Glorious hues of violet and indigo swirl, tendrils fading into white tips that seem to glow in golden radiance. He does not dream much, Ian Dunross, but when he does, it tends to be little more than shapes of color. Impressions of another world for the waking, a world he cannot be a part of when held in somnovolent arms. But of late, the colors swirl in the mind's eye, providing comfort. No story, no forms, no expression of the conscious upon the unconscious, just vivid lavenders and ashen greys occasionally. He is grateful for those. Maybe, things are different.
     But he winces. And stirs. Even your ears can pick up the sound of a hand thudding against the wood of the headboard. And a groan. Blankets and sheets and furs rustle as your husband turns over. The first sign of his approach to the living life.
     But the groan and the sudden shock across the bond. He's been rudely awakened, though tries to settle down...

     Et vous, Eduard. The last words to leave my lips and they did so ... with so little thought. Distracted. Non. Confused. As if the heart and mind rose up together in concert and in unison spoke. Why now? I should not feel this way. My brother and my friend making... honest outreach. Non, it is ... not important -- the past, that is. And what did... or in this case, did not ...happen. He is happy. I am happy. Oui, it is enough. The phone is set aside and William rises from the velvet sleeper sofa. The world had not yet blinked before he was moving through the door, heading into the bedroom from his studio.
     He bears no sign of paint. No sign of creation, no smudges of charcoal. How the lambskin, so supple, holds him. Chosen for its softness, not only for his comfort but for what it does for the eyes that may wander him. And find that there is more to darkness. How brilliant his eyes -- for some fire, you can feel it -- but also because of how the dark clothing sets them off. The turtleneck of cashmere that lays against his form, making the contours there of arms, shoulders, chest like muscled shade. He is Night, your knight.
     And though he enters with all of the speed of his many centuries, his approach is languid strength. The expression and seduction of Power. The bed sounds with his weight, and dips. And you feel his hand moving, skimming along gold-white hair. And he cannot help but smile. "I should let you sleep again... it is early yet, amours," comes the lilt and drag of Provencal. "But... I cannot resist saying... good morning."
     The bond is busy. With the electrical current that passes between you, stronger, it seems, with every passing year. And with it... a kind of ...lingering perplexion.

     "Mm?" comes the body wrapped in everything. He'd trip if he tries to leave the bed. Arms hang heavy above his head, his face covered between pillows and arms. You might need to dig him out.
     "What?" muffled voice says from beneath down. Damn. A hand groggily pushes at something, not quite sure what. "What's wrong?" Did you say something? Who am I? Where am I?
     He does appear, eyes almost closed. Ian can feel you, to be sure, and the world he's coming from understands you from all directions. But the waking world? You must be in some particular spot, yes?

     The smile. Wide and warm it pulls with languid, loving care. Both temptation and promise. And affection. "Why am I dressed and not in bed with you?" he whispers, ancient French leaving him with an inflection of heated honey edged with fire. Langue d'Oc is a slow burning language, rolling off the tongue like the best of wines. "You look..." Beautiful. Handsome. Warm. All these things. William chuckles, his hand slipping between the folds of blankets, trying to find your waist. My beautiful young man. I do not care what they say.
     Or what they do not say.
     "Ah... do not get up... I am coming back to bed..." he whispers, the smooth intonation of his voice deep and soft. His hand gives you a gentle squeeze and then draws away to join his other at one of his shoes, unlacing the suede hiking boots. Dark hair has been cut out of his way again, by his own hands even -- for an artistic, modern, slightly mussed look. Unshaven. Looking both like your Crusader and your artist. "We've been invited to spend a little time in a chalet in Switzerland... if you would like to go, amours..."
     My beautiful young man. I do not care what they say ...

     "Switzerland?" comes his voice, face trying to find a place to rest on one of these damned pillows. Grey eyes part gently when his waist is touched, when he feels your consideration of him. No, with the tug of perplexion, he did not expect to hear something about the Confederation.
     "What chalet?" he smacks, trying to dampen his dry mouth. Waking is so...distasteful. A deep inhale, the first of the night, is followed by a twist onto his back and a loud exhale.
     Welcome to the World.
     "You alright?" he asks, still trying to understand what he felt in waking. "I like that you're coming back to bed though," Ian finally smiles, seeing you and the undone laces. That he can understand. His hand lands at your back, soon snaking under the edge of your sweater.

     He turns his head and looks to you as he feels your wandering fingers. And he smiles. But you can see the other there. The... is it indignation?...something of the young lion of Henry rattled. A boot is dropped to the floor and the other unlaced. "The chalet of Georg of Geneva. Edward..." And this is perhaps where the other part is rooted. William looks to you over his shoulder again, with both brows lifted, still showing something of shock. And that ...something else. "...has invited us... both of us... to come skiing. He's... got use of the chalet for a while. He wanted me to wish you a ...Merry Yule and to say thank you for the gifts, the towels and brandy..." Yes, William did put your name on his cards to his friends. You are a couple. Despite what they say...
     Or do not say...
     Another thud sounds as his boot hits the floor. Socks, lambskin, cashmere -- these are left on. If you wish to remove them, or have him remove them, they will come flying off as usual. But... not yet. "Speaking of..." William murmurs, and he leans against you as he reaches over to the nightstand. A bottle of brandy at hand this time of year. Always. He gestures to you with the bottle, indigo eyes flickering. "A drink, amours?"
     He has not answered your question. There is just that same energy against the Bond. Yes, it is very like indignation. How long has it been... truly... since you have seen the youngest lion thus? So even, so controlled, so regal he has been. For so long now. "I don't know..." he whispers at last. "I am happy we were invited." But pissed that we haven't been before. Aha.

     Oh. There is something. And here I thought I was just grouchy. One of Ian's eyes opens wider, peering at you. "Hmph. Well," he shrugs, "I don't mind going for a few nights. I haven't been on a slope...oh...since BC or something." Seattle. But his hand remains, instead of teasing, now looking to soothe.
     "That's good on the gifts, and a drink sounds good...but...you don't want to go?" Ian struggles to sit up a little, pushing back against those blasted pillows. As for the drink, if he meant brandy, he's not reaching out for it.

     "Non...non... I think it would be enjoyable. I cannot remember the last time you and I were in that part of the world together," softness, warmth to that. And turning, William begins to ease his way alongside you, between covers and furs. A hand reaching back to set the brandy aside. He is too agitated to drink it. And you are not reaching for it. I will set it there... until it is desired. Once more, the bottle of plum brandy rests upon the nightstand.
     He exhales at the sudden warmth and begins to ease his way deeper into the warmth. Strength begins to surround you. His cashmere covered arms. His lambskin covered thighs. "I ... guess I'm just confused..." No, he is indignant. The timbre of that Plantagenet voice is unmistakable. It... gets a certain...clip to it when he is rattled. His father had the same habit. Words become precisely uttered. "... I would like to go," William murmurs, attempting to soften his tone. "If you would like to go. For a few nights."
     William closes his eyes, the warmth of his mouth against your skin. You wanted a drink, love, and here I am. Of course... the turtleneck... will be rather inconvenient . "I am just ... a little confused. After all these years... to get a joint invitation. So late..." There it is. That unmistakable sound of Truth. It is something worse than indignation. It is the Righteous Indignation of the Divine Right.

     "Late?" Ian whispers, indeed, fishing for something other than brandy. His lips touch yours a moment, and then begin to work towards your ear, however awkwardly. "Maybe...I don't know, he got the presents and he thought it would be nice if we visited? Share his holiday, I guess." The thighs are nice, indeed, but his rustling indicates that skin would be better. "What's so confusing, laird?"

     It is next to impossible to be angry when you touch me that way. William exhales and closes his eyes. Breathe, Plantagenet. "I suppose that is true..." comes the drawl of his southern French. His voice soft, carried upon a breath. It is scarcely louder than that. You touch me this way, and I unravel...
     And turn to stone. All in the same instant.
     Hands lower, one able to pull up the cashmere. There... skin. Help me lift it. "I suppose it is enough that... amends are being made and..." His complexion deepens with the lifting of blood. Begging to be received. Release of indignation, no matter how righteous, transforms in a sudden need to ...release in general. Blood. Mine in your mouth. This will do nicely. "I should not... ask..." William murmurs, "...about the previous six centuries..."

     He smiles, feeling it now. There. Anger. Ian's hands find the edges of the sweater and he pulls with you, half-upon his side.
     "Maybe you should ask..." he murmurs as the sweater comes off with a sudden jerk, his lips curling as he watches your hair settle again. "Maybe...that's the issue. Yes," he nods, "I mean, it's nice of him to ask. I guess, he's seeing what's been going on for a while with us. And when we were in France, he was nice. Maybe...who knows what's going on. But..." sweater tossed aside, "...if you're upset or whatever, you could talk to him, if you feel as you do."
     "Here," Ian whispers, opening his arms to cradle you -- not to mention get a good angle -- and finding a better position. "Come here..."

     There is no hesitation. Between Here and Come Here, he was moving in your arms. As the last breath used to form those words evaporated, he was settling in your grasp. Yes, it is anger. "I will," William murmurs. His skin is so warm. His strength, blatant virility, all of him ...it is now in your grasp. The cross of his father still lies against his neck. Gold. Pure and even older than he. Your Crusader opens his eyes.
     Electric morning glories. The indigo could wrap around your heart like the vines of that very plant. And do. I love you. They speak it in volumes his voice could not reach. It is not capable of such a register. Wallow in me, they plead. Open me and swallow me. Let me release there...and find solace in your arms as I have always done.
     Eyes half close in anticipation. And you can feel him go taut with it. Where will it land? Ah, it will be so intense, like the birth of a star. I have missed it, amours. Being at your mercy ...
     Sparks move against the bond between you, creating a palpable shock to the air.

     "Shh..." Ian whispers. He loves this time. The time between Waking and Sleeping. When he rides the wave of instinct more than the path of education. When his body speaks and he listens. Where you are taut, he is but softness; pliant warmth that eagerly seeks to dissipate your strength.
     Hands and legs coil as they have done since the twilight of your immortal resurgence. Love, desire, passion, and need are indistinguishable, yet they know where to find satiation. All in you.
     "I love you, Prince William," Ian whispers, his voice landing at your skin. The point beneath your ear where your pulse runs warmest. Anticipation rests in his breathing, recalling so many lives and times he has sought you here and found you both Wanting. He shall ease you both, the vampire, and in it will come comfort unmatched.
     Blood flows like magic. Did he even touch you? Save for his suddenly firm hold around you, there was little. Perhaps the light prick of electricity. An exchange of a charge. It was insignificant, but the rushing behind it cause Ian to groan. Melting. His mouth parts in the sticky flow, unwilling to lose a single drop, a single moment of you. Of himself. It is beyond precious. It defines you both.
     Opening his throat, Ian calls you both. Eyes closed, memories ride in the fluid that soaks his tongue, that warms your skin where his mouth pulls, tugs, seeks to find better purchase. Clasping, softening, then clasping again.

     Tension is the first knot to loosen. And you can feel the quality of his skin change with it. With sudden and profound relaxation. With the loosening of that emotion that, left unattended, would have steadily tightened him until Rigel hit its nova. Once begun, as you know, it will run its course unless there is intervention. He is first and foremostly an Angevin lord. Renowned for their beauty and passion. And furious tempers.
     Letting go...
     Of what we cannot control...
     Of what cannot be changed. Like the past.
     And anger melts, runs through him, carried upon his blood. It hits the air of your breath and dissipates. What you taste, however, bears all the passion you remember. You expect.
     Do not stop. His eyes close and his mouth parts to give the groan. And fingers find you. Curl and wind about you. Against the warmth of your side -- warmed by me -- and in the strands of your white-gold hair. My beautiful young man. I do not care what they say... or what they do not say. Against the Bond and carried by the blood that eases across your lips, over your tongue, down your pulling throat is Love. In its purest form. Multi-faceted. My lover-father-brother-friend ...
     William does not know where you end and he begins. Two forms are one form. Your mouth, his throat -- one Being there. And though his hands widen and splay, in their strength... such strength, and you know it physically now as much as intellectually...there is gentleness. He cups you closer to him. Do not stop. Not until my bronze complexion is only a creamy olive. As when I was born ...
     And so it goes like this, magician love. You calm him, love him, rouse him, love him again... and at twilight tomorrow he will be pacing the bailey like a proper Norman, surveying the loading of bags in the car. No dogs on this trip, however. It will just be a short jaunt. And soon enough you will find yourself in the heart of the Swiss Alps, with your Crusader, assailing some mountain. And... spending time, it would seem, with one Edward Meurelle.

Posted by rowan at February 08, 2001 01:39 PM