He has been quiet since Ibiza. Barcelona. Venezia. Content to practice his hand at watercoloring, still his favorite. There were a few sudden phonecalls, he suddenly rising and heading within quarters upon loud, flat steps.
     Always to Gerald.
     He spoke little of these spontaneous outbursts, just that he had to make a call. Something was on his mind and sometimes...he just has to attend to it.
     But your Rigel has yachted onwards, the helicopter's blades sometimes blocking the beautiful Mediterranean moon from your view. It has been enjoyable weeks, watching Selene in her phases, and Ian has made note of her movement across the sky in splashes of grey and dusty ash.
     Taking a perch near Cadiz, the lights of a very familiar villa sit a long swim from the Rigel. They were told of your arrival, and even expect to see you. But maybe not this night. A fire rages upon the beach where the young men of the villa sit and watch the anchored yacht at sea, dancing and singing songs deep into the night. Perhaps it is a call for you both to join them.
     At the rail, Ian leans, watching the bonfire. It is cool tonight, but despite such, he wears the familiar gauzy togs. A white shirt is worn open, but with long sleeves. Just enough to keep the chill away.
     "I should finish," he sighs, glancing back at the space upon this deck reserved for coloring projects. A table is covered in canvas of many sorts, each attached to a clamp along table's edge. Ian turns about, back to the scene upon the beach, arms outstretched at the railing behind him. "I always start projects...and never finish them."

     "Leonardo said the same thing," comes the langorous baritone after. These days on the sea. These weeks on the sea. And the hold the Mediterranean holds on him has but tightened. Noticable first and foremost in his accent. So languid, that French spreads its legs from his lips -- and with a sudden fire-lilt of his tongue -- is summarily ...had.
     He stands with his weight resting against the railing, a balance there -- as if holding himself over the mother sea and asking her to hold him a while. And the wind seems willing. It moves against the light, white cotton he too is wearing. Lifts the unfastened shirt and presses the thin cotton to thick thighs. It is just enough for the chill, mais oui. It does nothing in the way of modesty. Large hands lightly grip the rails, outspread. And dark hair is moved by the wind as he tilts his head to look to you.
     "He used to say that a lot. Guillaume... I do not seem to be able to finish this design. This painting. This sculpture. I think... it is because he saw so much in the world, he could not hope to capture it all. And so he tried, in his bits and pieces..." His flying machines, war machines, aqueducts, city walls, buildings, paintings, his young men. William's mouth spreads in a grin, and indigo eyes are at once dark and as unending as the sky above and sea below -- and as brilliant as the stars they reflect and contain. "You see too much you want to do, amours?" And at that the smile must slant.
     Does that include me?
     "I think you should should paint when you wish to paint," William murmurs, looking to you again, but seriously. "When you are moved to do so. The beauty of watercolors, like oil... you can always start and stop as you like and add on..." He looks to the bonfire and to the villa that sits somewhat precariously upon a cliff above the white sands. So many memories are housed there. So many good memories. "I cannot hear, amours," William whispers. "Are Felipe and Antonio singing...?"
     He turns from the shore, leaning against the railing even as he leans in toward you. "Can you hear," he continues, warm skin against your own. And he closes his eyes. "I only hear the wind and the sea and you..."

     You've made him chuckle, breathing the revered Leonardo's name. But Ian is not such to leap at shadows. "I do not know what I see," he says with a smile and candor, "...I'm..." he begins again, turning to see the beach again, "I'm not sure what I see, Will."
     "But they are singing," Ian grins, the memories so vivid, "...of beautiful shores and light. Of love. What else would they sing of?" he smirks, turning to face you, elbow upon the railing. "Maybe we should go visit," he wonders, a bit of melancholy there. Phone calls. Spanish annoyances. Watercoloring. Even the last few nights, he has watched you with your travelling companions, choosing to sit and be catered to. Anything more energetic passed him by.
     "I am thinking too much. It's your fault," he reaches out and tickles at your side. Ian grins, chasing the clouds away. It's so easy when he watches you.
     For that, he takes a step closer, hand upon your arm. Fingers play idly as he looks down, thinking again.

