It was the festivity of a holiday meal that only Europe understands. Under twinkling dark, upon glowing plates, was a meal served. Candles flickered, and faces moves between shadow and flame. Prayer and conversation flowed freely, and the food...consumed with smiles and glad and generous hearts. Thankful. Even the Samoyeds had Christmas snacks, fed by hand.
After guest and holiday gifts were given to the hosting pair, Edward decided it was time to rest. He had eaten more than his share of the meal and desserts, and after much wine, could use some time to recover before thinking about fourths.
Parting words and a squeeze of your hand indicated he was ready to retire. Ylsa and Stefan headed to see about the dining areas, and you...well, you moved once more to the center of all things. Edward's hand brings yours to his lips and he sighs before moving towards the staircase.
"Do you need me to carry you?" he asks softly, moving easily into a role as Lord. He should have expected to feel slightly uncomfortable doing the duties, but instead, something old made itself known.
It felt like being at home. The warmth. The full plates. The full glasses. Laughter. The only thing that was new... was the lack of arguments on art and philosophy between his father Etienne and his brother, Michele. The gesticulation, the final calming of arguments into smiles and laughter and music. Ah, but music we shall have, cher ...
So much has he had to drink, but in equal parts food. And so it has resulted in a kind of ...festive equilibrium. But more of that plum or mead and you shall have to carry, mais oui. But... he stands easily, strides easily in that stroll. The only noticeable difference is... it is slower. Done with thought now.
At the base of the stairs, Valan leans in. A kiss, with his hand sliding against your cheek. "Non," he whispers there, kiss parting. "I can do the two flights, ami...but... maybe at the top of the stairs I will regret it... you may have to carry me to bed..." He chuckles, a low and quiet sound. His hand traces your mouth and then he turns.
But pauses. "Should you like me to bring anything up out of the parlor... will you want a drink?" You the lord, he the cavalier. Your squire, in some ways. Here to tend you. Wanting to tend you.
In the parlor, Loki and Freya lounge before the fire. Like small white bears...
"Oh...well..." Edward twists, tongue slipping across his lips after the kiss, "...all the presents," he grins. "But no, we can ask them to see to it in a while," he smiles, squeezing your hand and going on.
But wait. A stop and he angles again. "Well, maybe the vodka...for warming," he smirks. He'd never waste the mead and brandy on such gluttony. Edward lets your hand go, shuffling quickly over towards the bar and a bottle there.
What else is there to drink when you want to ensure blitzing lust?
Shuffling back as fast, Edward picks up your hand again, bottle swinging in the other. "I wonder if the people on the left side will sell to us..."
Vodka. Brilliant laughter shines in his eyes, in golds and browns and greens, and from his lips and throat sparkles. They are beautiful, so beautiful these creatures when they laugh. Soft though it was, it flowed from him richly. "Hmm... oui... upstairs though... once I have the vodka, I will want to be horizontal...ah, cher...the cups too, please... I like those..." The bronze gifts from Davydd.
Davydd, who one night soon is going to feel like the only single man left in Britain...
"Your friends have excellent taste." A pause, now English tried again, with a smile. "I... like those...ah, you said those... were from... the red-headed friend... and L'Empereur?" L'Empereur spoken with a roll of French -- ah, how blazing French is upon that tongue. English is such an unfamiliar beast yet, but... he is getting a little better. Being around you so much.
You are at him again, and he grins. "Hmm... how could they say no!" he says, back to French, lyrical and heady. "We will be ... very persuasive... do they live there... year-round?" Soft conversation begins to trail and to wind, words upon words. "Dieu, Edward... this has been... such a ... wonderful time..." Valan's arm encircles your waist. We will go up together. Valan leans in, turning his head, his golden hair combed down and Mod, he peers past a partial golden veil. "The best holiday ... merci, ami... Ah, and if they do not sell," he begins again, "...we will just... convert the space we have, hmm? To however we want...hmm? And if we need more space, we will use Fleurlil... a fencing studio there, that would be lovely... "
They will sell. They may not know it yet, but they will sell.
