Paris in Spring...
     Baskets of flowers hang from the awning of every cafe and shop along the historic street, so narrow only foot-traffic may traverse its length. The streets still sparkle with the rain that is still falling. Pools of water collect in the cobbled spaces between narrow street and even more narrow sidewalk. And the water drips off the awning in a constant cascade.
     It is all a dance...
     How it narrowly misses his coffee. Nearly dampens his newspaper. How one breeze, surely, shall carry the water to his hair. But never does. Nor is his cigarette in any danger whatsoever.
     It is the worst sort of news. The third tier newspaper with its centerfold girls and its gossip columns. And each little taste of scandal is a sweet to the tongue. His fingers turn the pages, savoring it all. At one side, a cup of coffee -- it is his third. Dark, it is not weakened by cream or sugar. At his other hand, smoldering on its own, his fifth cigarette. And he?
     Startling. Sitting among humanity and adoring in its spectacle and simplicity like the eye of a storm, about whom all things revolve. All eyes move to him at least once for every ten heartbeats. Glorious. In black lambskin leather that folds supple against strong thighs and in between them gathered. A sheen of darkness, as if the water were washing him brightly, cleanly. But not a drop falls on him, you see. A crimson shirt lies beneath a leather coat -- a silk, ribbed knit. It fits so closely, as if it were a second skin. It does not make a mystery of what it covers. And he, this one
both drinking and smoking while reading, has five nights worth of beard,
closely trimmed. If he is not of Paris, neither is the Eiffel Tower...

     Your senses know better though. Occasionally in the bands that swirl around and past you are sparkles of supernatural existence. The ghoul with a magical talent. The shape-shifter that feels you too...and changes her course. The Tremere remaining at a respectful distance as she goes on her way. The odd Fae in a passing vehicle.
     Such is the world of Paris. Even the paper you read...there are stories within the stories upon the page. Names that belong to others, in more ways than one.
     A garcon swivels by, bringing food to another table under the awning. He does not linger long, stiff in his starched white shirt and long apron that wraps around his black pants. He returns inside, neverminding the traffic and people that assauge the intersection. He's used to it.
     Another blip on the radar, down Rue de la Bastille. Something coming into range. Too slow for a vehicle, but yes, it is the touch of preternatural existence. It walks, this, albeit quickly. More than likely to get out of the rain.
     Goddess, it would rain today, comes the thought, now shared. Annoyance and bliss wrapped around each other. It's been that way all day, you may have noticed. Ian ensconced in a library, joyful and grumpy as he tries to find out what he wants to know...

     He hums some song from the 20th Century. Paris in Spring. Do you not love it? Paris in Springtime. The odd lyric or two, perverted by his own sense of humor, follows. No, no one ever sang it as he does. And over the lyrics that roll from him silently, you alone would know how his voice would carry it. His rich baritone. You can even see it -- the smile that actually pulls. Slanting, sensuous.
     A hand reaches, and a cigarette is plucked. Carried to his mouth to interrupt the smile. You are coming near. I need something in my mouth. My hands... busied. I cannot help the rest. The grin grows. Did you know that Monaco's boy was found with a boy of his own? That would be Andreas, cousin to the house of Monaco. And by his own wife. Such a pity. Not really.
     Lips curve around the body of the cigarette. I wish it were something else. And he smiles again, just with the thought. And the thought carries. You can feel the thud of him unleashed upon the world. He is a beacon. Everyone who is Anyone in Paris must know that Plantagenet is holding court in a cafe. Subtlety is past him, what little he owns. Smoke curls from the parting of his lips. Curling, like a soul writhing from the grasp of his mouth where some previous feast had held it trapped. And indigo eyes lift over the lifted edges of his gossip rag, expecting to find you.
     He feels the others nearby. The fae made eyebrows arch upward. My, those are tasty...

     Something tasty? Ian simply absorbs the feeling and information, grinning as the speck of him comes into view. Yes, down a street, dark figure against aged grey and yellow buildings. He is getting wet, your blonde, black coat certainly hiding within whatever he might be carrying.
     Soon he reaches the end of a block, and after spotting traffic, dashes across a lane of cobblestones against a light. He arrives at a median on the other side of the central fountain, around which everything loops.