     His turn to laugh. I am making you think? Ah, amours... who would ever have thought of that? That I should make you think. Not even you would have said that long ago. Feel, yes. Want, yes. But think...
     You take a step closer. You touch his arm. And he moves as if his hold shall swallow you up. But he stops just short of an enveloping hug. Merely sharing your space and his for a time. "Tomorrow. We will go tomorrow. Feel the sand again. I do love the villa. We should visit for a week...maybe two... every year..." Wallow in sin and young men with one another. There is nothing like this villa. Black hair moves against the gold as he leans in for a kiss. A brush of his mouth, just a skimming of warmth. "I think I was always better at distracting you from thinking, hmm? So, what are these thoughts that I am putting in your head..."
     A throat-held chuckle. A tap of his finger to your temple. A glance out to the shore. Remember when you showed me the magic? Such lessons. Such ... torture. For you and Felipe moreso than me.

     His half-blushing smile says it all. He remembers and remembers well. His hand tempts the hairs upon your arm, a reminder of the strength you hold. "Tomorrow," Ian agrees, "...and...maybe it is time...you learn something new. So you can tell..." he glances to the shore again, "...what they are singing." Even from this distance.
     Ian smirks, realizing he's gotten off-topic. "You make me remember ~and~ you make me forget," he offers, fingers folding at your forearm. "Right now, I am thinking a lot about things we have said in the last few weeks." Since Barcelona. "And...what I want to do about them," his grey eyes looking up into yours, as if you know his very thoughts, his very heart.
     And it seems, he has done something.

     Shadows, you and he can see the quality of darkness. And he is in your shadow, you in his. Cojoined darkness. And soft, dark hair moves under your touch upon his arm. Such a small touch. So great a reach. Dark eyes follow the motion of your fingers, and then as you look to him, as you speak of Barcelona, indigo flickers. You can see the qualities in that darkness. The comingling of blue and violet. You have begun to move. Dieu, I love it when you move upon the world thus... and you make the earth itself feel your presence. What it does to me. I want. And I want.
     And his thoughts... well... the light cotton is not subtle...
     His free hand is in motion, and covers your own. The corners of his mouth upturns a little. "You wish to talk about it...we can go below... have some wine, lie in bed..." No Italians. No paint. Just us.
     "You know... you have my support in all you do. I am yours, Ian Dunross..." How your name sounds from his mouth, that voice. Such a slow pull. A dancing lilt.
     Dieu... and how he says that. I am yours. That pledges of fidelity could ever seem so blessedly wretched...

     Ian's cheeks rise when you say his name, and he shakes his blonde tresses. "Ah, I shall accept both meanings of that," he agrees, deciding that you are right, maybe below is a better place. "Come on," he murmurs, drawing away to the aft walkway, hand trickling behind him as he goes, lingering and pulling you along.
     At the right shoulder, wall and windows of other rooms pass. "I guess I just needed to be out of Barcelona shores. I do not know why," he adds, "...where does regret come from, Gui?" Ian slipping into French. Hand joined with yours, he would seem aimless, save you are on a direct path. "Do you know? And then it flutters away, like so much nothingness."

     He comes easily behind you, and his fingers drip from your fingers. As if at any moment the hold shall fall away, but yet it always remains. Constant contact. "I do not know, love. It just comes... when a heart wishes to have done right. Or wishes that right could be done by it... then regret surfaces. It is strange...I do not know, love. This is just ...what I have seen..."
     And locations pass. Parts of the ship. It moves by. Aft. Cabins. The passage way. His eyes are on you. The way the fabric of your clothing. How it moves. How you move in it.
     The rest falls away...
     Even thoughts of Barcelona...
     How quiet the chamber is tonight. Without the other young men here and their laughter and their moans and their Italian filling the air, it seems like another world entirely. Separate from the rest of the ship. And pristine. To look at the cabin, one cannot imagine the things that have gone on in here. William closes the door behind him and with a small burst of speed, is walking against you as much as with you. "Red or white, amours," he murmurs, mouth at your ear, voice low, French so elongated. The words almost float, lingering for moments longer than they should.