Beside you, Edward blinks. He never thinks like that. But arms go around you, bottle and cups all. Kissing your ear, he nods, "We will make do, however," the stairs creaking under the combined weight. "And you will have a fencing studio," Edward reassures, "...in both places." Arms embrace tighter as the landing is reached, and joined you swivel to head towards your door.
"Do you want...a bath? Sauna? Or...tired enough to just collapse now?"
The way is paused, and golden brows lift upward in a slow, opening arch. In time, in perfect time... to the broadening of his smile. "Ah... I am not so tired, Edward," your name said, with the same inflection as 'ami'. The stairs are mounted slowly, but without wavering. Without stumbling. No, though he may be pleasantly... warmed by the substances imbibed, he is not yet intoxicated. The vodka will send him over that precipice...
And his blood shall be sparkling and warm with it, almost like human champagne. Blood that so easily rises to the surface of his skin. So easily fills your mouth. As if it seeks to join you there, knowing what it wishes to be...
The second floor is reached, and the walk slows even more... as he moves against you as much as he moves forward. And a song of the holidays, an old, European song, is sung in a murmur of Francais. His. Ah, he can sing. A nice mid-baritone -- not too deep, not a tenor. It only pauses with the kiss upon your ear. "A sauna would be great."
The bedroom is reached at last...but he makes no move to part from you. Already a man for whom touching is a constant activity, when he drinks... it is even more so. Reminiscent of someone else you know...
"Sauna it is," Edward smiles, moving you both into the room. "It'll be hard though," he points out, "...if we don't separate some. Clothing, you know," he teases, twisting to try and close the door behind him.
"Dieu," Edward murmurs, almost labored, "I was such a pig," he chides himself, hand at his waist again...
Very well. So I am drunk. It is a beautiful night, I am in love and I am drunk. Ah, and it is Christmas. So be it ...
Valan laughs, easy and warm. Golden and soft. "Oui...so it is..." Hard. Well... hard to read that any other way when he leans against you, you against the door... and so it closes. You against it, he against you...
Nose to your nose, Valan closes his eyes. Savoring the feel, the smell, the warmth -- everything. And with a tilt of his head, there is a brush of his lips. And the memories of a castle's stairwell. His hands are at your shirt, pulling gently to untuck. And he grins. "The sauna will burn it all away, and we will ski tomorrow... a nice long, cross country run, hmm?" As if you have to worry -- or him, even. He who is so active and food only seems to turn into hair. Valan leans back, his hands unfastening the shirt. His eyes to you. Tending you. Undressing.
It is a suddenly serious task, and Valan falls silent for it. Studious, he watches how his hands move. How buttons unfasten. How the cloth of the shirt begins to fall away. How fingers stroking against your shoulders, help to move it back. "Forward," he murmurs. And I will remove it altogether. And then the pants. And so on ...
"You're going to make me drop this..." Edward whispers, things suddenly getting serious. He anticipated eventually...but maybe in the sauna. Not at the door.
Quiet Edward remains as the shirt falls from him, his brow furrowing as he is exposed. His shoulder tap against the door when he leans against it. Where you were before dinner, you pick up again. A conversation forever unfinished.
"We won't make the sauna," Edward says flatly, his gaze past you to the doors that lead to the deck. Did you ever have any intent for us...for me...to make it to there? He swallows, and the heavy glass bottom of the vodka sounds upon the wood. A thud.
You want me this way, do you not? As I was before. Ready to spin the world upon my whim. No, that is not my way, but you tease it out of me. Draw it out.
A moth looking for a flame. That's it. Setting your focus to blaze out of control, threatening to consume the fire with its own heat and taking you with it ...
He does not know the layers of you. Or of what he tempts. He only knows... he wants you. That love, which moves freely and easily between you, and so seemingly without effort, has its partner lust, which has also moved freely between you. As naturally as air. Moth to a flame, this... he might admit to. But he does not know the quality of the fire he is playing with...
Will you bring him with you and show him, Edward? Will you teach him over a hundred years...
...or two...
Valan looks to you, mouth parted but he does not speak. He breathes, and then breath is caught. Moments. Compressed Time...
"We will make it to the sauna," he whispers. "It is not far..." He smiles, just at the corners of his mouth... distracted by this ... power between you. That reaches into his gut and pulls him to you. He cannot help it. "Would you like a drink?" Valan murmurs, your gallant, even as his fingers work at your trousers.
He'll have that drink. Eyes watch you, but hands reach around you as Edward is already removing the top from the vodka. White fire.
"We're not going to make it."
Wherever it comes from, the energy rises sharply. The door thuds again when Edward's head hits it soundly, the bottle tipped up at his lips. A quick slug, followed upon by another. There. Something consummated. Edward lets the bottle lower, hand wiping at his lips. His eyes are flecked with gold, the flame alive.
"Do you know how long...a long time is?" Edward whispers, brows arching open. Can you imagine. "An eternity? A forever? Do they...seem different to you, Valan?"
It hums against my skin. Chills. Like lightning up the spine. When you speak that way, so certain. You feel his fingers pause in it, Edward. Freeze as the palpable energy surges against him -- and because of his love, through him. The visible pleasure in that tone of yours, there... held in the three colors of his eyes. And he, undaunted even as he is unaware.
Fingers slowly move again. Button... zipper... down. And his eyes half-close. Valan looks to you as you speak. Through and past golden hair. Intoxicated. By you now... more than by the brandy and mead and almond liqueur. Through the motion of his fingers, slipping past the folds of trousers, to your hips. "A long time... would be fifty years... eternity... would be longer..." he whispers. "One seems distant... the other... "
His voice ends there and he does not speak again for the duration of the motion ... of his hands. Leading your pants downward, hands between the cloth and your skin. "... eternity...ami... we pledge, oui? And it is what our souls act out when ... years betray our forms..."
"And if years...never betray us?" Look at me. Here, Valan. My eyes. The fire you cause to rise higher and higher. You know it. The books you are given. The beings you have met. The hours we...both of us now...keep.
The stare falls to where your hands reveal him. Edward is not sure where to take these thoughts, this conversation. "Hold this," he whispers, offering you the open bottle. Turnabout is fair play.
There is a part of him that knows. There, held in the blood ... a layer beneath consciousness. Cells whisper: immortality. To synapse that do not as of yet recognize the sound. But Valan moves his hands from you to take the bottle. He is held still by your eyes. Lifting his gaze even as you ask without asking...
You live in a castle. You have given him a book about 15th Century knights. Your friends... are strange... they too... never come out during the day. And he has gotten used to... different hours. Without even venturing as to why. So naturally was he folded into your Existence. So subtle, he did not ever really see.
There was, in truth, no reason to question. Every question had a ...reasonable answer.
But you speak of... years... not betraying... and it captures him a moment. His cells whisper... immortality. But his brain, his mind... it does not know the translation. Golden eyebrows open in an arch. "Ami... what are you saying..." he murmurs.
"I'm asking a question," Edward says firmly. Now it is his hands at your waist. Seeking the chain and whatever falls beneath. Pulling you to him. Do not run now. You cannot. I won't let you. His hands can barely move, how close he keeps you to himself, but the sound is unmistakable. Whispering cloth. The tic of metal teeth falling open and away.
His snort is derisive and soft. Is this how it begins, William? Davydd, tell me how to progress. Nasr -- make sure my knees do not shake. Alfonso, make me not a liar. All of them are called, for he has no other. Niall, make sure we both can smile. Girault...remind me how to make a mortal love me still ...
"My name...is Edward...well...Christophe Phillipe Eduard Meurelle..." he laughs, "...some arrangement like...that." Okay, maybe you will see no humor in this. "I...don't remember so well which name...came in which order..." he frowns, hands pushing the folds of your khakis aside.
Don't run. Remember, you have loved me. I have loved you. "It's a silly..." word half-chuckled, fear there, "...thing, really." Come now. Brow frowns and he peers at you, seeing whether you are still with him.
Do you see the world turn? The sound of your back touching the door, Edward pressing forward. Trapping. Looking. Ready for me to go on?
Below, he steps out of the pants you have loosened, kicking them aside. Fully undressed now, nothing seems out of the ordinary -- and this is something you would know...