     Blood...
     Washing over lips and teeth. Warming throat. Life electric. Your Guillaume. You can feel it shiver through him. He has to bring a cigarette to his lips again. Pull. Like mouth against skin. Look at the paper, Guillaume. And you feel him shudder out of it, readjusting in his seat to a lordly sprawl. Comfort found where comfort can be. It is a vision for someone else nearby.
     He looks at the paper, but it cannot hold him now. You are near. You are too near for that. And so it is folded and set aside. And leaning forward, his leathered elbows rest upon the bevelled glass. He holds his coffee up to his lips, his cigarette balanced between fingers. Indigo eyes, dark and brilliant, flicker with some fire held within. And he cannot help the grin.
     Ah, there you are. You are getting wet. And he has to close his eyes again, a moment. A sip of coffee, and he sets it aside. His attention settling upon you again, and those around you. Watching you. Delighting in you. Thinking of painting you. Not a portrait. No. Your skin. Your stomach. Morning glory vines, with tendrils down your thighs and between them, and the blossoms opening to the dawn of his breath at your navel. Mon Dieu... And his hand goes up. Another cup, my dear -- to the waitress behind him.
     Another cigarette. He extinguishes his so he may light another.

     The figure looks up from his spot on the median, glancing left and right.
     Then he quickly scoots across more cobblestone to the sidewalk where the cafe sits. Ah. Ian smirks and picks up his pace, walking towards you; his hair and lashes indeed filled with crystal droplets. He waves a hand your direction, in case you had not seen him.

     "Bonsoir," he calls, his voice sounding, carrying. Smoothly, deeply. And with a grin that runs a shiver through one or two around him. A lifting of Himself, and a ripple runs through Humanity. And smoke pours from him -- newborn, it yet carries the smell of fresh fire. A brown cigarette, something like a clove, is held by his mouth. Guillaume sits back, still wearing his grin. And he turns in his seat, his eyes finding the approaching waitress, the one who has been caring for him so lovingly. She is plump and sweet, her face is round, full of life, a dimple when she smiles -- delightful creature. "Another cup, please," he murmurs to her in her French, amending his own native tongue for it. "My friend has finally come to join me...ah, and oui... the chocolate covered strawberries. I will have those now...and the marzipan..." And so he leaves her, his last thought to her upon his tongue, lingering -- a breath upon the air when he turns to you, upon the edge of inhalation. "Did you find what you were looking for, ami?" he calls again.
     How gorgeous you are. So brilliant. There is no night when you are present. There is only sunlight and summer. "I have a cup of coffee coming for you, carried by lovely hands, ami. And something light to eat for myself..."
     I need to keep my hands and mouth occupied. It is... fourteen days since I last occupied you...

     "Oh..." he says, dripping by the seat across from you, "...I am trying to find out something about...Isofylde..." some name on the chart, "...but it is hard," he smiles, thrilled even in a frustrated trip. Ian removes his papers from a pocket, setting them down in a dry area. "Mm, how is your evening? It is wet," he notes, thinking of a warm cup of tea for himself. He pulls off his coat and tosses it aside, letting it drip. Hands brush through his hair to discourage the droplets.
     "Is that tea?" he queries at your cup, moving to sit down. He is in Parisien Black. Safe color. Grey eyes look about, seeing if anyone is in the area who might fetch him one...

     It is hard. You can see it move through him. It is not alone in that, mais oui. "Non," he murmurs, "...it is dark roast, coffee. No cream. I have a cup coming for you, amours..." Amours. One woman nearby is heard to sigh...
     Pourquoi tous les beaux hommes sont-ils gais ou pris?...
     "It is a fine moist evening, this is certain. A perfect night to sit in cafe, read horrible news about other people's lives and smoke myself to death..." Indigo sparkles, darkness at once brilliant in a wink. "Merci, amours... for the idea, yes? Of getting me outside. It has been a good thing for me." His cadence trips, rising and falling like water over stone, the sound of the Vienne is in it. The sound of France, the essence of the Loire. His modern dialect is flecked with Provencal yet, coloring that is definitely Southern. Not only in his complexion, but in every lilt and drag of his words. Guillaume puts out his cigarette, sighing smoke. "I am on my seventh cigarette and my fourth cup of coffee. And the cousin of the house of Monaco is sleeping with his butler. What a beautiful night, ami..."

