat. Layers beneath the superficial. "I am content..." he whispers beneath the swirling song. "I love... and you know I love...and I know you love..."
He sways contentedly, nodding in agreement. Brown eyes close lazily, his hair still short cut. He must have done it himself. "You know a lot," he whispers softly, loosening his hold. Edward's hand touches the small of your back and he parts, breaking the connection for a moment. The sigh that follows is long, and his eyes open wide to truly investigate his surroundings. Both hands run over his head, and Edward's mind turns to the things he ignored upon entering.
Mail. "To bed then," he mumbles, moving to the first part of the preparations. You...can see to the music, pillows, and wine. He...more mundane matters. A security check. Brow furrows as he saunters to the foyer, fingers flipping over envelopes. "Anything odd happen while I was gone?" he calls. "Did the cleaners come?" Routine followed. Something catches his attention though, and one envelope is pulled out and opened absently as Edward moves to the front door.
I said it before. I know what I know. And now, I am content. You know it too.
Smiles come for the routine. Still learning his way through it. Mentally, he journeys through Yesterday. Wine is lifted from the endtable and he wanders, first, to the player and the various disks. Volume lifted just slightly, and you have it so sound can be directed where the listener most wants it. The bedroom now breathes music. A mix of jazz, electronica, hipster, and French bossa nova...
"Ah oui," he says, deep voice lifting to carry past the kitchen to which he wanders. For the wine that has been breathing since before he realized you were watching him. "The cleaners came, laundry has been done as well. Beds, all of it...I stayed until they were done..." Just in case. "And ...non... it was peaceful. I did not answer the phone when it rang," not because you specified to do so but because he is discreet, "you may have a couple of messages..."
Glasses. Bottles. The sounds of glass and Valan. He moves to the bedroom, a bottle of wine tucked under his left arm, the opened bottle cradled in the right hand. In the left, two glasses. "It was too quiet..." he laughs to this. Yes, I missed you. And the calling from other rooms. Feet have grown accustomed to padding to the bedroom. It is there he goes. The bedroom shared. At least until you rise early in the morning and bid him farewell for work...
"Ah, good," Edward murmurs, the lights dimming where he stands, "...thank you, ami," he counters distractedly, the sound of paper behind his voice.
Silence.
"I will be back," he says a moment later, the paper dropped and his feet padding off. Something else to check. It is another minute before he can be felt again. A quick walk around the other side of the townhouse and upstairs.
"Alright," he whispers, trying to relax again. He watches you a moment, before saying, "I hope...my...attention to security, isn't a problem for you, ami?" Edward's lips roll into a thin smile, almost apologetic. "You've...never asked about it."
You heard his departing and ascending steps...
Soft...
Softer...
Softest...
The thud and soft creaking of his weight up above. You know the progression. Through hallway. Into bedroom. A moment of silence, filled only by the music selected earlier. There, in the distance... the sound of something more throbbing than jazz. A light industrial amid the electronica swirl.
Above, I set two glasses -- one upon each side of the bed -- in expectation. The bottle left upon my side -- in anticipation. Boots removed and set to the side. And as you arrived, the shirt was pulled off, set gently to the side. "It is... a part of what you do... and a part of who you are..." he says, smiling... then disappearing into the bathroom. "Why... ami... should I question what appears to be so simple a thing? You have a security system on this house... you check it before bed... " An audible shrug, his voice.
And this is the glory that is Love: Acceptance. You hear the water running. He brushes his teeth. So much mortal minutia. So many things done with so little conscious awareness. Or... is it rather a performance of minutia, with full knowledge? He is in the bathroom for a full ten minutes. Preparing for bed. And you.
"I find it, instead, settling and... well... sexy ," that word in English. It sounds amusing. The rest came in a flood of far-more-polished French, called from the bathroom. Sexy. The word tried in English, even as he exited the bathroom. Wearing only the garnets at his throat...
Ah... and let us not forget the state of the bedroom you have entered. It is immaculately clean. But there is new luggage -- some for him, some for you. His deep green leather, yours black leather -- a gift from him. And near those, boxes on either side. Clothes and supplies for him -- gifts from you. Boxes of likely the same -- gifts from him. The boxes on your side of the bed are, however, wrapped. Simple. Elegant.
