There is a time for prayers, mais oui, and then there is time for a cigarette...
While doctors were tending the old man, Valan slipped between columns, barefoot into the plaza. Not to cry out in melodic, ecstatic refrain of prayer, or to murmur thanks to Allah, Jehovah or Christ. He came here to smoke, to stand in the lovely night and to wait for you...
The plaza gives view of the star-pocked sky, and winter clouds streak in midnight and in grey. Grey smoke curls upward to join them, billowing with his every outward breath. He smokes those cigarettes from Cairo. Those treasures of the East that William sent him. Brown cinnamon, hashish and tobacco. Fragrant. Herbal. Illegal.
Night wind moves against him, the linen and silk pressed and pulled -- against and away from him -- with every breeze. His form shown, then concealed, then revealed again. But golden hair remains unmussed -- well, by the wind. Modernly mussed style, created by fingers and beeswax earlier, lies as he wished it. The wax cannot even be felt. But his hair smells of honey...
His skin, of milk and honey...
His clothing smells like sunlight -- only the vampiric know that the sun has its own scent...
Valan exhales a cloud of scented smoke, and he follows the path of a turquoise mosaic, following the glittering spiral as it winds across the plaza...
"Can you share?" comes his voice. Edward's. He rests at a wall, watching you. "I..." he pats himself, "...seem to have misplaced mine." From earlier. A smile and he lets his head touch the wall, a sideways stance.
You are as beautiful as I remembered. Has it been...a night? Two already? It seems long.
Gold-green eyes turn upward from the curving turquoise, the swirl made of mosaic turquoise stones and broken pottery, and the smile spreads suddenly and warmly. He is beaming and outward comes his hand, outspreading. Offering the cigarette -- and the fire makes a trail in darkness. "Of course, chevalier... you know, what I have is yours..." Barefeet leave the smooth and colored stone, padding softly toward you. And his silk and his linen, cream and burgundy, indicate him as he moves to your shadow, your wall, and to you.
Two days, Eduard. And I feel I have not seen you at all. Where does she send you when I am being bathed? What are you doing, when I am reading and discussing philosophy? Where are you, Eduard, when I am curling up in my bed...
The cigarette is held to your mouth as he joins you in your shadow. "Bonsoir, ami... I did not know if I would see you tonight. How is the old man and his loud companion?"
Loud companion. That brings only a slight smile, as Edward seems much into the moment. His head bends as you approach, and his mouth parts to accept the cigarette. Fingers lift to touch the smoke and your hand. There, his remains.
"Alright," Edward inhales, exhales. Much better. Forehead almost to yours, Edward is subdued when you are so close. Smoke escapes his lips, and he sighs after it. "Apparently, he is...well...much older than I thought." Undead. "He'll be fine," he dismisses easily.
"How are you?" brown eyes look up between lashes. "You...getting along alright?" It seems like it. How you smell, how you look. He sighs for that too, feeling suddenly like he is missing out on something.
"I am wanting to spend time with you -- I can never find you!" and so he says, his smile lopsided. "I try to look and suddenly I am surrounded by diplomats, philosophers and servants wanting to tend my fingernails. I am fastidious, but even I do not believe I have ever been so constantly clean. To the point of holiness," Valan adds. "And so... how are you spending your time, ami?"
And I am selfish enough to want to know if you are thinking of me...
You know how he is spending his, you can smell it. Oils and balms, hands softened -- the petals of roses were never as tender -- his skin has a golden glow where the tending of servants' fingers have massaged honey and saffron into his skin. You know the routine of The Favored. You yourself have been there.
"Maybe you are meant for godliness," Edward tries to joke, but he is not into it. How can two nights seem so long? A sigh comes again, this time with more smoke. His lips flutter in a stopped-attempt at speech, and Edward slips the cigarette over them again, choosing to inhale first.
"I am busy," he chortles, then quiets, not quite sure what's going on. Finger lifts, as if he has spotted something at your chest -- but there is nothing there. He simply needed to touch your skin...
A hand slips into dark hair, fingers smoothening over scalp and disappearing. "Ami," and so your touch brings him in, how could he deny you? "You are upset by something," it is not a question. With his fingers, he gives your hair a gentle tug. Look at me, ami...
"Do you not think that I miss you? That things I love become tedious when you are not there to share them with me? Do you think that the baths of rose petals have made me miss you less?" And then the smile cuts across his mouth, pulling slightly but full of warmth. There is love there. There is wonder there. There is the desire to soothe your wounds, whatever they may be...
You smoke, your mouth is busied. But that does not stop me. What could? I find another place, the crook of your neck, near the amber strands you still wear, to kiss you. To remind you. "I snuck out of my room to find where you were sleeping. Will you take me there?"
Eyes lift because they have no choice. Smoke fills the space between you, and Edward's lips slant. "I..." he begins, shifting gears. "Yeah." We'll go. The rest...we can talk about later. Edward pushes from the sandstone, a wispy brush sounding along the hallway. He turns about, free hand reaching for yours, clasping it firmly.
He comes along with you, he grasps your hand. A gentle smile there and he wanders from the plaza with you. Fingers interlace, and his thumb brushes against the knight's strong hand. So much can be told from a hand. One's life, one's character even.
Such things have kept gypsies in business for centuries...
Valan meanders down the hall with you. He is quiet, his fingers converse against your skin, but not his voice. There is a time for it. And a time for it to rest. You will speak of it. He will listen. For now, there is only enjoying you. As he has been unable to do now for the last night and more.
The cigarette is finished by the time he turns the corridor that you share. Did you realize, he occupied the same quadrant as you? The same oasis? Edward's feet move steadily, and the remains of the cigarette are dropped into his pocket.
At a door, he comes to a halt, and turns to face you.
"It's here," he notes, in case you wondered why he stopped. Eyes glance along both lengths of hall, wondering if anyone has seen you arrive together. Edward opens the door with his other hand and stands in the doorway.
He marks it by counting the doors, by the brief pivot to find where his door is, his corridor. And turning back to you, there is ruddiness to the skin. You mean, ami, you were only seven doors down from me? A smirk, I will remember, he mouths, and then he eases in. Quietly. Quickly...
May the three gods who guard and guide this place protect me from the wandering eyes of Maria's spies tonight. Tonight, I need allowance...
As Valan steps in, he is already turning to you, the smirk gone from his features. His golden eyebrows are knitted together. His young face contracted somewhat. Wondering what is wrong. There is an odd mixture of curiosity and concern there.
Edward grins as he watches you summarize the distance. Once you are in, he follows, closing the door quietly behind.
His room is not as ornate as yours, but certainly a well-appointed space. He falls back against the heavy wood door, locking it with a quiet turn of his fingers. Only then does a small smile come. Maybe we will get away with this after all. A shake of his shoulders, and the jacket falls to his back, already moving to free his arms and hands.
Shhh... ami...
Do not think it so loudly -- I do not want to jinx it...
I do not look at the room -- these things do not matter. Or that my bed here is bigger, the bath in an atrium, the pillows stuffed with the feathers of doves and swans. What does it matter, ami, if you are not there to dishevel such bedding? Valan raises a finger, pressing it to his lips, and he reaches up, his fingers freeing buttons of the burgundy linen. The shirt, like your jacket, will fall away.
There is no speaking, but his eyes sparkle. Gold. Green. Topaz and citrine. Such brightness. There is much he wants to say. There is more he wants to hear. But now... not now...
No one will miss me in the large chamber...
No one will be coming to fluff my pillows...
To call me to a meeting of the minds...
It is our time, Eduard. Finally...
Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM
