Translations...
That is what they are. Not simply notes, but an attempt at understanding and unlocking. From one old tongue to another. Ancients coiled in a debate. Two separate hands. To speakers. Separated by centuries, perhaps...
And what else?
...Sheets barely hold him. They lay were they were haphazardly tangled and tossed. The fencer's form visible here... and there... and here, too. Valan lies upon his stomach, legs outspread as much as the scope of the bed and comfort will allow him, linen wrapped around his waist. And the metal at his skin cools him, where not so long ago he thought he was being swallowed by the sun...
Mussed, golden hair both stands and lies settled. Ruffled, where you moved him. This way and that. And as one hand follows the line of old text -- both that written in the center of the page and the other in the margins -- his other reaches over to touch one of the heroes of the tale.
How often is one able to do that? Not very...
Seldom...
Never...
Fingers move in dark hair, and Valan turns to look at the one he is learning to call Lion of Blois. How I love to hear you roar. And he smiles, Summer remembered in it. Saviour of Alhambra. I will not ask you again tonight what this or that word means in old French, older even than you. "I am getting near the end," M. Montague says, voice light. He is almost two-thirds through it, this mighty tome of ...anonymous poetry. "I will be sad when the story of Alhambra is finished..."
"Why sad?" Edward rumbles, resting in the same tangled sheets as you. Hand rests on his forehead. It's not a sign of worry that -- it's a touchstone. A way to rejoin the world in the here and now. Your vicomte rarely worries about anything.
Hand lowers, allowing him an unobstructed view of you. Edward's lips pull in a smile, cheek resting now against his pillow. "You are such a scholar," he beams, refusing to speak of sadness. "You have a gift of words and insight on how people think. Don't think of the poetry's end as something finished, hmm? This is just the beginning. You will know more of those nights in Alhambra than any professor of history or any doctor of literature..."
"Will you write your own commentary, ami?" Edward's voice slips, much like the silken sheets earlier. Certainly, you must. "Will you add to Alhambra's tale in the world of knowledge? Explain to students of this...book...what they have missed?"
The sheets crawl as Edward turns upon his side. A deft move, even if he is further tangled in the silk's grasp. It will not keep him from seeing you, hearing your response. As you seem to grow blonder, he remains dark sable. Earthy color, much like the dirt of Blois. "You will be able to translate as my own instructors did, ami, one night, and read deeper and deeper behind things like these..." his hand touching yours, touching the book. "You'll ask questions that I cannot answer of Alhambra and her history. And I will point you to...new things you must translate." That brings a greater grin.
"So, there is no finish, ami. You're...just starting..." Edward's hand leaves yours to rest upon his hip.
"It is William's book -- his copy, he said. I do not know. Do you think he would mind another translation. Here... in the left margin," Valan has already picked out his place. Where he will tell the tale for a third time, where he, in his own century, will join in with the other two voices. "I will tell him that I could not resist. He will understand..."
He speaks as if he knows Plantagenet so well as to know how he will react. He speaks as if he knows he has Plantagenet's faith. Or love. That he should be able to do as he wills -- and have Plantagenet's understanding at the end of the day.
So confident...
But for now the tome is closed. Its secrets secure for another night. But tomorrow night, the game will be afoot again. A rematch between myself and this text. And I will coin the truth out of the poetry and reveal it. I will pluck out the names and find who was the Second Son of Saladin, the Earth-Charmed, the Cardinal, the Rock Who Speaks Through Earth in Fire and Smoke. I already know who pours wine on the world and conjures armies from the sand...
Valan turns his head, a look to you and fixing there as he rests his chin on his strong shoulder. "Mon ami, you are a brilliant man." And when you speak like this, I find I love you more when I thought I loved you as much as was possible before. Gold-green eyes sparkle and with a groan, the book is set aside. A lean, a stretch, it is stowed on the floor. A push. Under the bed. Cloistered, as it has been since Alhambra itself.
"By the time my hand is wearied from making my own marks, then I will be a scholar. And even then, I will still be ...beginning. I shall have to find out the author, and if he is still living," Thick gold clings to soft pillow as he rests against it, revolving to lie half upon back and side. "I will show it to him. Over a glass from our own orchards and vineyards."
"I do not think he will mind," Edward confirms, not really sure. But he'll offer it anyway. William can take it out of his hide. Once the book is replaced, Edward sighs and slips deeper into the bedding, watching you watch him.
"Have you," he grins, looking down between you, "...wondered of my own instruction and whether you...could take lessons from the Old Ones?" They know no nationality now, save as Educators. Berbers, Moors, Jews, Spaniards, French. Now an amalgamation inextricable. "Some...still teach...in the villas, temples, and oases of Espana..."
"Though you have not said much, I am ... beginning to imagine it. What you have said," Valan continues, easing into the bedding, "...what I have recently read. Glimpses," he whispers, "... like small sips, and so I am wanting of knowing more. The small tastes," the smile is slow and winding, "...have only made me more thirsty."
There is a moment for untangling. Of unwrapping himself from the bedding that he might ease fully between the sheets and tangle with you instead. Arms are at your shoulders...
"It would be a dream ...if someone said to me, Valan... you could have anything you wish, I should wish for you and I to spend time in a villa surrounded by vineyards, clear water in fountains, and feeding from discourse like it were bread and honey." He laughs a little, then smirks at his own word-verse. See what reading poetry does to me? "I have much to learn," Valan continues, seriously now, his eyes at your throat, at the hollow of your throat, your chest. "I have a pilgrimage ahead of me. This I know. I ... have yet to go to Spain..."
And to meet her...
The woman who seduced you...
The woman from whose love I have perhaps distracted you...
The woman who is the beginning of all my joy. Your mother...
"And do you think they would accept such a ... young student...or is there a list, there has to be a list... for such things. It would not be... just for anyone to have..."
Certainly not. You have friends, Edward, who would not be invited to such things. Who would not have access to such... learning, such grandeur...
His exhales are a springboard for a changing expression. Edward's finger touches your bottom lip, reminding him of their sweet feel. "Ami, you can have anything you wish. What I should like," he smirks, sable gaze brightening, "...is that you become a scholar in the tradition of...what I neglected to pick up." A snicker at that. "You have met...the greatest of the scholars I know," good King Alfonso, "...and he has been in your home. If you wish to visit him...to spend time in the gardens of Spain, that is easily arranged."
"And yes," Edward's lips twist, "...we should go immediately maybe." Something neglected on his part. "We were asked and I have not seen to my duty." To show you, to answer Maria's call. "But..." Edward grins, arms snaking around you, "...maybe we will truly go...after we spend a couple of weeks skiing near Lausanne?" Switzerland, that is.
Words are barely finished before Edward blithely rolls upon his back -- taking you with him. His solid thighs wrap around you, hands at your back.
"What say, you, ami? We ski hard for two weeks, then we leave for Espana after Christmas Day? Before the Blessed Mother's Day?" The first of January.
When you hold me like this...
I am reminded of how we began...
And then you speak of Switzerland...
And you cannot mistake the smile, Eduard...
How could the answer be anything other than 'Yes'? To the land where you first told me who you were. You asked me to stay with you. Where we planned that I would join you. Our first Christmas upon the threshold of Forever. Yes. I will go to Switzerland.
Yes...
"We should go immediately," he echoes. "... to Switzerland, to skiing, and then to Espana. Oui..." And his legs part, straddling, settling. Rolled up in you and held as surely as the world on the shoulder of Atlas. Such strength, ami. Such beauty. You make the eyes burn and the soul roll in fire. Valan settles upon you, arms over your shoulders and lying against the pillow, his fingers joining in your hair. "I am nervous..."
I will admit it...
"This will be... the most important thing I have had to do... since swallowing your blood..."
And if you had Davydd's sense of humor, you might say: What, skiing?
"What? Skiing?" Edward blinks innocently before smiling broadly. Ear to ear. "No, ami, I am sorry, I was kidding. I understand what you mean," his French rolls.
"So then, I should tell Maria that we will be her holiday gift?"
There is a brief look of terror...
You have seen that look before, Edward, in the helpless gesture of a surprised mortal...
Only this time, he knows what he would be stepping into. Perhaps that is all the more reason...
"Skiing," he repeats, his lips curling. Le Brat. "Oui, Eduard," Valan murmurs into a sigh, "...it is the thought of all those Americans on the slopes..." He laughs, shaking his head.
