Scratching at the glass, the ice claws of the storm. But try as it might, and though it comes with a bite, the storm cannot pierce the lead glass. Nor ice invade the warm confines of the lodge. There, light and laughter live as summer. Defying the seasons now, as well as time...
     The iron bed squeaks with the slightest motion. With laughter. What shall it do, Edward, when you are pressing your young man to the bedding...
     The spandex shirt is gone. The fire and you and the vodka -- if that is what it is -- has warmed him. His blood trips with it, surging. Intoxicated, swirling. And at the end of a laughing fit at some joke of yours. Who knew the undead could be so damned funny? His skin is red at his cheeks, where his laughter and smiles have railed. And his golden hair drapes, veiling his eyes. The hipster is drunk.
     But not beyond reason. Just to the point of giddyness, truly. Valan catches his breath with a groan and lifts his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. Clothed only now in the socks and the spandex leggings. And sparkling at his throat? The garnets.
     Like drops of blood...
     Like drops of his blood...
     He turns his head against the pillows, his eyes glistening with the laughter that has just left him and the alcohol that is conquering him. Peering at you past golden bangs. So naturally seductive, done without forethought, just by virtue of his glance.
     And on the floor? The empty bottle you and he have polished off...

     "I'm serious, ami," Edward chuckles, hand at his own reddened cheek, "I thought we were going to Die," he says, the word taking on new resonances. He smiles that you are so amused, so carried away from this world of mundanity. Of decision-making.
     His whole spandex outfit is gone, leaving him with nothing more than a corner of the sheet across his lap. He's been that way for a while, having brought nothing to wear. This was to be a rustic trip. No phone, no nothing. If you two had to find your way back, it would be by the talents that you have, not for any newfangled technology. A risk in it, as with all things Edward. Soon, with all things You.
     "Here, lemme get another bottle," he cheerily offers, willing to leave the warm bed. The floor has gotten colder in the last hours, and Edward's had to see to stoking the fire, just as you did before. Another few logs tossed on. When morning comes, he will do it a last time, hoping you will wake later to refresh the flames.
     "So...the sun is rising," he continues, the bed mightily creaking with his rolling away, "...and well, let's just say...the kennel looked a damned sight better and better." He laughs, and presses up, quickly crossing the floor with a gingerly bounce.
     "Witch's fucking tits, ami," he shudders, pulling a bottle from aside the cold box. Edward laughs and gathers himself as he rushes back, throwing himself at the bed and hoping to land somewhere comfortable. The bed screams with the force and weight, which only causes him to laugh more.

     Laughter begins again. Ah, I cannot help it, Ami. And tears leave his eyes for the laughing again. "The mental image..." Valan begins and then the rest is left to laughter. There is a groan and then in French: my stomach is hurting! But for all that protestation, he still chuckles.
     As you rise from the bed, scampering naked across the cold floor, Valan turns to watch you. Exhaling. Non, Edward, sighing. That is my love. And how I love him so. But as you are bouncing back, he is pulling off the spandex.
     And then you soar, ami! The bed creaks loudly and the spandex flies. And trailing it, the sound of raucous laughterin. You missed landing on his feet, jerked out of the way just in time. Valan holds up the covers, scrambling beneath them. "Quick, before frostbite sets on my lower extremities," meaning his most precious. Of course.
     He settles back on the covers and pillow. "So... the sun was rising... the kennel was seeming appealing..."
     Yes, my love, continue. And Valan reaches for the bottle. Here, let me hold that.

     He bobs his head, handing you the carefully protected drink. "Ah, yeah...the kennel was a damned sight better than the latrines, lemme tell ya, ami." How his words come fast. "So..." he shrugs, "...we hunkered with the pooches," he explains, reaching to pull covers over his nakedness. "The lads weren't juiced, lemme say, fuckin' tossers in their bunks," he laughs. "We pushed them to the front, and me and Will," he smiles, "...slept at the back. Good thing the barkboys couldn't squeal on the Allies that were shackin' up with 'em, otherwise, th' Nazis an' their undead fuckin' friends would have toasted us, that's for sure!"
     Edward shudders and pulls covers up, snuggling closer. "Ach, ami, those times..." he smiles, head on the pillow, "...they were...glorious. The seriousness of it all...it made it even more important when things worked you know?" Certainly your parents spoke of The War. "Will and I...we got outta Warsaw, into Berlin, and then back to relative safe bunker," he nods, sighing as he wipes at his eyes again.