     Plump and pretty, the waitress comes again. A tray of more coffee, this cup for you, a plate of chocolate covered strawberries and marzipan covered almonds. Your Guillaume. When he is denied of one thing, he drowns himself in everything else, does he not? She smells of honeysuckle. She sets the things down and smiles, but nothing else is asked of her, so she moves away. To others, but she always has a glance back for the man in red and black.

     "And so... you have found a thread then? We should have Edinburgh send books for the trip..." A soft reminder, a hush. And indigo fastens on you. They are not subtle in their journey. And you can see him harden beneath the silken, ribbed knit that covers his chest. His torso. Particularly at his stomach. It is not long before I will hold you on the Rigel. Please, love, tell me the torture shall end there. Else I shall never endure the rocking of the ship on the sea...

     "The butler?" Ian finally peeps, listening to you and half-attentive to the sighing woman. Is it so bad in the world? Hmph. He finally gives his attention fully to you, when the plump waitress arrives. "Strange days," he quips, having heard that somewhere. "And yes, the night is glorious...so I wanted to leave the lycaeum," generally used, "...and spent good cafe time with you." He smirks and smiles at the dishes set down, having little to say about your state.
     But he knows. That much is clear.
     "Maybe I should call for the books soon," he says, thinking about adding something to his drink, but instead changing his mind. It really matters not. "I would hate for them to be late...and someone would have to find them all first." That might be a challenge unto itself.
     "So, what is this about the cousin and the butler?" Somewhere, someone is truly embarrassed.

     "Ah... it is page one... of La Pomme..." A beautiful name for a very bad paper, "... Andreas... found in liaison with his own butler. Tsk... that one cannot keep one's relations with one's staff a secret anymore. What is the world coming to, amours..." A sigh for the world, it comes upon the edge of a slanting, sensuous grin. He lifts the folded paper, and he offers it to you. The Apple. It is also known as The Rancid Apple... mostly among those who find themselves in it...
     The waitress is not even noticed now, for you are near, and Guillaume closes whatever distance there was between you, leaning in once more. "You should call, oui... there must be such a one in Edinburgh who could find the books for you. What are Gerald's daughters doing these days?" A lift of his coffee, a sip of it. And it is followed with the plucking of a strawberry. Senses filled to the brim. With you. With culinary treasures. With anything he can grasp. You know how it is with him. "Even if they must catch us at the second port... we will have things, mais oui, to occupy our time..." Dark eyes settle on you. Right? And then he chuckles. It warms him. No, it turns him almost incandescent. Such beauty, augmented by laughter.

     "I will call tomorrow eve," Ian's French comes as he nods at your suggestion. He leans in with you, gathering himself and his cup together. Hands are warmed in the circling of the drink, and he smiles winsomely. He had forgotten what it meant to be so close to you.
     "So, found and reported on...this is the part," he lifts his cup, "...that I do not understand. Why is that worthy of being in a newspaper?"

     And he had nearly forgotten. In the last two weeks... you have been cloistered. Held by your story, captured by his own creation. Held by books. His hands have sought to distract you. Ah, but you have a great focus. It is one of your strengths. And he smiles at it, even if it is his undoing.
     Nothing has greater power over him than your smile. And when it pulls, he closes the distance again. His mouth near your ear, and there he whispers. "It is the Golden Apple, my dear, it is not even so good a paper as the Sun Times. Although, the centerfold does have fewer clothes." And he chuckles, his lips brushing just at your ear. He cannot take more. Not without the promise of more and more.

Posted by rowan at March 02, 2001 10:49 AM