You call upon your friends. Their energy, yours. The sudden shimmer of something William -- passion, the spark that lights the fire of it -- oui, this is how it begins...this is how it is. Davydd, who stands in the shadows, speaking at the very edges of William's words -- they are so near as to be halves of the same coin sometimes -- give him his dignity, if for love, then make it of love. Nasr, the self-proclaimed monster, the sultan, whose hand would be upon your shoulder. And Alfonso. Alfonso, with a book in his hand, a quill pen in the other, at the ready to scribe the Next Name. Niall, juggling in the corner talking about how mortality is overrated. Girault... with both hands out, as if in gentle gesticulation. As if that motion shall be enough, that simple motion of his hands. They are all with you, carried on your blood, in the memories forged by so many centuries. The many faces of your Second Life...
And before you, another. Valan looks to you, level. And his expression is not stunned, but warms with wakefulness. "I remember that you love me," he murmurs, "... and the answer to your question is... yes, Edward," he whispers. As I pledged it would be. As I said at the foot of the mountain. Take me with you...
He swallows as his pants are unfastened and cloth is folded away. The tension moving through him is becoming evident there. He stands firm, back against the door. He does not view it as trapped. But there is something... happening between you. Serious. There is no flippant remark. He swallows your name, and the words that come with it. You cannot remember what comes first. "How long... Edward... is a long time...?"
You hear his breath catch and then quicken. You can hear the pulse lift and strengthen. Blood, coursing...
He smiles weakly, something sad in the Understanding. "As long...as we like," he whispers, glad to hear your words. "As long..." brown eyes narrow, "...as we remain safe." No, it is not a perfect world. "But..." he shrugs, "...even I cannot really...say. I..." Edward inhales, "...just want you there...with me ." Not for any other reason, save he cannot imagine ever being without you.
Eyes fall downward, something considered. "Should I...explain it all now..." he whispers, gaze lifting, "...or...maybe...maybe slowly? I'd rather...do something else for a while." Make love to you. A smile crooks, "Want to toss that bottle?"
He glances down to it. You see surprise moving over him. I had forgotten I was holding it. And then, Valan looks to you, his hand reaching out. The bottle offered back. "Which name... do you prefer...Christophe," he smiles gently, "Phillipe... or Edward..."
He falls still again. As long as we like. As long as we remain safe. You see questions beginning to flood his eyes, but his mind, his mouth... they do not even know which question to utter first... or at all. It is your crooked smile...and what it suggests... that suddenly snaps him from that reverie of Quandary. The bottle is handed to you. His khakis are pushed aside. Stepped out of -- the motion of his legs against you. And now... there is only him -- tall and lean, beautiful, strong, and encircled in silver. "I ... want to hear... more..." I want to understand. "... tell me... slowly... make love to me....tell me the story in my ear." His eyes sparkle -- in greens, in golds, in browns -- as he narrows them slightly. "Tell me... how we... may ...be this... as long as we like..."
The slanted smile grows again. As much for joy to hear your questions and comments as the humor of mortality. Of course...he has lain out the proverbial carrot, though he meant not to do so. And you take it. I cannot trust you to guide me, hmm, Valan? And why should I?
He nods to your desire, accepting the bottle and backing away. Left. Right. You can see each other fully for an instant, then Edward turns to set the bottle upon a side table near the door.
"Come on," he whispers upon return, his hand out, he already leaning for the bed.
"My mother," Edward says softly, "...called me Christophe. But...Edward's fine. I'm used to it," in response to your question. It is the easiest of them all, maybe. "My father...the Count of Blois," to answer that one, "...called me Edward first, I believe." History recalled, now myth. Legend.
Didn't the titles of Blois fade into obscurity...a century or so ago ...
Fingers to your own. The warmth of skin, sighing to skin. The electric touch. Knowing. Wanting. And still discovering. Fingers clasp, and he moves. As in Fleurlil, he moves without realizing it. Compressed Time. He is at the bed, it sounds beneath him. That is when he knows he is sitting.
Fleurlil. You see his eyes widen slightly. Not fear. He has too much... other stimuli from you for fear to take hold. It is... in short... too late for fear -- unless instinct send him into it. Should you pull out your gun... well then, he might be afraid. But... this? This is realization. Count of Blois. Time. Fleurlil. Immortality?
But how can that be, Valan? Impossible ...
"I'm ...used to it also," Valan murmurs, his French coming slowly. My head is spinning. Edward of Blois. I called you that... on our first night together. In your castle. Dieu. His motions are languid -- aided by both such a story and by the amount and type of drinks that have passed his lips this night. "I did not realize... Blois yet had a count, but then," lips quirk up in a smile and then slant, "I did not know anyone lived in Fleurlil either..." He laughs suddenly, warmly. So living. The gold of his hair plays up the gold in his eyes. The ruddy bronze complexion, more cream-olive out of the summer sun. The hipster looks to you. Tell me, Edward ...
"She did, once," Edward reassures, easier when he speaks of simple history. The bed is turned down and you are put into it, feet encouraged up with a lift of his hand. Other touches your cheek.
Compressed Time.
Soon, he is beside you, no longer so worried about what you will think of his preternatural movements. Pressed firmly at your side, Edward kisses your ear, moving to your shoulder. "I am the only one who lives at Fleurlil," he explains, hand running along the silver circle, "...it's been in my family...as long as I can remember."
He exhales, pausing the story. "I love you," words soft. At your stomach, skin and metal brush. Arm above your head crooks, letting Edward's hand tousle golden hair. "You...are so real," he whispers fascinatedly.
So real...
So unreal...
Let the world spin. Like my head is spinning. You touch me here. You touch me there. And then I'm on my back and you above me again. Time is so compressed when I am with you. Like we are moving through the frames of a movie, in our own time. The picture is jerky, the world seems to move out of rhythm. But your hand to my cheek. Your whisper. The beat of my heart in the palm of your hand. This... is as it should be ...
"You are... the count... hmm...count in secret, non?" Valan smiles, a breathy motion of full lips, warmth that moves over living skin. "You... are....so incredible, Eduard..." He turns his head toward the touch of your fingers through golden hair. Golden hair, soft. "So... this... forever..." mouth pulls at yours as he lifts, arms moving to snake around you. Strong. Drawing. Come to me.
So be it ...
"I love you..." Valan whispers.
"Vicomte," Edward chuckles, "...I...never became Comte," he whispers, voice lowering. A reason why. "My...brother did..." voice is softest, almost as if his lips move without sound.
"...six hundred years ago."
One. Two. Three heartbeats.
"And I...love you." To ask you to stay with me ...
One. Two. Three heartbeats...
In the space of three heartbeats, upon the edge of the end of your voice, and the breath following after, you feel him stop. The spinning, stop. His eyes lift, hazel. Fixing. Oh, my love ...
A breath is taken, like a sudden bolt of lightning, so apparent in the living. But there is no running. There is no pulling. Nor is there paling. He lifts his hand, the back of his hand stroking the side of your face. It is not possible, and yet it is. Therefore, it must be so... that there are more things that you or I may know.
"You... are ..." Valan swallows.
You are ...what? Out of the movies? Unreal? No, I am touching you. I have made love to you. I have... fallen in love...with you. You... here, beneath my finger tips. We have laughed and skiied...
At night.
His eyes wander from your eyes to your mouth. "Tell me... Eduard... tell me," he murmurs, his French coiling, thick upon his tongue. "...tell me... how... how is it possible ... and ... what does it mean..." For you to ask me to stay with you ...
Valan lifts his eyes to you. Meaning ...clicking into place. Suddenly. So much... that did not make sense...suddenly has a reason behind it. Something with weight. Oh, my love. It must be so .
He takes the comfort. Edward smiles, almost to a blush. Ah, where is the preternatural superiority now? But in truth, that has never been his way. Eyes close to feel your hand, savoring its warmth and presence. "I never knew," he whispers, sable gaze closed to you, "...that I could need someone...like I need you." A kiss touched. "That...I would...love...anyone. Ever." Every night in this life is a surprise. Never the same. And he loves it.
Edward swallows, and his eyes open again. The question is once more abated, set aside to feed the commonalties you share. "My mother...father...brother...they...have been gone for some time. There is me," he says softly. No sadness, for they were happy in their lives and have gone on to other happinesses. He was to speak, but instead, lips part differently. "Just me. And ... you ... Now." Implying no such length for you, if you do not wish.