     Howling winds fly between the tightly-knit firs, whistling across the far side of the ridge. One can only imagine what it is like on the open valley floor, where the chalet and resort are. Pelts of ice feel more like hail than snow, freezing solid at higher altitudes to only fall with increasing weight...

     Two warm bodies are better, oui. And so when you return beneath the covers, Valan rolls over, a leg draping hooked over you. He lifts half upon his side, and tilts the bottle. A drink for me. And now, ami . He tilts it toward you offering, even as he swallows. His eyes are just glistening. Gold flecked green surrounded by brown. "Gah," a word and sound picked up from you, "... latrines?" And then he laughs again. Lowering to lie partly across you.
     His exhale falls warmly at your chest. "My grandfather fought against the Germans. French resistance. My other grandfather was Axis. But he was Italian. They surrendered easily." He chuckles at that. Gold hair is soft as he tips his head back. "You and William... you have been through much good and bad..." It isn't a question. Just an observation.
     He lifts his head at the sound of the storm. Golden eyebrows arch. "Mon Dieu... I hope they did not go out in this..."

     Edward listens for a moment, pausing in his roll upon his back with the bottle. "Who was going out?" Edward finally asks. He tips the bottle back quickly, then hands it back to you. He pulls at pillows beneath his head, to prop himself up further and enjoy the storm.

     "Our guests..." And then he laughs. The ones we left behind in the chalet...
     The bed squeaks as Valan lowers to it again, a sound plopping. His hand comes out for the bottle even as you are offering it. Ah, so the rhythm has begun. Some night you shall show him how to snort cocaine, down crystal meth in colored glasses and he will move with magic on his blood and a hipster's laissez-faire grin. "What glorious nights we will have, ami," Valan pipes up suddenly, his voice beginning to drag more than lilt. Not quite a slur, but he is quite drunk. He takes another swallow and hands it to you. "One night, we will have our own stories... We will talk about that time We Did That or the time We Got Caught Doing This." Valan exhales. "I can't fucking wait..."
     Glittering eyes widen and the smile is smooth and winding.

     Edward chuckles, shaking his head upon the faded cotton. The iron shimmers above him, elements of rust flaking. "You are too excited," Edward smiles, taking the bottle. A swig is gulped, and instead of giving it back to you, Edward turns to his side, setting the drink on the small wood table. "More later," he smiles, rolling onto his back, onto his side to face you, and then suddenly hovers above.
     "Our times together quickly come," he whispers, face royally flushed. His muscles grow taut, his elbows deep into the bedding you share. Hands move above your head, taking yours in joined ascension. Rest. "And I will love you tomorrow, as I do today," Edward promises, chest to chest, legs twined, hands linked upon the pillows.

     He is suddenly still, and though the laughter lives still in the bright hazel, to have you upon him... so strong, ami ... stills the giddyness. His legs twine against your one. Calves lightly rubbing calves. Valan slightly turns his head against the pillow. He peers through the strands of golden hair. "I will love you tomorrow, as I love you today," he echoes. His French filled with such warm. Love... evident.
     I love to feel your weight. To feel the strength and the power. His fingers curl around your own. Lightly. "I love you, Eduard," Valan breathes.
     He doesn't need to say it. His body screams it.

     I know. His face reflects yours, the smile warm and knowing. We share this, you and I. Dark strands fall to his forehead, his fingers moving gently.
     Seeking.
     Tugging at something.
     At your wrists, there is warmth. Something rested upon them, strung about. It is soft and pliable -- ah...leather -- and Edward's eyes watch you, carefully assessing your responses.
     "I love you," he whispers, wondering if what is happening is registering. The leather begins to tighten, and the iron tinkles, as if moving.

     It registers with the flickering of his eyes. A moment of sudden clarity. The corners of his mouth upturning. But he doesn't ask you: What are you doing, Eduard? He knows what you are doing...
     He tilts his head against the pillow, not to see what you are clasping to his wrists, but rather to watch your face as you watch him. To hold your gaze. The smile deepens, even if it does not spread. It claims more of his expression, though it does not broaden. But the warmth if suffuse upon the mortal's face. The brightness in his eyes. Intoxicated, gleaming like glass. You can see yourself reflected there.
     And you can see him reflected there. "Tomorrow as tonight," Valan breathes again. Vowing that. For all time as tonight...