And then the serious look. "You should tell her, oui... and tell me ... what I should do... not to earn her wrath..."
Ah, you are so marvelous, ami. So marvelous...
"Be you," Edward says, brow furrowing as he looks askance. Did I say that?
Brow lift into something more humored. "You should not worry on Maria. She will love you. You will see al-Ramid, al-Fakh..." Edward's eyes brighten, "...so many, ami, for you to meet! And somehow, we will have to make time for you to study and for us to have some holiday there..."
How long in Spain did he say?
"You will love," Edward shudders, thinking on it, "...the evening beaches...the...scenery."
And what will he do to occupy his time?
"Ah, ami, it will be much fun..." he blinks, stopping. "Though, I will say, they will expect so much of you. But I know...you will be excellent..."
Arms tighten at the last, a kiss placed at your lips.
A quirk.
How did your legs get outside of mine? Edward shifts, brow arched at you. Cheeky boy, you are. "Here," he says softly, less interested in your legs straddling and more into his own legs wrapping around fencer's thighs...
The names like wine and honey leave your lips. Language like the buzzing of bees and the roll of dates upon the tongue. You speak them, and you conjure up cellular memories. A gift from your blood, now his. He smiles when your legs shift, and his do in kind, lying between your own. Knees to the surface of the bed. You feel his weight. Distributed. Lighter than you. Shorter by an inch and leaner. There is not a knight's mass, but the musculature of 20th Century inventions and swordplay turned to ballet with blades.
He half-rises, knees bracing in the sheets and his hands finding parts of the bed and parts of you. "I have only ever been to Madrid and Barcelona," Valan whispers. Oh this new vantage...
I would have to be dead not to be... inspired...
"You will... show me the wonders of Spain, I hope. What will you do, when I am cloistered in the libraries or receiving instruction from sages? Will you miss me?" Golden brows lift together in a grand sweep, and he smiles. Garnets at his throat gleaming. Feeling you beneath him, held and holding, he finds he cannot be still. No matter how tiny the movements are. A finger curling and uncurling. The shifting of his legs, just a little. The lifting of a foot. The pressing of hips in the motion. He vibrates like a string plucked...
Edward can't hide the angling smile. Jesu, when you move, I cannot think of anything. I only want to watch your body and think of what we could be doing.
"I will miss you, of course," Edward says sardonically, knowing you are teasing him. "I..." Edward hesitates, "...do not know. I suspect that someone will demand my time." It is a short answer. But then, you are in motion.
One of Edward's hand frees itself from your back, moving between you to touch garnets and amber. "We still wear them," he smirking at the observation. Once touched, hand rejoins other at your spine.
Amazing, really, all of this.
"You will see so much more than Madrid or Barcelona. Those...are but the surface, ami," Edward's hands pressing downward, following the incline to the valley at the small of your back. Roughened they are, made so by horses, leather, gravel, and swords. He presses his fingers firmly, almost harshly, letting you know that they are well aware of where they travel.
"Think of it as a tall column," Edward whispers, lips at your chin. "At the top, the surface, there is Madrid. Barcelona," his breath warm. Teeth -- nipping. "Beneath that? There are times, villas, mosques, castles, libraries, rings...where the Spanish dirt was first formed..."
That is where I propose to take you. Beneath the surface.
Hands begin the rise from valley depth, climbing firm, rounded heights. Edward groans faintly, his knees parting so that he might extend his arms further in their reach. "Truthfully, I know so little of Madrid..."
There. My mouth pulls at his throat, my hands find their purchase. Smooth and unblemished. "I think...of places further south, ami...where time vanishes. A place I know and you will too..."
Garnets are cool...
At your mouth and at your hands there is heat. That which you bring, and that which rises in reaction. "Take me... to Spain," words tacked on at the end, but you know his meaning. Take me. Take me in Spain. To Spain. Whatever...
Valan closes his eyes, and there is French that comes from his mouth in a flood. Hushed. Reverent and irreverent. Whispered lust and murmured ache. A breath, a tipping back of his head, his throat pressed to your mouth...
Time vanishes, ami? It is already gone... and we have not had to travel to do this...
"I...will take the book," he manages to speak. "Its... beginning and... my beginning...on the same pilgrimage..."
And his legs are in motion again, knees pressing to the bedding and his hips curl. You feel him. Strummed suddenly to a tight chord, blood sent in spiraling motion. The peak of him at your stomach. The squirm of him in your hands.
I cannot even think of Spain now...
There is nothing but your touch...
And the words that spill from him as your hands seek and find and your mouth clasps. Such French. To translate them into English would not do them justice...
His smile grows evenly, brows narrowing, furrowing as he seeks more and more of you. If he had more to say, it does not materialize. Edward's mouth open widely at your throat, lips pulling as does his fingers below. Kneading. Parting. Delving. Propriety vanishes. And why not? We know each other intimately, passionately. Divinely and infernally. We have been places within each other, exposed each other, and known each other in ways others can only imagine, dream, or fear.
It is ownership then, claiming the body of another, erasing the shame of another. What can we not ask of the beloved? What can we not do to the beloved? What can we not feel or show to the beloved? Heightened bliss and quick fucking reveal the same way.
How true that is. I see it now, really. In the Abstract and in the Real. Shall I implement this Truth? Will my theory prove?
Edward's head falls against the pillow; cool air brushes your exposed skin where he once covered. Hands slip to your back again, and those eyes...those ones Maria adored...open to the world.
It is me you should take...ami. To Spain and back. To have me show you what I should. To make me show you your legacy. I owe you this. And knowing it now, I see that I owe you even more.
The books says: in the country of love there are no boundaries...no demarkations. No limiting walls. Not of stone. Nor earth. Nor wood. There are only my arms, my hands...
And the poet said: Let my fingers find their way...and finding you, know myself...
And so, what is there to fear, ami? That in by giving more, we shall love more? That once loosed... what... what shall we find but that there is more than we ever knew. Anything that we are. Everything that we are. This is the land without limits. This is what the poet speaks of in that book when he speaks of Love.
Those eyes open, and they are met with dipping green. Flecked with gold like a topaz, a congregation of semi-precious stones. The mouth that finds yours, parts yours. The kiss that rolls like the valleys of the Loire, the Vienne against your tongue. The taste of Bordeaux, where the Loire dips into the sea. It is as the wine of his family promises: rich, full of the sweetness of spring rain and the body of summer heat. A figure that tightens, strength becoming limestone. Hands that envelope, winding as vines. Sensual. Virile. Fertile.
The kiss does not break, but in its tangling deepens. Pulling, savoring. Plucking your mouth like the fingers of a vintner moving against ripe fruit. There, the canines distending, playing but not piercing. Reminders of mortality and immortality -- of what was and what will be. Of promise. Of potentiality. Of the sacrifices made. Of the chance given. And his body moves in kind. His thighs spreading and spreading yours. Hips that curl and arms that tighten. The string you plucked, you caused to vibrate, hums against your skin...
And so his mouth dips again...
A journey continuing from lips to chin...
Chin to throat...
Throat to chest...
The passion -- the tension -- scrawls across Edward's features. It always does. His half-lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin, rapid expressions...the constant encouraging whispers and relieved groans.
"....there...here...oui..."
"...Dieu, again...ami...again...show me.."
"...that's it...that's what you wanted...what I wanted..."
Perhaps he speaks less to you and more to himself, assuring and reassuring his own state. His Desire projected upon you. Regardless, it is a litany of sounds that eminate from the bed, constant and murmuring.
He did cause this. Edward would not disagree. As the epiphany revealed itself in glorious technicolor, Edward's body moved in time. To give what he had not offered: himself wholly, the legacy that belongs to you....the body understood what would so eagerly follow before the revelation was complete.
The kiss is doubled and redoubled; a mingled trickle of you and he could not be helped. It spurs him onward; splayed fingers clasp at the nape of your neck, Valan, and other hand grasps at your moving waist.
Fingers at his nape feel the smooth coolness of the garnets. Stones that glimmer darkly -- blood turned to gems -- with every motion. An echo, a foreshadowing. A memory. A prophecy. There, Bordeaux is captured, pendulous at his throat. For all time. There, the first drops of blood were hinted at. The depth of the life that would follow their spilling. As it is first felt now, it was promised, wanted long ago...