"Sexy?" Edward chuckles, coming to a halt on his side of the bed. The smile is still upon his face when you emerge, his eyes on the item in his hand.
But you become visible, and brown eyes leave the letter. His face brighten, brows arching to Open. Vulnerable. The smile grows slowly at first, leaving surprise for pleased.
"Dieu," Edward sputters, shaking his head in disbelief. "You must be French," he grins, glancing at the letter again, then letting it flutter from his fingers to the nightstand. You must be. Only they have such unabashed uninhibitedness. "Only a Frenchman," he explains, "...could think he could walk out in nothing...but beautiful jewels." For himself, he remains still dressed, save the barefeet. But he walks to greet you anyway, a better present you are than anything in the piles for Switzerland.
The Mmm comes out more as a breath. Done between inhale and exhale while his hands settle upon your hips. "It is like being treated to dessert every moment," his fingers pulling you to him. He must mean you. "I think I will be filled, and instead, the dessert only becomes more beautiful and more wanted. Maybe," he teases, swaying a little, "I shall starve without you. That is how it feels..."
"Ah, and you should know this..." Deep laughter and smooth. You as French as I. "...Edward of Blois..." This is what he calls you. Having not guessed that it is the proper appellation. For him, it is a tease. For you, it is Truth. One night, shall it be Truth for him as well? Will you tell him and enfold him in it, Edward?
Unabashed. Unashamed. With Liberty in his steps, Valan strolls bare of all but garnets to the bed. To be caught up by you. Unabashed. Unashamed. His arms settle on your shoulders after first enfolding you, and fingers dance along the nape of your neck. To lose themselves in your dark hair. Much as he would lose himself in you. Though mouth is pulled into the spread of a smile, his hazel eyes are earnest as they look to you. Past sandy gold of lashes. Long bangs of his hair, that Mod cut, brush against your forehead as he leans into the hold. "I would not want you to starve," he murmurs, French tumbling between you. "You can have your cake, and eat him too... so goes the phrase of our former queen...yes?" Soft laughter, this time at your lips.
His fingers circle against your scalp, massaging lightly, and Valan moves against you, a dancing sway. The electronica has faded into the next track -- Miles Davis again. With forehead still to your own, your fighter-lover looks to you. Open. Nothing of himself closed to you. Love is in his eyes, as naked as he is in your arms. "I...like to be your dessert. It is love that makes me want to be the air you breathe, to be your food. To be filled by you. To eat of every look you give me. Feast in the study. To starve in parted moments. That... is how it feels..."
Ah, the Queen. Edward only smirks to think about her, the German princess. But hearing his name...the name referred to him in dark halls that you do not yet know...Edward stiffens a little. He remembers to smile, a gentle pull of his lips, but he fears. You can see through me. I am no good...at hiding. Always shall that inability haunt me.
"It is...as you say," he agrees, closing his eyes when brows meet. A gentle stirring continues through the music shift, groin and knees in mirror motion. "I could live on cake," Edward whispers, smile smug, "...ah, ami, we are fortunate to be from a place that makes the most delicious cake, hmm?" He chuckles and in a blink, you are again lifted...
He does not know the name to put with your reaction. The stiffening he does not see. For it happens on layers beyond his comprehension. Even your philosopher fencer. Mortals truly know only that which they can put their fingers upon. Tangible reality. The dark halls are unknown, not touched, and so they are in another existence. Not of this life. This world.
As for the stiffening? Well, you know... he is naked...
What is this? It is a drug and my tongue is out for the pill again. Put the liquid in my mouth, send me to the place only you can take me, Edward. I will only be awake and alive only then. And you. I smile. Because I know. I smile. Because I love you. I smile. Put it there... yes... there... on the tip of my tongue...
Dieu... what you do to me...
Deep laughter and throaty. Ah, but soft. Valan lifts both brows in the surprise. The lift. "Hmmm... oui... cake soaked in brandy... decadent. It melts upon the tongue..." As I do to yours...