His skin sounds against your skin. It is skin, it is real. Fingers splay against your lips. It is... very like... one who is blind, seeking to know at the ends of the fingers' reach. Tracing, and by that... recognizing. Tactile understanding. He is electric, his touch. The human warmth. "You... have changed my life, Eduard Meurelle, Vicomte du Blois," he breathes. Something solemn. "...and... you have changed it... forever..." There he pauses. Suddenly still. And in shades of gold and green and brown.
You feel the inhalation move through him, drawn up from the earth, filling him from head to toe. Is this goodbye? "And... I cannot conceive of ever ... going back. There is me... there is you..." His hand is lain against your cheek, cradling as he lifts, another kiss. "I... remember that you love me," he murmurs again. "And my answer is, yes, Eduard."
Leaning up, Valan closes his eyes. You feel the tremble. The electricity moving through him. "But not tonight... tonight...let it be... as it is. I ... want to remember the night you asked," his mouth moves against your mouth in speaking. "And the night I understood, and answered." At your mouth, his mouth opens. Tugging. Suckling at your bottom lip. The slight pressure of teeth. "I want to... understand ..."
How he says that. How you feel he means it. Show me what you are. And what we can be .
The sound of rushing air bursts from him. Gratitude. At least you see...the first part of it all. Eyes close tightly, words from him your French...but not. Definitely archaic. Thank You. Whoever You Are. When his eyes open, Edward seems more at ease, until he feels that you want to know more. Know that there is more. His brown eyes narrow, but his lips pull at yours. Needing to feel your desire.
"Maybe," your tongue comes again, "...that is enough for now?" He questions. Are you certain. "Just..." he laughs, "...you haven't declared me insane yet and are running from the chalet is good for me," Edward teases, his look half-nervous. You won't, will you? Ah, maybe not. Not until you've heard the appalling part.
Isn't immortality great? All mortals must think so. That's the easy hurdle.
He swallows, "You...want to ask questions, maybe?" Perhaps a segue will come. "I want you to understand," he shifts a little, getting closer if possible, "...and I will explain everything...I promise. Just...slowly," he bobs his head, hoping you understand that as well. "Questions first, ami..."
So many questions. So many, ami. I cannot conceive. But I smile, and I say, "It... is good we have... forever ... then, oui?" And I laugh. What else, ami, can I do? What can I do? I love you. How can this change that. There is so much that is right and good, and the things that touched the back of my mind...things I could not directly finger... they are now in my hands. In my hands, ami ...
"We have time," he murmurs, "... there should... be no rush, oui? But..." Valan's voice comes thick and slow, as if each syllable were mulled, held upon the tongue. Perhaps it is William's brandy that has done this. "Ami, I will need it slowly... to take it in, yes..." It is enough for now. Let my mind wrap around this much for now .
Dawn spreads upon your lover's face. Warmth and heat held in the upward curve. "What cannot wait," says the golden young man beside you, hand straying downward to your mouth. And downward. "... is to feel you above, and the bed moving at my back. "We will talk... tomorrow when the sky first goes purple," twilight.
At Twilight. Realization there. Yes, he will have more to tell. Edward smiles, his face a blushing crimson, and the bed does sound as he gently rolls the pair of you over, his glorious face beaming downward.
"I am...in love with you, Valan Montague...of this century," Edward teases. His weight increases with each passing instant, his body settling into the warmth its become accustomed to. He parts mirroring thighs, and his hands scoop under your shoulders. "Forever," he smiles, "...is a very long time, you know..." He bends, starting where he always begins...a sweet kiss at the crook of your throat.
"I have heard this," comes the casual tone, upon the fringes of a blithe expression. And golden eyebrows arch, opening upward. But he cannot be so nonchalant for long. Your mouth at his throat. Your thighs pressing his own thighs outward. He closes his eyes. And he loves you now. And he loves you then.
How his body folds to yours. There is sweet perfection. You touch, his flesh reacts. You kiss, he envelopes. And you hear his whisper. Suspended upon a breath -- barely uttered, it seems. Yet the sound of the Loire is clear...
"And I am in love with you... Vicomte du Blois..." I like the title. I think I shall come up with one of my own ...
Posted by rowan at February 07, 2001 10:37 PM