     "Red, French," Ian says softly, looking over his shoulder at you. "I can...do without the rest," he dismisses, wiggling out of his shirt as he steps from his soft shoes. They are discarded by the bed, and it creaks as he moves upon it in a crawl.
     Soon, Ian sighs, falling upon his stomach. His hands move beneath his chin, but not for long. Like a wave, he rolls over upon his back, a foot coming to rest flat upon the bed. Grey eyes look to you expectantly. Don't worry on the wine, Guillaume...

     Red...
     French...
     Ah! That is me...
     You see realization dawn on him, and the smile spreads. Broad and warm, it claims him. It beautifies him, if such is possible. And it heightens the life that seems so living in him. Almost too living. But such does not trouble you. You call for him, and he comes... resplendent.
     The bed sounds with his joined and considerable weight, and he reclines beside you, twisting out of the unbuttoned shirt, tossing it to the side. "Regret... it is one thing I try not to think about..." he murmurs, settling beside you. "Mostly because ..." a chuckle hangs in his throat, "... once started, I fear I should never stop, the list is long, amours..." a breath. "But what have you to regret, golden one... and what has it to do with Barcelona and these thoughts that keep you..."
     His mouth is warm against your shoulder. Sudden, heated. There is an exhale there. "I love you," he whispers there, and William lies back, arms open for you to come in them. For you to come to him. He is spread before you, for you to feast on.
     If you want to lose yourself for a while... I am willing...

     "I regret," Ian murmurs, rolling onto his stomach once more, but this time into your embrace, "...moments of delusion. For I could not figure out how to do so many things," he whispers, gazing upon your face. Whatever it is of Barcelona, the feeling has been generalized to include so much, even you. How to say I adored you. To ask you to be mine. To confess my own weaknesses.
     But Ian lingers not long either. All of a sudden, he rests upon you, above you. The changing thoughts reflect in expression. From blankness comes a smile that even he does not notice.

      How do I look beneath you...
     Do you like the smile it causes. Subconscious. How I open from arms and legs to heart to soul. How obvious it must be that I love you. Is it most obvious when I am here, beneath you? "We both... have had our moments," he whispers. And it is easy to say. It is easy to accept. We have known shadows and we have known sunlight. We have had our delusions, our nightmares. We have also had our joy. That we balance strength to weakness, weakness to strength -- this is our true strength.
     You above and upon him, the smile pulls widely. And he adjusts beneath you, legs widening to give you free reign. Rest... or not... as you will. "I have enjoyed having this view again," comes the languid murmur, and William's brows arch upward, opening. Yes... you cannot doubt what he means...

     That brings a surprised laugh. Ian pauses and cocks his head. "Oh, really?" he grins. "And here, I thought you should not miss such..."

     "What is not to miss," he counters, too languid to be a quip and yet of that kind of tone, a humorous, flirtatious tangle of French. "It is the best view on the ship..." Said as if you and all the world knew that. Who can argue against it?
     The clouds have moved away. Whatever it is that you have done... are you now at peace with it?
     "Where is the gift from Monte Carlo," comes the sudden question. Leaning upward, the motion rippling through his musculature like waves of stone, his mouth is at your mouth. Pulling. And the grin, wretched. You know the evil that will follow. "I should like to slip it on your finger as you slip the other ring around my..."
     Such gifts you give one another. Golden rings. For fingers and other portions of the anatomy. And he chuckles the location out against your mouth. Transforms it to a kiss.
     And lying back, William winks. How is it you live with me? "It surprises you," he whispers, "...that I missed it? We spent many ... many years thus. It is... like going home for me...to be so..."
     And where are thoughts of Barcelona now. He has got you off the subject...
     Again...

     "Tastless man you are," Ian smirks, sitting up a little to look about the room. Not that it may be within...but it serves as a touchstone.
     His body, holding color moreso these nights, twists easily as he rises simultaneously. The cross...it thuds at chest's center. "Did we put it in the safe?" he wonders aloud, narrowing his golden brows. They are light, these nights, against his skin, blonde hair upon his head a sure sign of his heritage. "Ah, no..." Ian remembers, pushing up from the bed to come upright nearby. "Here," he wanders towards a drawer in the wall, white pants billowing as he walks.
     It rests in a soft bed of clothing.

     "I know," he softly says, his voice holding in it the depth of love, the warmth of humor. And self-knowing. Dark hair moves against the pillow as he turns to look at you, the smile winding. Slow. Wandering. As much the gaze.
     So you both are colored Mediterranean. Darkened with constant appetite whetted -- for is this not a cruise? -- and darkened too by lingering in sunlight. Pressing time. Holding the color by insistence of blood. You, holding ruddiness that makes your normally fair complexion rich. He, already bronzed by his last days in the Holy Land and olive by birth.
     The bed sounds with his rolling weight, as William moves upon his side, propping up head on his hand, elbow against the pillow. Do you feel my attention? The hand of my eyes trailing a finger along your spine? And William smiles. The sensuous tug of the mouth that can't help it.
     "I should buy you more jewels, paint for you more. I do not feel I keep up with my affection and showing it thus." Again, his voice is quiet, deep. French elongating his syllables, his words. You hear the bed sound again as he rolls over onto his back. An exhaled groan. Ah, you know that he is sprawling.
     "It will be the first, then... of more... this I promise you, amours."

     "Mm," Ian murmurs, convinced expression upon his face. As he turns about, he holds the ring aloft. "Absolutely. Have me look like some French tart," he chuckles, knee returning to the bed. "It is not as if no one has said that I am not girly-looking enough," he explains, Scot wit coming quickly from the tongue in dry bursts.
     The bed heaves again, he sitting and leaving one foot upon the floor. "It is a lovely thing," Ian confesses, turning it around for further inspection. He has stared at it before, but now, now it is truly regarded.

     "I wasn't talking about buying a tiara," comes the drawling laugh. "And tarting you up like the Duchess of Argyle, dieu!" He makes room for you as his mouth cuts a slanting expression. A smirk, a roll of his eyes even as he rolls over to lie on his stomach. A turn of his head, and he looks to you profile against this pillow. "Though, it's true enough, she's butchier than the pair of us..." A dark brow waggles and dark eye flickers.
     "Looks like an old poison ring," comes the comment. "Venetian maybe... maybe Florentine. Or certainly styled after it, from what my foggy memory allows me in guesswork. A bit manly, even for the Duchess of Argyle."
     Now, it shall be the running joke...

     The ring is a man's ring. The gold is quite delicate but also quite dense. Not modern plating, but purer. Older. The stone is or seems to be a ruby. It certainly has both depth and clarity. And it is placed into the setting of a lifting top. Within, an empty chamber. And you of greater senses than your spouse, you may feel a humming to the metal -- as some treasured antiques do.

     The Duchess of Argyle! Ian blinks as you make your joke, but he doesn't disagree. "Are we..." that bad? He shudders to think and lifts the ring level to his grey eyes. Something else to ponder. "Well, it is old...and I haven't fallen dead yet," humor somewhere in there, "...so, maybe the poison has lost its strength."
     A grin and Ian swings about, causing blanket to pull. "Here," he whispers, stretching out along your length and turning his hand upside down. Ring held to you.