And the poet said, I will disappear within that land, the earth will swallow me whole, and I will be reborn with every cresting wave against the shore. There, my heartbeat...there, my eternity...
"There..." He says it upon a breath, a whisper against the pulling mouths, the taste of him and you combining. Such a sound, in that whisper. All of the force of the seas. All of the heat of summer. As if he were the poet of that book and you were the earth, you take him in. He fills you. He is reborn against your flesh. "There," he says again, the word pulled from the pit of his gut, swirling, extended, lengthening even as he does within you.
"Ce que j'ai voulu..."
"...pour vous sentir ici..."
"...ici. Comme ceci..."
"...C'est comment vous me faites le sentir..."
"...ceci... comme ceci..."
It is a tangle of hands of mouths. Lost, all lost. Confused, all in a whirl. Like a spinning galaxy. Full of light and color, warmth and motion. But the focus...
The world is focused where you are joined. That, is felt. That, is clear. That, is Everything. Eternity, like the poet said, known when his body meets your own. The curl of his hips, the travelling writhe, retreating and returning.
The room is filled with sounds, floods of voices. His. Yours. The sound of sheets moving, bodies moving. The sound of the bed that he is rocking. His, becoming louder. Words in French, a vineyard. Lush. Tangled. Heady....
Come with me, he says...
He'd wondered a few times what this night would be like. And then he wondered...did it matter?
But it did. It does.
But I knew. I knew...that I had kept a part of myself from you, even as I denied it. I knew I had avoided Spain...even as I planned to avoid it. But I should not. What a mistake. I have gone a year without feeling this. Without feeling you within me, as we are now.
Your command is his greatest desire. Even as Edward's tongue seeks the last droplets of you upon his lips, his body is already surging with the faintest taste. Perfected consummation. It is upon him even before he notices. The knight beneath you seems so much more malleable now, his body bending and shuddering despite the glorious tension steeling his musculature. Hands clutch as he does around you, Edward's murmuring voice becoming articulated exhales.
He eventually collapses, if only to relieve the tautness that holds him. Instead, Edward drives himself upwards, meeting you while his head remains upon the pillow.
He'll not remember the momentary piercing pain. He'll only remember this...the feeling of not being The Knight, not being The Sire, but instead, simply being thoroughly known by you.
Long ago, when a feather was dipped into ink -- so expensive then -- and the poet wrote the secreted script, now found and read, the hand moved in rapid strokes, a fevered undertaking. You can tell that by the lean of the letters. The ink that dots the old paper where he had been careless in his ecstatic haste. His inspired thrall. He had thought about the poem's beginning, how it might be started, even how it would end. But in the dipping of the ink, once the words were on the page, it did not matter. The moment was all...
An inspired text inspires...
Valan had thought of how this would be. He wondered how he would initiate it, or how it would happen, how sweet it would be, how his body would collapse in you. Now, it doesn't matter. Blood lingers on the skin, smudged in the frantic kiss. Drops missed as he has to part for a stream of groan-captured words to follow.
Dieu...not even I could have imagined this...
Not simply the feel of it, but what it means. Not just the feel of you moving, taking as much as being taken, coming as well as going. Not just the strength and the form, the tension and the ecstatic release of tension followed by an even greater hardness. Not just the sound of your voice. The motion we together make. It is the culmination of all these things. The summation of all we are, our love. Everything. Where I fill you, pressing, thickening. There. And where you accept me, holding, grasping. There.
Even as the epic is more than the words on the page, and more than the paper and the ink and the binding. We are more...
Valan slows but he does not stop. He savors, but there is no ceasing. Thighs widen and anchor, pressing him deeply. He holds there and he circles.
...I did not know it would be like this...could be like this...
... Back in time, somewhere, on a dusty stone, the poet held the tome before his mouth and blew upon the ink to dry it as he could not let the daylight do. Not dreaming then, nor knowing that his words would have been read on such a night as when limitless love would show itself.
Then, sable eyes once more flash open.
The vision comes clear. Ah. Yes. It has not changed. There you are, beloved, as radiant as Apollo himself above me. Glory in hazel and green, blonde and bronze. Flush and heady, filled with panted breath. In motion.