You can feel him make a thousand tiny reactions. Flesh tightening to the desire. To brace during the lift. You feel where blood has gathered, thickening. The sudden desperation in the clasp of fingertips. So subtle. You see the rise of color against his fair, honeyed complexion. Ruddy, coppery it turns him. How his skin warms. How lean and muscular form goes taut -- even though his mouth becomes more supple. He is tall -- an inch shorter than you -- and he is heavy. You lift him easily, but how does his weight and solid form feel as it fits into your hands?
"You're becoming heavier," Edward teases, grinning at you in his arms. "I think it all that cake and brandy," he adds, wiggling his brows.
"Do you know, you are the first..." and he pauses word and step. A flush fills his expression, remnants of earlier insecurity. Should I say it? He licks his lips, holding you against him, and breathes, "...you are the first...man...I have...carried to a bed." Twice now. He chuckles with the realization and shakes his head, as if chiding himself. It is a new world, Blois.
"Hmph," he accidentally verbalizes, a pleased grin forming, "...let's go," Edward continues, picking his pace up again.
It is his turn to go red. Crimson he goes, first at the face and then along his spine to his toes. He has a fiery nature, your Valan. Ah, but then he would. Born under the sign of the Lion. He shall have to tell you this one day. To be the first. That is something. "You are the first... to attempt it..." he murmurs, teasing in return -- ah, but at the same time, earnest. Valan chuckles, the crimson fading slowly. "And if I am getting heavier, I shall have to spend more of my day in the gym, yes? Or your cake will get fat -- too much icing... this is not a good thing..."
Valan shifts as he may in your hold. "Amazingly... I am lighter when I am in the bed, yes?" Not just a little suggestive of how agile he moves upon you -- and you and he in the various.. displays and positions. "It is... as they say... easier to eat your cake when a plate does bear some of the weight..." Laughter again. How far shall this motif go? He is surprised he has maintained it so long as this.
"One night... I promise, Edward... I shall carry you..."
The bed is a soft spot. Edward arrives and leans, sinking onto the mattresses. "Will you," he whispers, smiling as he looks to your head and feet. He chuckles, "Though I'm not sure if I like the image," he grins, hands coming free only when your knees settle.
"There," he exhales, coming to lie next to you, fingers disappearing into his dark hair. "I like icing," he says flatly, "...so, do not change anything." Expression indicates that the metaphor has run its course, and a topic shift approaches. Edward's finger touches your chest, eyes focusing there.
"So...no one...has swept you away to his lair before, to secret you within?"
"No," the answer comes easily. Valan turns his head upon the pillow. Afterwards, his body shifts... he half reclines upon his back, half upon his side. A stretching twist as much as it is a motion that brings him closer to you. You and he... you share intimate spaces. Filling them now, skimming touches and quiet conversation. The smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and golden eyebrows lift in a singular sweep. You look at his chest -- broad, muscled by virtue of gym and sword -- and the golden hair upon it. Not thickly, just glimmers. "No one. I was... maybe... too elusive. I had never met anyone ... that I wanted to sweep me away... until you. Always...always it was... I have my space and I would let one near. But... I would never let them in... you know? My heart was here," a hand lifts, pressing your hand to his heart, "... but I only let those I have known... into my bed."
Valan's eyes lift to the ceiling. He remembers the ceiling of Fleurilil. It is that which he thinks of now. And that first night there. "Until that night in L'Empereur. You know... it is like those old American movies," he murmurs. "I saw you across the bar. I wanted.... to meet you, see you closer...it is what they call... love at first sight? I laughed at the notions. But that is the way it happens, to those who least expect it." Hazel eyes turn to you again, and in the turning of his head, golden hair is moved to half-veil the gaze. His hair holds body, it has a natural wave. "I did not want it to end then. I never want it to end now." Fingers lift to skim a touch.
Against your mouth. Then downward, to clothing. Valan rolls, more upon his side now, to give his hand greater access. Dutifully, almost squire-like, he naturally undresses you. Tending you. Let me do this. Let me do this for this lifetime.
He listens and watches you, eyes falling as your hands move downward. It is a long moment before Edward replies, only once he has gathered his thoughts. "Are we ones...who least expected it?" Is that what we share? Instinctively, he wishes to move under your hands, gaze almost ermine as it fixes upon your moving fingers so close to his body. "Maybe we are, ami," answering his own question. "I...well...the night we met...it had been a long night already." Despite his mood and the bright silver he wore. Do you recall the dark splotches on his pants? Ah, but those were fashion, red and brown against silver thighs. A chuckle, "So oui...I was...not looking for love." Or much of anything for that matter, save plenty of alcohol and perhaps a body to ravish for a while.
"Sometimes," Edward whispers, even quieter than in his sometime priest's velvet confessional, "...I think...you Know me." What I am. It is intimated in his voice. Speak it, if you do. If not...then the moment shall pass as a lover wondering about the depth of connection. "Your words," Edward sighs, hand coming to cover yours and cease them, "...how you...sound...say things...that I have...thought."
Green-gold-brown eyes lift as you still his hand. "Maybe..." He stops himself suddenly -- there was more on his tongue, you can see it upon his expression. A wash of warmth in the things he does not say. "Have you," Valan murmurs, eyes lowering to where hands are joined. Beneath them, the waistband of your pants. "... ever been with someone... and it felt ...that it was as if you were remembering one another, rather than just... meeting. I do not know. It is like that." His voice softens another notch. "It is ... as it is... when like meets like, perhaps..." He pauses, his gaze lifting again. And it narrows. He is not troubled, but his expression is tight with emotion. Only with you is he ever truly open and earnest.
Can you imagine him thus with his circle of superficial friends? With sharks like Astrid? Non...
"I am not that..." a sigh, "... fanciful? Not... normally. I do not mean to make it seem fantastical, ami. But... at the same time... it is, oui? It is. I ...was not looking for anything. My life has been... a graceful and beautiful avoidance of anything of depth. L'Emperor is the house of the Superficial. And it was there that I fell. It is hard not to be... fantastical in how I speak of it. For I am still, I think, amazed. As one should be... oui? When faced with the hand of god." The deus-ex-machina that brought me to you. You to me. "I have to kiss you now or I will lose my fucking mind..."
And so he does. Full and warm. Pulling, covering. Inciting and inspiring. And lingering.
Perhaps his blood knows who you are. Feeling that which you have tasted of him, it seeks to find its completion -- his half and the half you now hold. Or perhaps it is the hand of god...
Redoubling kiss. Edward's lips part, expecting no less from you. His hand squeezes mate, bringing your fingers to his chest. He is smooth, naturally so, and the rises and falls that contour his chest are visible as much as felt. A knight forgotten.
"Have we met before, ami?" he asks softly, breathing the words. Tell me. What life was it? That burns within him now. It was before. Another time, when he did not see you for what you were. And now, is this a second chance?
You would not remember me. The girl who fed your Gascony geese. You would not remember me, the woman in the third row behind the queen of France. Oh no, there would be no reason to recall the guard who stood watch at Buckingham before the Great War. Or the tavern maid who brought you drinks after the close of the latest Marlowe. Or the artist who bumped into you one night along the Seine. No one significant. Just a glimmer and a glimpse of passing mortals on the stage. Fingers skimming the curtain of the other world in which you live. The one without a clock. The one where the sets move so slowly. When I fell to Napoleon, where would you have been? Sleeping out the day...
Fingers curl at your smooth chest. Fingers memorize the contours there. The quality of skin. Such softness overlying such hard strength. Valan bends his head, his face hidden by a swath of golden hair. His mouth parting at your chest. Warmth trailed behind. It cannot be helped. I cannot help it. "Maybe it is so," he breathes there. "Fantastical to say... but it is so strong...this..." Pull to you. What else could it be?
The bed sounds as he moves, his parted mouth dragging in a line downward from your chest. "I will believe it," Valan whispers, flicking a circle with his tongue against your stomach. "Because I love you..."
His chest heaves, Edward rolling onto his back. So much relief in a thought. Having met and passed in the night, unwilling, unable to accept the gift. But another chance has come. And I've gotten it right this time.
You should have been with me so long ago.
"I love you, amours," Edward's hand at your hair. "I love you."
His eyes close again, but with a contented smile upon his lips.
Posted by rowan at February 05, 2001 09:36 PM