     "Non," William chuckles quietly. We are not that bad. "You're as solid as Scottish earth, and I'm barely a civilized man, let alone girly." The laughter ends into the start of a grin. "We are elegant bastards though, non? What can we do, amours..." It was, of course, a slam against the Duchess of Argyle's femininity, and not the joined masculinity of you both.
     Lord no.
     An arm slides out from under the pillow to take the ring. To hold it for a moment, at least. "Ah non, the poison was probably powder...to dissolve in drink, mais oui," William murmurs. "That is how I watched them do it when I was in Italy. You would not believe how many dinners ended poorly in 1482..." Such casual, humorous slander.
     "You could keep something in it, like crushed heather or thyme. Me, I would probably end up stowing opium in it..." And he laughs again. His flesh is warm against your own. As if sunlight is held there, summer on the blood. And there is a lingering aroma of wine about him. And the sea. And wind. And beneath that, simply him.

     Ian ahs and nods, not having spent much time in Italy in that century. In fact, none. He did not follow you then, leaving you to his own devices. There were things upon the island that could occupy his empty heart then.
     "Here," Ian whispers, hand out with fluttering fingers. He is eager to see what it looks like. "Did you expect me to wear this all the time?" he teases, gifted cross now a staple in his wardrobe. "Or was this just a shiny bauble?"

     It was the time he had to walk alone, to see if he could stand. To see if he could do anything. Something of his own. And he was still so youthful, even at the age of three-hundred-forty. Having not yet learned what he would do in this life. Not yet ready for the politics others expected of him. It was a lonely time. It was a rewarding time. And when he came back... he was all the stronger for it.
     There were messages. They came as often as they could in that age. And then, for a time you did not answer. That time during The Inquisition's reign. And I should have been there with you...
     "Non, you do not have to wear it every night," William whispers, lifting against you -- skin does not lose its touch upon you in his motion. "Whenever you like, if you like it...it looks like a mage's ring," he adds quietly, longer portions of black hair draping forward as he bends, and as he slips the ring where it would seem to fit best. Your middle finger. "So, I think it is a good thing for my favorite magician..."

     As the ring is placed, and William leaves a kiss upon your finger, you still feel the hum. Like presence... similar somehow. And when his lips land...

     There is a vision...
     Of the connection between his mouth and your skin. Images of Time, moments...
     From the sensual and carnal... how his mouth has found you...
     To the first kiss...
     To ... at last... the field in Arsuf, where it all began...
     Against your blood, showing you the links of it all...

     A magician. Perhaps he has learned something over the ages. Ian smiles brightly, accepting of the compliment and the kiss you bend to give him. It shall be sweet this, he thinks, grinning at an act that has happened so many times.
     Lifetimes of such sweet kisses.
     And as they suddenly appear in his mind, Ian stiffens and gasps audibly, sinking into the pillow as his arm yields under the rush of memories.
      A whirpool tunnel of thousands of moments flash all around him, too many to recall fully or even see. All leading back to one kiss, one so long ago.
     His eyes close as the bed soon holds his weight, hand still at yours.

     His eyes had closed for a moment of reverence. Teasing aside. I mean this. A moment of lingering, feeling the warmth and smoothness of your own skin. All in that gathering of instants until your gasp. Your stiffening.
     And his mouth lifts, his fingers drawing slowly away. I know I am good, but... this good? He quite nearly says it, but it is held upon his mouth, the parting of lips. A slight, wondering smile. You miss all this with closed eyes.
     But as his mouth and hands pull away, the visions fade. And the ring hums. Simply. Warming already with your own lifeforce. No longer cool metal to your skin.
     The bed sounds with his weight as he settles down beside you. "How do you like it? It is a good fit. Maybe it will have to be sized just a little, how does it feel?"

     "Hmm..." Ian croaks, the blood - you know - moving rapidly from points closest to his skin. Seeking to recede, to cover his very soul. Hide it from...whatever that was.
     His eyes open, grey sparkling crystal. Tears hanging from his lashes. He sees you through them, prismed before his eyes. The end of the whirlpool. "Will..." he whispers, "...it..." his hand shaking, "...it..."

     And now eyes narrow. Dark eyes wondering. What is it? You do not like it? Why is it everytime I give you jewelry, it makes you cry? His hand reaches to you, a skimming touch to your cheek, thumb capturing the moisture lingering on one set of eyelashes. "What is it?" he murmurs.
     You are shaking...
      And then his hand lowers to still your own. There are no accompanying visions with it this time. Was it the kiss? William's expression is placid, waiting. Blue-violet eyes questioning, wondering. Warm touch, strong hand... soothing.

     Ian blinks, the droplets giving way down either of his cheeks. Eyes stare at the ceiling above, waiting for the images to return. But when nothing comes, grey eyes focus to see you.
     "It has magic..." he tilts his head, hand lifting to wipe his face. No, not sadness, just suddenness cause the crystal tears. "Or...something. I...saw us...kissing. At Arsuf..."

     He is relieved it is just surprise. Shock. Magic? And it is his turn. The placid expression softens, as if William must recede into some recess of the soul and contemplate it. But he awakens, fire returning to that gaze. Brightness in otherwise darkness. Like night sky full of stars. And dark brows lift, a slow and upward sweep.
     "Magic..."
     His voice deepens a touch.
      "Magic," he says again. Not questioning you. But the universe. And there is a blink. A look to the ring. Dark eyes lift to your eyes again. And then to your joined hands. "Are you seeing anything now...?" Languid the baritone of his voice, whispered the tone. As if speaking aloud and normally would spook the enchantment away.
     And his fingers lace with yours, move against yours.

     "Here," he whispers eagerly, wanting someone to confirm it all. Ian swallows, retrieving hand from yours so that he might tug the ring from his finger...

     The ring gives no resistance to your touch. It has not siezed upon your flesh or bound you to it. The humming does not increase. It remains, simply, constant. You find the gold and rubies willing...

     And William has turned upon his side, half reclining, half lifted. His eyes lifting and lowering from yours of lightning-crossed grey to the ring of gold.

     Ian sits up, turning to slip the ring upon your finger. He says nothing, but instead looks at you intently, as if expecting your hair to turn blue.

     It does not, but you can see him sense, at least in some small way, the power the metal contains. That humming. He does not know what it is. What it will do. But the metal has a resonance. Much as he can hear swords sing...
     His hair does not turn blue, nor any other color. It was black at his birth, and so it remains. And with his ringed hand, he lifts to touch your face. Fingertips skimming. Searching. Wondering.
     What will I see?
     To the side of your neck...
     William tilts his head. "I do not see anything..." he whispers.
     But then his touch stills when fingertips glance the chain that bears the Crusader's Cross. He stills. He does not draw a breath. He does not blink. You only see eyes open more widely...
     A moment more, and he draws his hand away, like the metal was hot. But there was no pain.
     Only shock.
     "I... it... was..." Weird, amours. Strange. Interesting. Indigo eyes fasten upon you as his hand returns to his own space. "It showed me... everyone who has worn that cross..." Quiet, the southern French of his own heritage, his own time, pulls from him then. As it must, when words are most meant.

     Ah there! Ian nods eagerly, relaxing in the same motion. No, senility has not set in.
     "See what you have found..." he sighs, falling against his pillow again. Relief. He swallows, looking towards your hand. "I can't believe no one found it..." he breathes audibly. Needing to feel the air refill his chest.
     He lifts again, elbow coming firmly again into the bedding. "I wonder how old it is? Where did it come from, amours?" he wonders, looking down to your hand.

     "I do not know," quick, quiet French. "Someone lost something once... mais oui... and ...I do not know. Who would have had it... who lost it...Here..." And his large form shifts, his left hand moving now into the service of his right. To remove the ring. To return it to its owner.
     You...
     "You should see what it showed me, I wonder... if it does thus for everything one would touch. That would be... the opener of secrets, oui? Better than mind-reading, to see the life of a thing..."
     The ring comes off easily and is offered back to you. "Maybe it has been sleeping all this time... waiting for someone to find it... put it on, amours...I want you to see ..."
     And it is not often that William is shaken. That his voice softly trembles, or his touch.

