The creaking confirms someone in motion. Edward himself, having retired for a while, now rises again expecting his guest to have done the same. Perhaps you shall depart soon, taking a quick flight south, to home.
     "Hey there," he calls in his English, feet padding upon the floor. He looks damp, hair slick in the fluctuating lights. Where he once had boxers on, there is but the robe now. His young man -- asleep. "Getting ready to go?" Edward murmurs, coming down the stairs. A cigarette is in hand, and on a table near where you stand sits his lighter.

     "Ah, Edward..." English rarely spoken sounds oddly from him, and the inflection of Florence is everywhere upon it. Transforming it. It lilts as it simply... should not. "You are anxious to be rid of me. Were I of tender ego... I should be upset." Girault's expression warms, but it is not living -- the pantomime not upheld here. He is... beautiful. But too much so to be human. He smiles, it adds an odd humanity to him. "We will be gone," he drops English and makes a wave of his hand, and within the glass he holds golden liquid shifts, sparkling. "... by the time you wake. I have my geisha packing now..." That amuses him. Brows lift and he takes a swallow of the wine.
     There follows a pause, his face tilted, head inclined. Yes, like a Raphael painting come to life -- though he predates Raphael by many, many years. His age was that of Dante. He... perhaps he... the face of Virgil. You would not put it past him. Girault settles back in the chair. "Your... young man... Valan Montague... he seems... delightful..."

     His pace slows, considering what you say. But a smile does come, and Edward bends to pick up his cigarette. A momentary pause from his present life, to enjoy an old habit. The top flicks open, and the silver flares orange an instant.
     He is unsure whether to smile or simply accept the compliment. "Thanks," is about all he comes up with, awkward in this arena unlike so many others. Taking a seat, he folds the robe discreetly closed, finger hooking into an ashtray and drawing it towards his side of the low table.
     "You guys don't need to go," Edward confirms, "...sorry if I was...a bit taken aback by your arrival." He sighs then, recalling the reason. "I'm going to have to go to Valencia and talk to her myself," he states and surmises at the same time. Not a trip he looks forward to necessarily. Finger pulls at his tongue as the cigarette is held, then put back in to hang while he converses with you. "You, on the other hand, look great." Just so you know. "Not that I'd expect otherwise, though."

     A smile. A shrug. This, too, is habit. But then the smile broadens and his arms open, extending. "Grazie... what would you all do, were I to be otherwise? The sun would no longer shine..." A chuckle hangs in his throat, lives in his eyes. Cinnamon, and with the laughter, amber burning within. As if any of us care about the sun anymore. Another swallow of wine and Girault waves it off. "Ah, si... I know, Edward... But... I could not spend the Lord's Birthday so far from my palacio..." And its many young men. Fine, as yours is. With an exhale, he sits forward. Still, nothing revealed beneath the fur. There would be much to reveal, for there is nothing, save this. "As for Valencia..." And the word clings to the tongue. A lovely city, Valencia. "She will be coming to Florence in the spring... you are free to use my villa as neutral ground... " A smile snakes along his mouth. Ah, the invitation. Yes. "But... as things tend to with Angelique, she will forget by the spring...Have you another?" Cigarette.
     "It would do good for her... for her to wait, Edward," Girault murmurs. "Patience... is a virtue. It is the only one I practice..."
     "You... should spend time with your Montague..." he adds in a murmur. Girault smiles to you. Before she interferes. Before you present him to her. This, Girault does not say. "It ... would be... time better spent?"

     Another? Edward shakes his head negatively, not totally expecting to find anyone awake. Instead, he simply offers what he has, pulling it from his lips and extending it for the taking.
     "It would be time better spent," Edward softly agrees, eyes downcast at his feet. Enough said of Angelique, the better. He will not spend his energy. His choice is made. It sings from every part of him.
     Looking up at you askance, Edward says, "I have a lot to learn." He shall leave that for you to interpret. The brown eyes drift again to his feet and the hem of his robe.

     "We must ask the Angevin," words spread, effluent Italian upon the smoke that leaves him,  "... where he gets his cigarettes...it is hard to go back once one has smoked cinnamon..." Another pull is taken from your tobacco, and the cigarette is offered back to you with a nod of thanks. A silent grazie. Girault sits back, and the smile deepens slightly. "That... amice," comes the smooth intonation of his low tenor. "... that is what this is for... " This life. This time. This wealth of time. Love, when it appears. And... yes... he can see it. How could he not? "Have you... " A pause, and Girault waves it away. No... it is not to me to ask. Do not tell me.
     Hands fold against his stomach, against the silver and white fur that covers it. "I do not think I have ever seen you ... so resplendant. I like it." Girault tilts his head. "You men of France... you gain such a light when love lands. Like silver in sunlight." He grins. "I can remember, I think, what that looks like." And yes, William is included in that statement. He smiles upon the exhale of a breath. It is for theatrics, for speaking. Otherwise, he does not breathe unless in mortal company. "Edward... take your time..." With learning. With your young man. Take him... when you want him. Time... and him... they are both yours ...

     He smiles, letting your mind and words go on. He can only imagine what you have not said. "I don't think I have ever noticed," what being in love looks like, Edward half-explains, accepting the smoke back and immediately filling his lungs. "I will take your word on it." But comments about his own beauty? He lets those fall away. Compliments have always frightened him. What happens...if you believe them?
     He sighs on time though, cigarette put down and hand subsequently massaging his face. He seems tired. But of what? "I've seen myself...forever..." the past tense use, "...thinking...I was like him," his head bobbing towards the upstairs. A derisive snort and Edward frowns as he looks down. "That was fucking stupid," he insults, wiping at his nose this time. He seems wet, for some reason.
     Hand comes down slowly, and Edward looks at the back of him. "I'm...not like him. And I haven't been...as long as I can recall..." What a shame to realize it all now.

     Oh, one should never ask Girault of the things he does not say. It is best left unheard, unspoken, unknown. He smiles at the thought. The understanding. And even though you are upset, the smile does not falter. "Alive... mortal? No.. you are not these things..." A pause. "Close." A chuckle. "Closer than I, si? Ah, Edward... you are... what you wish to be. You... have that power... but... si... si... it is true, you are not mortal. Yet you are humane. You know this..." A soft chiding. You should not insult yourself.
     He studies you for a moment and then sits forward. "I will not be so... flowery. No, you are not mortal, you are not human. But I will say this, you are just...beginning to come into what you truly are. I can see it on you. Even as I know you are naked beneath that robe, you tease..." Girault grins and peers at you. Pity, there is no space of skin I might discover there. And he sits back, hands spreading in motion again. As much a tool for conversation as his mouth. "It could be worse, Edward. You could think you're a WWI fighter pilot named Commander Biggles."

     Oh, God. He had not thought of them in a while. Edward stops staring at his rotating hand long enough to narrow his eyes at you. "Where do you come up with this stuff, Girault?" A chuckle and Edward lets his hand fall back to his thigh. Levity restored. And well too...he so hates seriousness. Yet it wears upon him in ways long forgotten.
     Anyhow. Edward waves his hand, dismissing everything. "You are in your own plane?" he wonders aloud, returning to the general conversation. Cigarette is getting shorter, and he reaches to flick ash.

     He only smiles and makes motion of his hands. What can I do? I am helpless to stop it. The smile twists upon full lips. As if I would travel in less than luxurious style. Oh ... mio caro amico ...
     Girault laughs softly. "Do not worry... Medici shall soon... just be a dream...hmmm? I shall... fly away ... and leave you to your... I must say, Edward... exquisite young man." Yes, I looked. Pity I shall not get another chance before I leave. "...I will return to Florence. And then... after the holidays... perhaps I shall take a few of my young and sheltered men to Paris..." A shrug. "I never know," Girault grins, like the very cat he is called. Il Gatto di Firenze. "That is the way of it when you are controlled by your desires... and... as you know... mine are many and varied. Perhaps I should go visit Guillaume again." Again. "I have not popped in on him and Ian in several months now. They are... probably... just beginning to get comfortable." And he grins. No. No, Edward, you are not the only one who has to bear my... unexpected appearances. It is my duty to keep you all on your toes.

     He smiles finally. "Your visits...are the best, Girault." You come when you are most needed, in truth. Edward grins, "Be it far from me to rush you off, my most beautiful brother," and he stands, some of the cockiness returning, "...but I am needed upstairs." The cigarette, now at its lowest, is removed and crushed out in the tray. The robe falls around Edward and he stretches a little, moving around the table to your side.
     "Do you need me to hang around?" To see you out, do the formalities, et cetera. You know this place as well as he. "Or are you both set to go..." Edward peers around, "...is Stefan up to help you?"

     "I will... rouse him from bed. I am feeling... oddly generous tonight." A pause. A grin and brows lift. Such a beatific look. Smooth. Wry. "It must be the holidays..." A sigh and a touch of his hand to his chest, a cross and then a motion as if to say to God, I'm with you, friend. Girault rises, smile spreading. It touches now his eyes, as well as his mouth, warms his features. Making him seem... for a moment... living. For a moment. "Ah... it is my pleasure, amico..." this he says genuinely. "But... before you go upstairs to your..." A sigh for drama, "... golden youth... come..." Arms open, and he gestures for a hug. And yes, there is some skin visible beneath the fur, but not so much. "Embrace me... a hug, always, between brothers parting company..."
     For you are family. All of you are. His brilliant boys, though he would never call you such. And as your cockiness resurfaces, so does his grandeur. If William is a king in his seeming and a knight out of legend, Girault is an emperor. It is a wonder he does not cry tears of gold...
     Or perhaps he does.
     "Li manchero. Verrete a Firenze?" he murmurs. "Venuto nella molla. Avro funzionare delle fontani. E portarvi il vostro giovane con..." For he is family...
     Can you feel that, Edward?

     He smirks, broad form coming to embrace yours. He sighs there, murmuring, "Yes, we will see you in Florence. Springtime." Edward's arms are strong, and he releases you slowly. "I promise." And we does not mean Maria, you well know. He can only speak of himself and his love. "He will enjoy your palazzo so much, Girault." And how come I see you not more? This he asks whenever you are to part.
     "I'd better let you go, Your Grace." The Dignitary you are called, hmm? Edward smirks, faintly comforted by your presence. Like this. "I will talk to you after our holiday." Our. Edward smiles at this, hands dropping to his waist.
     "Thanks for coming, ami..."

     A motion of his fingers, imperial, and it is coupled with the grin as the embrace is felt and then is parted. Around him, the arctic fox is drawn. It looks oddly cinematic. But then, what does not with him. "This... is all the gift of the season that I could have hoped for. I will make ready the palazzo for you, my friend. I should kiss you... ah but then... you would never get me out of here." A wink. Unlike William, he would have... no problem in seeing you in that light. It is... how...and what... he is, si? A wave to this and he moves. A stride that is as much a saunter. The dance of an old Italian knight, such as Italy knew. "Grazie per essere cosi ospitale ad una tal chiamata di sorpresa. Ora, andare sulla scala e fare l' amore al vostro giovane..."
     And he glances back, and he chuckles. There is more skin. More of Girault than you needed to see. And he... unashamed. Unabashed. He is worse even than William. "S, il mio buono cavaliere, parlero con voi presto. Buon Natale..."
     I am too much ...

     Rolling his eyes, Edward seems to blush. "Frohliche Weinachten," he adds to your seasonal greeting, showing his own sophistication. But then laughter follows and Edward sighs as he moves away at an angle to exit the parlor. He will do as you recommend, for he has another couple of hours before his own eyes should close.
     "I'll tell Georg you stopped by," Edward tosses, voice full, but still low. Others around are sleeping. "Buon Natale, bellissimo cavaliere..." A wave is a half-salute, drawn from the Italian army itself. That time has been on his mind much of late. Edward continues to draw away, his head returning a little downcast as he watches his feet guide to the stairs and upwards again. Always thinking, these nights...
     His entrance is silent...save the door. Those will always give you away. He hopes you did not hear him slip out or in, but he can imagine you felt his departure. It is how he knows you these nights as well.
     The light that spilled in suddenly disappears, and Edward walks across the room in shadow.
     The robe slithers from his skin, falling invisibly to the floor.
     Damn. The bed creaks with his weight, and he halts, wondering if you were disturbed. A coolness comes with the lifting of the bedding, but soon your lover will be safely ensconced with you again.

     He did not hear you leave. He did not hear you enter. It is the motion of the bed. It is your nearness. You are moving ...
     And eyes open. A slow lifting, and the smile is already beginning. "Where... are you going, ami...?" His arms seek to enfold you. Or are you returning. Ah... from the bathroom or... something. Valan rolls over to lie upon his back. A stretch. A groan. Beautiful. Even with his hair out of place and his drowsy looks. And he glows with it. "Hmm... what a night... what a glorious night," he breathes. I am engaged ...
     Turning his head upon the pillow, he looks to you. A hand lifts. Come to me ...

     Edward grins, a faint glimmer in the darkness. Soon he is at your hand, face down even as you are face up. Half upon you and the bed you share. "I am back," he whispers, explaining the situation, "...and here for the rest of the night." Edward kisses your ear lightly, careful to wake the smallest fuzz at your skin.
     "Was it a good night?" Edward asks softly, elbow sinking into the bed, hand ruffling into his hair. "You...have met many people of late," he smiles brightly, "...will you remember them all?"

     How could I forget them? They are so... memorable. Particularly the last pair. How can anyone forget an Italian man wearing a full length fox fur? Valan chuckles, the sound hanging in his chest. "Hmm... I do not think I will have trouble remember the last two... You will quiz me, oui?" comes the languid murmur, French even more slow to form on that tongue from all the night's events... and all the night's rum.
     "But... that is not the part of the evening I will most remember," he breathes. "Or the part of our trip that will first come to mind. Non... I ... shall think of our race... I shall think of your question... and I shall remember my answer." Valan smiles, turning over upon his side. A moment later, and he is half covering you. Your strong and lean fencer. And legs tangle. "Hmm... and who could forget our first sauna..." And what you did in the steam. Dieu. An exhale and Valan closes his eyes. And his mouth seeks you. "It was... the most incredible evening," he whispers again.

     "Oh, good," Edward purrs, relieved. On his back, hands are free to explore yours. An athlete. How, he thinks, should I have gone so long without one?
     "Girault seemed to like you," he whispers, letting you know. "He told me such." And there you are. A first approval. Neither of you knew that such would transpire so. He thought Georg, a less-stringent critic, would be the easier trial, if such was to happen. But Edward can do little but smile at first success. "Lucky that you were with me," he adds, tickling your ribcage.

     He is ticklish, your athlete, and twists a little at the touch. Just short of laughter. You can feel him tighten, tightness turning to slight motion. But it is a half-hearted motion -- he does not truly wish to escape it. Valan breathes against your shoulder, and then, his mouth finds the crook of your shoulder and neck. He lingers there. Smiling, and then his mouth tugs at the skin. "He is ... an old friend of yours, I am pleased that he likes me..." Or at least the idea of me.
     The bed shifts and now Valan is upon you. A human blanket. His skin is both soft and warm. Bare skin to bare skin. There is not much in the way of hair for either of you. But what there is, tickles lightly. "We will be visiting him in the spring then?" Did I hear you right, ami? "He seems very amicable, he is very eloquent..." A compliment to your friend. It is as much a compliment to you. Valan smiles to you, even as his mouth pulls upon your own. "I still wish to meet the man who let us have his house for the holidays. You have... such generous friends, ami..."

     He kisses you once. Twice. Brown eyes stay open, no less warm than the furs you have enjoyed. "They are true friends," Edward whispers, "...they will all like you..." There's more?
     "And yes," he chimes, "...what think you of Florence in the spring for a week or so? Primavera..." Edward charms, grinning the whole time. "Girault has the most beautiful palazzo I have ever known," Edward smiles, "...and...well, his palazzo also is filled with the most beautiful...well...gentlemen..."

     All...
     How many are there?
     "What about your... cousin?" he whispers at your mouth, grinning. He doesn't mention your other family members. Maria...Angelique... whichever or both of them -- that shall be a challenge. Rather than straddling your hips as he has done so many times before, his thighs nestle between your own, and then slowly spread. It is a covering embrace. And the kiss that follows is slow and savoring and sweet. Eyes opened to yours. Soft and warm, in tones of green and brown and gold.
     "I...would love Florence in the spring... with you," Valan murmurs, and then the smile. It lives upon his mouth, in his eyes. "He... seems like the kind of man who would wish to surround himself with beauty constantly. This explains... his fascination for you." Ah, such a compliment. Even he reddens slightly. Or maybe it is the position. Settling upon you, his heavy warmth is all the blanket you shall need. And you, the only bed he requires. "I will look forward to seeing this palazzo..." There is nothing said for the beautiful young men Girault may or may not entertain...
     For I am yours...

     "My cousin," Edward's eyes roll up, a knowing smile upon his lips, "...is a well married man," he explains. "To a handsome..." well, goodness, "...blonde youth. They mostly live far north. There is my Girault, you met, who lives in Italia. And... Georg...who main resides through the alpine regions, though he is from very far north." Scandinavia. "You... well ... there are others," he smiles, "...extended...brothers." As it were. The first explanation.
     The shifting thighs get a rise of his brow and a laugh. Edward quiets a little, then asks, "We have...a lot to see, ami. Are you ready?" he asks softly, expecting this answer to take the rest of the dark and chilly night.

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2001 08:48 PM