     The iron quiets and Edward's fingers still in yours. Nothing seems too different, save a small move would tell. His smile does not depart, even when he kisses your lips, your cheek, the crook of your neck where garnets spill.
     Soon his dark hair fills the horizon, mouth seeking lower and lower surfaces to engage.
     Things rage on outside. Within, the well-aged cotton sheets rustle, twisted around your lover's waist. They move with him as he lifts and falls, kisses left at your chest. Lace edges bespeak of elegance, mayhaps once living upon an aristocrat's bed. Now, they have found a home in a bungalow, having seen much in the last decades. Another story for the cotton to tell, for the lace to remember.

     Fingers curl and clasp your fingers, and the air that holds the memory of where you once were. And now, the smile spreads, with the creaking of the bed. Oh, it shall drown out the storm. You may well kill the bed tonight, mon ami.
     French flows in quiet breaths, effluent from his tongue. A mixture of praise and desire. Of what you mean to him. Of what you do to him. And Valan turns his head, already unable to be still, and twists to watch you move down him. His pliable skin becomes taut. Muscular, his definition is now accentuated by his tension.
     Oh see what it is you do to me, ami ...
     Fingers curl and wrists turn just slightly. Just enough to feel what binds them. And he grins. Such French. It makes beautiful even the most scandalous of words.
     He stills beneath you, but you can feel his pulse through his skin. Pounding.
     His blood is calling...

     Hush...quiet. I cannot take my time, if you are calling me, demanding me. You'll know that you own me, Valan Montague, in time. Your blood spurs me on. The taste of it, the feel of it, the pulsing through your body. Already, I understand how your nectar moves, how it sings. How it warms when you think of me, how it heats when we are violently tangled. How it streams when you are reading, like a bubbling brook. I know too much now. Maybe I was always in possession of such details, but in you, I am Aware. So much Aware of the world now.
     The lace is at your lover's broad shoulders. Dancing upon his moving muscles. Delicate handwork rests lightly upon his brawn, slithering with him. His mouth is warmer than the room, teasing and delighting. Taking its time. You will not be leaving and neither will Edward. You have him all night.
     Here. This is where your blood sings loudest. Rushing now at the skin I hold between my lips. Slipping against my tongue. Never in a million years would I have imagined nights like this, where I please my love by taking him between my lips. And to enjoy it? To savor and look forward to hearing his words; his voice speaking to me and asking me for more.
     And I give him what he wants. In it, I gain what I desire. To have him at my hand, my mouth. To have him under me. To have him want me above.
     I would ask how I arrived here, but there is no need. I am here because he captured me with his beauty, his strength, his humor, his humanity. His sweetness. There, that. Sweet, he is. It is the best word for you, ami ...

     When you pluck my vein, you will see that I have been dreaming, ami...
     When my flesh parts to your mouth, you will see them etched there. The glimpses of things that have yet to be, yet to happen. I am staring at my first view of the ocean and seeing the stars as for the first time. And you are there with me, Eduard. One night, we will have drinks with your friends, and our lips will move with an escapade...
     Can you see this through the skin? Where his blood is loudest, surging. His second heart. Thundering. And distant is the squeaking of the bed. My voice sounds far away, even though it is a whisper and I can hear it. Your name tumbles over my tongue. And God's. Soon you will notice they are synonymous, Eduard...
     And I can't put my hands in your hair. I can't guide you. Fingers clasp the air that you once filled. And I feel the leather at my wrists. More, I say in French. When you slow, I tremble and seek to quicken. When you tease, I seek to rejoin. And sweet is the sound of delight from my lips.
      There is even a little laughter...
     What you do to me, Meurelle. Do you not know that you own me? Is it not obvious that I am the string you find around your smallest finger? And I give you all that I have. And I give you all that I am. I give you that tonight, and I give it forever.
     And between your lips, he thickens. Surging and seeking. Such warmth. Such fire. The storm outside is forgotten.
     And so is Time and her seasons.

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM