"This is what I like," Edward murmurs, shadows lengthening upon the snow. Only the intrepid still ski in the early evening, sometimes cross-country skiers getting up a few thousand feet to work their way down over a few miles. Beside you, Edward huddles, the darkening sky allowing temperatures to fall. In full gear, goggles sit perched on his brow, his hat keeping his crown warm. "Few on the slopes. I think Kashya's going to let the lift run for us for another couple of hours."
Nudging you, Edward's shifting weight causes the seat to bounce on the wire. But the ground is quickly rising to your feet, and in a few moments, skis will touch snow and you both will be unceremoniously standing at the top of the mountain.
"You ready?" he asks, whispering almost conspiratorially. "May the best man win..." It is a grade 4 Alpine slope, a rather challenging one at that. "Oh, unless you think we outta do some practice runs first?"
This is what I like...
The feel of cold, the white mountain crystalline beneath us, and you beside me. I beside you. It seems so beautifully desolate here. Like the world is empty. No one is around. No one but you and I. And we can feel like masters of the world. A precious, rare moment... so few now... in this age where there are no kings and princes are puppets only for the press. The cold air fills my lungs -- a deep inhale of The Moment, the snow, and You. You shift your weight by accident? He shifts his weight on purpose. Grinning like a beautiful madcap imp. There is something... strangely ... gladiatorial about your Valan Montague. He faces death head on. And you have noticed... it is usually coupled with a smile. Like now. Like when he is in your arms and daring you. Like last night...
He wears gear most professionals -- or professional hopefuls-- would envy. Sleek and multihued in reflective gold and a brilliant red, the suit shows him at his finest. On display. Such beautiful, honest and natural display. And you would not be able to miss him coming down the mountain. He will be blaring. It is ... as he is.
Moments... a moment from now. You hear him hold a breath. Excitement. Adrenaline courses through his blood -- so familiar to you now. Can you taste it on the air around you? Wind captures momentary gold as Valan turns his head. Gold hair peeking out from under the cap, held secure by goggles. Goggles he is now reaching up to lower. And he smiles, summer in the Alps. "May the best man win," he whispers. And as snow is first felt, as bodies tighten in the Moment before leaving the chairs, there is a kiss.
A grin. "No practicing... I am brave... I will face you and the mountain... without a blink...hmm?" Ready? Valan turns, kiss still warm on his lips when the mountain is met...
Ah, how you thrill him. Thoughts and feelings he never knew he missed. A partner in crime...a partner in bed. One unafraid of him and his strength. Someone who looks him in the eye, unafraid. Ready to take what he has to give...and he has something to give.
"Alright," Edward says skeptically, fingers lifting to pull down his goggles, even while ski straps wring his hands. "Let's do this," he states, the ground suddenly under the skis. If you had not prepared to stand, the drop-off would do it for you...
Using the chair to push off, Edward slides easily away from the chair's trajectory as it helplessly wanders off and dumps you both onto the ground. Firmly packed, dark snow sparkles, flecks of ice buried within softer flakes. A small light comes on at his hard boots, and he motions around to the start of the hill, some yards away...
Soft, the mountain hisses. The ice and packed snow against the blades of skis. Fencing, skiing -- now that he is doing one of the pastimes that has shaped him, how it has shaped him is obvious. The grace, the light touch, the smoothness of his stride, the strength of his legs, his arms. The trimness of his waist. Ah, that turn there... see that... that...
He moves with all the assurance and confidence that anyone with only twenty-six years in their body could hope to have. But you can see it, his mortality is apparent everywhere. In the casual clumsiness that is so beautiful. As beautiful as it is natural. It blares from him, like sunlight on his shoulders. Or perhaps that is just some play of the reflection of moon and starlight...
"Look at that... ah..." The stars! He gestures up and then looks to you. "It is a perfect night ... crisp and clear... I swear I could see... for a thousand miles..." Breaths freeze upon the air, and blood lifts to his skin, warming. Valan smiles to you. "So! Shall we go on the count of three? I shall kiss you, win or lose, at the bottom of our mountain, ami..."
Can you see my wink behind goggles? How, even on skis and with the promise of an adrenaline rush, I wish to wrap myself in you. Shameless, Valan...
He grins, your lover, and seems to settle upon a rise of the hill. Below... the sweeping landscape of white...
Crystalline. Waiting. Clear skiing with only the slopes and the rise and fall of land -- sharp and shallow both. Far below, the added obstacles of trees... but here? Here... it is best for speed...
"A kiss is all the prize I need," Edward murmurs, glancing at a man not so far away. He smiles, unable not to when you do, and the ground sounds as his skis pass over them, he following you.
But at a clearing, he comes to a halt, turning about to face downhill. A long look is given you, Edward's head turned in an almost restful pose. Skis into the ground, he pauses, admiring his young mortal. Such beauty is there in the simple act of existing. You, Valan Montague, have something that your love can never regain.
"I love you, Valan Montague," he whispers softly, meaning every syllable, every breath. You give my life challenge, worth, and joy. For that, I can never repay you. "You're beautiful," Edward finishes, almost breathless.
The skiis slide upon the snow and ice, and the mortal upon the edge of the world. This is what knowing Life and Death is. It is beautiful. To be so close to the sky. Upon a spire-point of earth. This is one of the few acts where a mortal may stand, throw his arms wide and hug God. And to say: Here I am... Here I am, one of your small children...
Hiss and scratch. It is not unlike the sound of metal, is it, the sound of ski blades upon the crystalline, and snow lifts in his stopping. His setting. And he looks to you as you whisper near him -- the world around is so silent... easy was it to hear. And he stands, everything about him open. Poles embedded in the snow -- I want to reach out to you. But our skis would tangle and we would tumble down the mountainside. "And I love you, Edward Meurelle..." so rarely does he say your name, your full name as he knows it, that when it comes upon the warm breath, lingering on the air for moments after, it is done with such a soft inflection. Meant. I mean it. He only smiles when you tell him he is beautiful. "Who in love... is not beautiful, hmm?" Always with the philosophy, this one...
Gloved hands settle on the poles and he readies for the launch. His body tightens. The heart is beating -- anticipation felt as surely as the dry chill. Tension -- that makes the smile turn to a grin. He looks to you.
"...Un..."
"...deux..."
"...trois..."
The count is taken with a smile and bounce, with the drop of his goggles. Edward chuckled and pushed off on what would be four, arms at full extension behind him as he charges from his mark and down the mountainside.
Below, the world is a sea of white, and you, clifftop divers. Flickers of light indicate other bungalows and the lodge, but they are perhaps a mile away. Thousands of metres down. It seems you have launched off the mountaintop, hurtling towards the ground in a freefall...
And I can taste death upon my tongue, with its alkaline hum. And I can feel the resilience of Life, the burst from the solar plexus. No, we will not die tonight. But ... we shall court it in the falling. It is as close to flying as perhaps we may come. To feel the true lift of air, the weight of gravity and the balance in between. We take-off in flight, land with the thud and scratch of ice and snow, and the wind of our motion creates swirling eddies of snow after us. Gods, with firmaments of stars at our head... and at our feet...
The mountain is gem-like, the snow upon it -- like a thousand such mountains in miniature. But they pass by so quickly. The world becomes white. Motion. Glorious. You have years and years of this upon him, but he is not left behind in the kicked up wake of snow and ice. No, he is beside you. Lifting -- launching over the dips on the way down. Chopping, swerving with the earth. Until it drops beneath his feet and he launches again...
Valan assails the downward slope. Not merely riding upon the crest of the mountain of ice and snow, but attacking it. Hurtling forward. Keeping in your shadow. Thrilled. So thrilled.
To be here. To be with you. Hurling down the mountain as fast as he may go. And in the whipping wind... the sound of his laughter.
You can hear his calls above the scratch and gash of snow and ice. A call in praise of you as much as this that you now share. Do not let it end, not ever. Edward laughs brightly, sure that you are nearby, and the world is but a searing blaze of frozen white, no less burning than that of fire. He screams in gales of laughter for it, knowing the daring defiance against the cold's opposite.
This...is living. This...is dying. This why I am...what I am. What has taken so long to feel it? Oh, God, forgive me, I have been dead all of this time...and not even due to my condemned state... Edward looks over and behind, taking the clearest path. Ahead! There is a launchpad to the world, and grinning, he crouches lower, gaining more momentum and speed, intent upon bolting from the rock's snowy tip to the chalets below...
Come with me...
White as the world when we were born. This is why we do this, all of us. To remember. When the light first hit our eyes and we could not focus but we Existed. When there was only flash and motion -- and then in all of it... a singular voice. The soul thought it God's. Later, it would be known as Mother's. And for this ... second birth, this voice belongs to you, Edward. You laugh and it reaches him through the motion and the blur and the blaze of white. As snow lifts like the crests of a frozen sea...
The world tremors beneath his skis, even as he so often quakes beneath you. This is no different -- only colder. And he grins against the wind. And he calls out your name. It will not be the only time tonight that you hear him do so.
You hear the wind split beside you. The sound of skis slicing the air. You blaze the path ahead and he... who is slower than you by a noticeable notch or two... follows. Skiis lifting from the earth in a launch. His entire body in concert. Eyes to the ground -- and then ahead -- knowing where he shall land and how. Valan sees the snow and ice fly up even before he truly feels the impact.
It is like flying...
It is like dying...
And it is like being born...
His landing was no less floating than his launch. Edward glances back to see yours laughing and congratulating you, even as he hurtles forward, causing the lights on the lower tiers to grow.
For the world's eye, lights sweep down the white canvas of the mountain in serpentine scrawls. Lines are etched behind some unseen hand trailing downwards, ever closer to the earth. It is a rapid writing, the finials of sand written onto the world. Yet nothing forms it. It is as if God himself leaves his autograph, sudden script and howling appearing suddenly visible upon the canvas...
There is one who would tell you that such a thing is the nature of painting. Ones fingers are never seen. There is the canvas, and then... there is what is brought out of it. You lose sight of your fingers and blink when you are done. If God has painted this ceiling, why are my hands dirty? Maybe it is like you are the child at his heels, demanding to hold the buckets of colors for him...
So you do upon the mountain, in grand form leaving behind icy trails and sculptures of displaced powder. The face of the mountain altered. Shaped by your blades, the unwitting instruments of God...
Valan loses an inch of ground behind you with a slide upon landing. And though the recovery was quick, it is in that instant that the race is likely lost. Ah, but there is no loss of joy. Nor thrill. Nor does his laughter cease -- in fact, you hear it loud and clear. Uncaring of victory...
That is not the point, yes?
Below, the earth seems to widen, leveling. The rise at the base that ends at the chalet. And closer and closer the low stars in the distance are now revealed to be once distant lights. Past the chalet, the earth drops again, and a white-capped evergreen forest begins. There is no slowing in his pursuit. You can hear his breathing... as if it is at your ear. Panted... as you have heard it often. Even and rhythmic. In countermeasures to the sound of the blades upon the ice...
His blood sings for you, Valan. If only you could hear it. This -- this is what I want for Us. Eternally. Stay with me...we will be in a world filled with such excitement and joy...
"Come on!" Edward cries, a war-call as much as dare and exultation. His skis cut lightly, well waxed for the occasion. Instead of grooving harshly, he almost floats above the ice, treating it as a searing slip pane of glass.
The forest presents a new challenge, causing Edward's arms to loosen to guide him deftly along the chosen path. Trees are avoided, and he seems to slow faintly. Go slow to go fast. His knees are joined in parallel flow, shifting left, then right to navigate the evergreens. At his path, the small light, he seeming to take you both faster than the light can shine forth...
Slowing, the sound is more thud and sigh. A lifting of snow. And upon the wind, the smell of human sweat -- electric -- and the older, far older, scent of evergreen. It is darker here, even though the trees do not provide much in the way of canopy. Like all high-altitude evergreens, they are more scant of growth, but the lower one continues down the slope the thicker such canopy eventually becomes. But... that is not for some ways yet... and much further down than you and he shall go.
To your call, you heard a grunt. A soft landing. An exhale. Such form. Such motion in sweet concert. Valan bends, swerving around trees. Legs guide, and the rest of the body seems to effortlessly follow. Slowing, pulling up -- the race of speed and hurtling has become one more of balance and agility.