And I? Delirious with the flood that rests upon me and within me. How should I have come to this? Willingly, I promise. In full knowledge of what we have done.
Dieu, I have to smile. I have already.
The bedding meets me again, supporting my growing need for rest. But you fail me not. The room comes back into view, and I find my hand clamped at the nape of your neck, a deathgrip.
Maybe you will feel it soon, my hold.
My other hand...it seizes your side. The hold of a vampire, ami. And now you know.
Edward's hands slowly relax, but they are the first. He lies beneath you, muscles expecting something else to follow. Be prepared. He licks his bottom lip, and hand comes visible to settle at his brow.
It is not a sign of worry, that. It is a touchstone. A way to rejoin the world....
There is no end...
And with limitless possibilities there comes, no crest to the wave. No end to the tide. No death to this life. No little death to this pleasure. There is your grasp. Your hands. Your hold. And I stop...
I stop before I know I have stopped...
It feels sudden, though it could not have been. It's been an hour -- some part of me knows this -- all vampires can feel the motion of Time. The quieting of all of that -- you, me, bed, sheets, world -- makes it seems so. And now there is just pounding pulse. Blood. Here. Mine. Yours. And I whisper your name from lips that do not feel themselves moving. Speaking without practice of eloquence. Groaning your name, sweet ache. Bending my head beneath your loosening hand. Mouth parting even as hips make their last circle -- wasn't it like that? -- warmth at your neck, your name there, the prick of canines.
A slow sinking...
I am yours, come with me...
Valan sighs, closing his eyes. A nuzzle at your throat, the spiraling of his tongue upon the healing skin. I love you, he says. He did not need to. His body quivers with it. You feel the cadence of his words where he is still lodged.
And the poet said: We came this way to Alhambra, upon clear flowing water. We emerged from your fountains. We fell upon the dust of your mosques in rain. We swallowed you as you drank us from your cups...
We were already One...
And again...
For the third time tonight, the bed is still again. The night divided in the quiet and the loud, the gentle and the boisterous. The laughter and the sighs. And then quiet. We have had three nights in one, no? The scholarly. The wicked. The moving.
We, ami, are a post modern sculpture. A tangle of legs and arms, one half upon the other. You have taken me. I have taken you. And now we have met heavily in the middle, a comfortable country. Of trailing fingers and soft breathing.
I am a madman...
For all I can think, even now, is how much longer we have before the dawn, and maybe I will hear your words at my ear again.
I laugh...
I moan...
I kiss your shoulder...
I breathe -- I am learning how to do this again -- it is almost warm, my breath. But your skin, your broad shoulder, the muscled form, you are warmer still. "What sort of chalet shall we find ourselves in this time, ami," Dreams of Switzerland wake me.
Valan lifts his head from your shoulder, lying splayed...half upon and half against you. "Chevalier of Blois, I think we should race again..."
He is tired. Actually...tired.
Edward's eyes open, his dark brown hair a mess at his brow and cheeks. He inhales deeply, preparing himself to speak, to return to the land of the vocal.
To leave the Land of Dreams.
"You bet, ami, we will race. It will be..." his arms move to attempt an embrace, "...so much different this time, oui?" A smile there, sleepy, lazy, happy.
But he cannot leave it so quickly, the land of dreams. Eyes close and Edward says softly, "A chalet...I think we should buy, ami..." a purchase together. Edward stills, wondering if you note the significance. "If you like it...then we shall have it. Visiting to purchase. Apparently, the owners are happy for us to experience it first hand..."
"Dieu... that would be..."
You know the hush, you know the word that he would speak. Amazing. Incroyable. Words he has repeated like a mantra since meeting you. Words he first whispered to you. And you have given him this. Amazing thing. An amazing life. The Incroyable.
His body is heavy, he moves slowly. Barely. His mouth plays at your shoulder again and he sighs there. "Oui, I want this. A chalet in the mountains. Skiing. You and I and snow. Our hideaway." Valan lifts eyes, gold and green, his head remaining on your shoulder but tilting back. "Our first hideaway..."
And what this evening has been... all of its warmth. Its depth. Its meaning. It moves over him. There are no tears, but there is the knitting of the golden brow. The breath at your skin.
I did not know it then, last year...
Not even then, as much as I loved you...
How much I would love you...
"That way," Valan whispers, "we can always return to the place where you asked me to stay with you. I want to remember that. Every year. No matter how many there will be."
"Then, we're agreed," Edward grins, feeling your excitement and sentiment. He shares them. Arms enfold you as he turns his cheek against your forehead. "I hope you like it," he begins, a whisper. "It sits above a lake... we'll have to drive around it. And we can only get to it certain times of the year. The roads are rather winding. It sits...outside Lausanne, some fifty kilometers."
"You'll love it, ami," Edward's eyes opening to see you, "...it has six bedrooms, eight baths...and the master bedroom...it has its own sauna and spa. The kitchen," he shuffles, trying eagerly to explain it to you, "...a large place with an island. It is a good size, but it feels like a home, ami. Not just a resort, you know?"
And almost as if it was the prize, Edward murmurs, "I am certain that families have lived there, ami." A family like you two are now.
Isn't it the prize...
That knowledge, and what is between us now...
Valan lifts his head, a half stretch and his skin brushes against you. His mouth plucks a kiss. Steals it, like he steals your cigarettes. Deft and quick. Warm. He pauses there, mouth to yours, breathing you in. "It will be perfect. A spa in the bedroom? Ami, we will never leave..."
And that is not such a bad thing, I am thinking...
Valan settles back beside you, sinking into the bedding. As it is, I shall have a hard time leaving this bedroom -- let alone making it to the next one. "I will love it," Valan echoes, his hand idly moving over your chest, dipping down your stomach. "We can go there every year for Baby Jesus' Birthday," a chuckle at that, he'll remember that phonecall forever, "...it will be our time. No business. No friends popping in at all hours. No e-mail. No righting the wrongs, chevalier. Just... skiing, steaming, loving and being. This," a finger raises, "...is Valan's sort of life..."
"I am glad that you approve," Edward says softly, with only a smidgen of sarcasm. "And yes," his brows arch in self-congratulations, "...we should go every year for Baby Jesus' Birthday..." Ah. And then there is Maria.
"We leave in a few nights then? A flight to Fleurlil, close here and there for the season, and then we drive to Lausanne?" Several hours south and east of Blois, into the heart of the Swiss Alps.
"It is a great gift, ami, I mean this," a turn of his head and you feel his mouth against your shoulder again. Strength adored. Heavily. Heavily, Valan lies back, a sigh, a turn and he lies upon his stomach against you, legs splaying out. It would be wanton if he were not so weary. "Hmmm... a few nights. Three? I think I have everything I would need here... packing..."
His voice trails off. Maybe you think he is sleeping, but he lifts his head again and smile. Lazy. Warm...
"I will drive, yes? Oui," he echoes, answering the question for himself. As if you will let him. Valan is already grinning. You will let me drive through the Alps? Singing to the CD, smoking a cigarette. The grin turns to a laugh. At his gut, you feel it vibrate there.
"We will negotiate on the way to the castle," Valan murmurs. "I love you, ami. You... are an incredible man. Tonight I see this even more than the night before. This is the way of love, I am thinking."
Listen to me go on. As if no man before me had ever loved. Valan smiles against your skin. A pull there, echoed by his fingers on your stomach.
"No, I am not incredible," Edward voice lifting, "...we are. You and I together, ami." Of that, he is sure.
"So," he reaches down, pulling up the sheet and untangling it simultaneously, "...three nights. We clean and close here, and we begin a long holiday?"
There is more sound than word that follows. Eyes close and he breathes Yes. Moving unconsciously. Stirring. Shifting. You lift the sheet, and Valan moves, untangling from it. Rolling back to you.
Fingers drum against your skin. Yes. Three days...
I will go to sleep and think not of Switzerland -- there will be plenty of time for that, ami -- but of this. Of you. Of me. Of tonight. It had been so long. Something like three years, Edward. I blush to even think about that. Three years. And I am glad it had been. I am glad I do not remember the name of the last man I held that way. I am glad that it is only you now. You have erased all other men.
And I am glad we waited...
That it was natural...
That it just...happened...
That makes it all the sweeter, ami.
Posted by rowan at June 20, 2003 09:08 PM