And you move as if you were born on those blades. Anticipating, it seems, the swell and slope of the mountain. And I am in your wake. It is in more ways than this one, Edward. What is it about you that makes me want to hurtle into everything as if it were this mountain? From bedroom to driving to conversations to ... just living. Nothing is simple around you. Nothing... is as it was before you. Where you go, ami, be certain that I will follow.
Though I may lose a bet now and again... when I am boastful that I can lead...
Valan grins and gives a yelp beside you as snow lifts in another redirecting cut. Slowing. He guides himself through the darkness... by the light of the snow, and its reflection off of you. You are his beacon. He will follow you.
The yelp brings high laughter, Edward imagining what's transpiring with you. He should call out to check, but as he can still feel you keeping pace, he knows things are well.
"A warm bed and drink, huh?" It awaits back at your glorious chalet. He bears down, trying to pick up the pace after such thoughts, and challenges the evergreens to part and give way to such rambunctious and chill-infusing happiness.
He can see the light at the end of the wood. Somewhere between the tall trunks, darkness begins to give way to a glowing world, revealing itself.
Held at the break of the woods, where the earth spills and swells again -- another alp plateau -- is the sudden splendor of the chalet. Its lights. Its blue and white crystalline edifice. Sparkling, otherworldly. Lights are there, warmly glowing. Promising heat. Comfort. You can smell smoke. The burning of the chalet's many chimneys. The scent of pine wood burning, flavoring the air like incense...
He is right behind you, gaining in the crest of a small hill. Surging forward. To your dare? Or to thoughts of the warm bed and warm drink? You can hear his breathing, rhythmic again. Determination. In the soft sound of his voice. He is pushing himself. To remain with you. "Oui!" you hear in a rush to your right, and you see him. And the quick flash of a smile. "... Maybe... Stefan will have it waiting for us... at the bottom..." With the envelopes prepared last night. Laughter edges his words, and you can see him make a quick adjustment to miss a sapling. It is dark. The mortal does not see as well as you do. In the thick of the grove, that is becoming apparent.
But thankfully the trees are thinning and ahead is the meadow of recently fallen snow...
And the finish line...
Ah, Stefan! Hopefully he has thought of it all. And this only the first run of the night. Edward calls loudly towards the chalet you share, the rest of the resort safely a bit a way. The joy of such living. His voice booms, carried like lightening across the blitzing snow. Clear as crystal bells...
We're here!
Edward angles to the separate accommodations, giving a smooth curve to his ride. Arms push furiously with skis, shoving off the snow as if was meant to drive him forth.
"Stefaaaan!!!" calls the trailing voice, certainly roaring enough to wake up any residents of the chalets to your east...
And now the dogs are barking. Loki and Freya -- the two large, white mountains of fur known as samoyeds -- call back. As if even this was a contest. From the wolves who patrol this ground? Nothing. Silence. It is as Georg would wish it. But you can perhaps feel them near. Just watching as they are trained to do...
A light spreads golden warmth upon the snow -- the side door opening after the burst. Waiting for it, most likely. And you can see him, moving carefully upon the snow with his large boots. Holding, it would appear, a tray with two large cups on it. And presumably the envelopes.
Laughter. Warm like sunlight -- you could swear it should melt the snow around him -- it clings to Valan's throat. A little hoarse from all the shouting and cold wind. "C'etait exquis. Beau..." sounds the soft French. What a race. And though, it is true, he lost the challenge... ah... it is like winning the battle and losing the war, oui? Who cares. In fact, he is happy to have done so. Thinking... anticipating... anxious to find out what you have ... wished for him to do. The grin has not left his face since the lift, as if the ride down has etched it there. As he comes up alongside you, an easy glide, Valan turns his head. A hand reaches up to pull up the goggles. He will ski without them for the remainder of the way. His nose is red, his face blushed. Or perhaps it is the red he wears that make it seems so. "A drink and bed... this sounds like the perfect evening... no better way to thaw ..." Another shout leaves him. Exultation and release. What a ride . He glances back over his shoulder briefly to the mountain he just crested. Marvelous.
"I thought buttered rum would be in order!" comes the shout from Stefan, carefully approaching. Twisting, a rush of something Scandinavian leaves him. The dogs suddenly go quiet. Red-faced, Stefan grins.
"Oh, brilliant, Stefan," Edward's voice softer now as he slides to a halt near the man, kicking up a bit of shining white. Poles loop around his wrists, dangling as he reaches with both hands for a cup, "Mm," Edward swallows, talking simultaneously, "...oh, you should be up there, Stefan...it's an excellent night," he describes, bending his capped head and bringing up gloved arms. Another drink and Edward confirms, "Ah, this is just great," brown eyes looking between you both. His face is red too, but hard to tell in the dark. Circles remain around his eyes where the goggles were, and a dip of his head brings the rum to his lips again.
Steam from the cups. Breath upon the air. Silvery and shimmering against the otherwise deepening dark of night. And then the snow! It is a sudden flash of brilliance, lifting from the ski blades of Edward in his halting... and then Valan in his following. Silvery and shimmering, sparkling... and then dissipating. Like magic...
Look at you. You are beautiful with your easy smile. Who needs light... I can see by this. It is enough. And there is something in the way you smile, Edward. It is a reminder of why we live at all. It is for this...
Balanced easily upon still blades, Valan reaches forward -- gloved hands freed for the task. And he wears a third of the mountain on him. In frost and snow, and he does not notice. Or... noticing... he does not care. The rum is held and a wash of warmth runs through him. A sip, and he is suddenly filled with it. The smile at the rim of the cup says it all without speaking. Mon Dieu... Lifting from his cup, his left hand shifts his goggles up, back to resting upon his cap, and past the red of his cap his golden hair is just a lighter kind of darkness. Even with the nearby lights of the chalet. "Absolutely incredible," his voice is warmed, soothed by the liquid, and he drinks again. "Such a beautiful night and ... perfect... perfect slopes..." A nod, a grin and a raise of his cup to Stefan. Eyes turn to Edward, and he grins, "We will go again?"
And the air sparkles as he laughs. "Ah," Valan motions with his cup. "... after... more of this. This is good..." A murmur to the cup, to the rum, and then another swallow.
Stefan smiles and if the whole of his face could be seen with this lighting, you would see how it warmed him. "Oh, I will go... last run of the night... it is the nicest night we have had here in a while. They say... there will be fresh snow by tomorrow evening..." And yes, along with the cups he had brought there are two envelopes on the tray. "And do not forget those. Bets well made should be well paid..."
"Mmph," Edward bobs his head, swallowing as he lowers his cup. "Aye, indeed," English word slipping into his French, "...we'll go again," he smiles, "...later." As for now, Edward finishes another drink, stomping snow as he scoots closer to you.
"So, how do you want to do this, hmm?" Edward smiles, shoulder at yours. He leans in, giving a quick kiss at your ear. "Another run...open them now..." six in one hand, half-dozen of the other.
An arm comes up and around your shoulders. Easy familiarity. Without shame. Without question. Valan tilts his head back, emptying the cup in one last swallow and he sets it back upon the tray. "I say... now..." he murmurs, smiling as he turns his head to you. So close... a kiss seems imminent. Promised. Offered. His arm draws you slightly to him. "I want to see what you have chosen... I will even show you mine, oui?" And he laughs, as he must, as he cannot help it. It sounded like that game children play when they discover their own bodies, yes? Eyes narrow with it, and you taste rum and feel the heat of it lingering on his mouth in the kiss that follows. "And... as for the rest of the night... I should think it would depend on what I find..."
His arm loosens and leaves you only reluctantly and he lifts the envelope marked with Edward -- this is the one you chose. His fate held folded and scrawled within. The envelope is held for a moment by his mouth as gloves are slowly removed. Hard to open envelopes with such large things. "The mountain is not going anywhere..." he says to you, with the slow wandering of a smile. You see it reside in his eyes. Curiosity. Wonder. Love.
As for Stefan? There is no flinch or outward sign of any kind as the kiss is given. Just an even expression. Perhaps it is in being Scandinavian. They are so even-tempered... so hard to gauge. But it would appear as if it is... not exactly a new sight to him.
The slip of paper within is but a wisp. His writing is in cursive, one sentence spooled across the note:
When the time comes, know that I love you, and say, "Yes..."
Despite Edward being beside you, licking his lips at the remainder of his drink, he feels withdrawn. Giving you space to read and accept what might be on the page. No interpretation, no humor or commentary to interrupt your moment. It is him talking to you directly, meaningfully. Something on the horizon you both share now. An event, a moment hazy, but approaching. Life-altering.
"Thanks, Stefan," Edward murmurs with a soft smile, nothing so gregarious as before. He reaches out to set his cup upon the tray, then moves away from you, the seriousness of whatever was meant thick upon the air. Snow crunches under his feet, and he looks up to the moon, closing his eyes as hand lifts to push cap from his head. The pole hangs heavy from his palm, and it is almost as if his back is turned to the world...
What could this be but what it is...
A prelude to proposal. Proposal ... promise. Such is possible between men, covenant or no. Church or no. It is... as it is. It is the kind of forever for which we can reach. And I hold it in my hands and I read it again. It is cold -- this is the reason my fingers tremble. Ah, you know that as the lie it is, Edward. When the time comes, and you ask...
Hazel eyes are just a glimmer in the dark -- perhaps you can see the colors there. You can see their brightness as he is close to you. Lifting from the paper and then lowering to read again. Lifting a second time -- and this time lingering. And then comes the smile. It is not broad. There is no guffaw. There is only ... acceptance. Present and Future. "Je dirai," he murmurs. No... he whispers. And his breath is silvery.
I will say yes...
Valan carefully folds the note, his head bent, eyes upon it, and he slips it inside his glove. He is going to keep it. And the envelope. The envelope is folded in half and then in quarters. This, placed into a safe place in his ski jacket. Such precision. Such care. Such languor in the minutia of it. It was deliberately done. Meaningfully done.
"How about another cuppa?" Edward says to Stefan, giving the man freedom to leave this moment. "We'll see you inside," he says, gaze still upon the silvery moon. This is where I exist, he thinks, happily in her gaze and invisible among the long shadows of night. There is no longing for the sun, no need to join you in your version of living. He finds solace these days, acknowledging his forever nocturnal state. There will be no savior, nor does he desire any.
Edward sighs a little, letting the tension float away. When he turns to see you, he has a crooked smile on his face. Is not a pre-proposal but a proposal? A snicker for his silliness and he shrugs at you.
Stefan withdraws with an easy smile, handing the other envelope to Valan. Just in case. Now that the contest is over, so are the rules, ja! He turns and does not glance back as he heads toward the light and warmth of the chalet.
Click...
Click...
It is not the ticking of the Great Clock you hear, but of Valan stepping out of his skis, freed with only a little effort. Much practice at this. He does not free himself so he may run from The Moment, but to face you. "Je dirai oui maintenant..." he murmurs. "Maintenant... ou plus tard... ma reponse sera identique, ami..." Now... later... my answer will be the same. I will answer yes.
Yes. It is at your mouth. Murmured there. Breathed there. There it will be done. Oh... he does not know it is how it will be done. The mouth is the font of it all, and there... as if knowing The Unknowable... he whispers it there. "I love you..." And his breath is your breath as the kiss opens warm and wide.
Odd. He did not expect this response. Edward grins, not so much for your answer...Time will Tell and now you cannot know...but for his own surprise at your passion and affection for him. Edward grunts in the kiss, grinning as his arms spread -- poles still dangling -- and come around to snatch you forward to press at his chest. I love you, if you didn't know it...
His eyes glance to the house. How long has it been? Parting lips, Edward whispers, "Want to go in for a bit...before having another go at the mountain?" A casual evening not so casual at all. He smirks, "We have...all night..."
There is a chuckle to that and now the broad smile follows. Snow should melt, and this mountain after for the look. "Oui... so we do," Valan murmurs. "I think... inside and warmth and you and rum... hmm? We will conquer the mountain... at our leisure..." Ah, how French he is. Unabashed. Unashamed. Without apology.
Posted by rowan at February 06, 2001 11:31 PM