     He listens, watching your hands until you suggest he put it on again. For what? And there is something you want him to see? "See?" Ian says rather hesitantly. "See what?" We lived it. You and I. We know.

     "The cross you are wearing..." He nods to it, looks to you. "If you want to see its story... it will show it to you..."
     From my brother's hand to my neck...how young I looked then, though I am the same age forever now...
     From my mother's bosom to Richard's nape...
     From my grandfather's hands to Eleanor upon his death...
     From great-grandfather, troubadour and crusader...
     And it ends at your nape, amours. So you would see. And he was so clear. I could see him so clearly. Like he was here for a moment. And then she. As if she were here for a moment. And then to faces that I never knew, but whose faces can be seen in mine...
     Full and essential mouth, the corners of it upturn in the start of a smile.

      He is confused, until he sees your smile. Ian watches it a moment, trusting in the security it gives. He exhales, offering his hand again, ringfinger extended a little more than the others.
     There are families in this, I know. His. Ours shared. Ian swallows before placing a quick kiss at your lips, as if seeking a little good luck.

     Ah, not so quick...
     William leans upward as you begin to pull from the quick kiss. His own pulling, tugging for a moment. A capture it is, and he savors it. For the moment upon a moment that it lasts, he tastes flesh and blood, the softness and the firmness of the male mouth he most treasures.
     And with you, he leaves a taste of wine...
     And beneath it... the red... French vintage you earlier requested...
     The smile widens as William returns to the bed. A sigh. You see it move through him. Desire wakening so obviously. From his complexion to his carriage, to the subtle shift in musculature. The unconscious tightening. And his mouth hums with it still. You see the evidence of it in his eyes as he watches you.

     Ian grins suddenly. The world stills again, righted and set firmly once more in its orbit. "A good year," he whispers, adjusting the ring upon his middle finger. This time, he is more careful where he rests his hand, and grey eyes resume their fixation upon the stone.
     "Did you...see everyone? The faces?" he asks softly, despite the need growing between you. "Who were they?"

     His hand lands, a solid touch to your nearest thigh. Neither hard nor light. Strong and firm, as it cannot help but be. But it is not heavy, there is a lightness to it. And his fingers curl and uncurl.
      When I kiss you... whenever I kiss you... I always want more. I am an addict...
     And the smile broadens, spreading smoothly.
     It does not recede at your question, though it tempers for the space of his speaking. "Oui," he breathes. "A few moments upon each... to the first time it was placed around a knight's neck..." And his hand splays against your thigh, fingers curling at the inside of thigh. There, his hand lingers. And his eyes fasten upon you. Fixing there. For a time, unblinking.

     He nods, but his eyes linger between you, to some spot upon the mattress. Ian makes no rush to touch the cross, instead, resting hand upon yours. "Maybe later," he asks softly, a smile lifting. He has enough of that for now. Eyes meet yours, and Ian rolls upon his back, pulling you along with himself.
     For now, he'd rather enjoy the gentle rocking of the boat and the breeze that sifts through the porous gauze of the pants you both wear. Your hands and lips pressing together, a simple rustle in the quiet room. There are no others tonight, and winds blow from the deepest sea across the yacht for the shore. It is a cleansing air, guaranteed to leave nothing but the scent of crisp rain in its path.
     "The Comte of Poitou," Ian grins, a glint at his lips, "...wonders of the Duke of Normandy would gladly continue their clandestine time together," a story he has begun to weave. "Certainly, he understands if...the Duke is busy and cannot sneak away to their meetspot." Well, at least the curtained bed will suffice. One has to fantasize somehow.

     "The Comte du Poitou," how that sounds from his mouth and upon that voice, "... finds the Duc du Normandie agreeable..." Mouth pulls, smooth and slow, into a slanting spread, even as he begins to settle over and against you. A spreading of his form. A half-hover. He is a partial cover.
      "Which meetspot, he wonders," comes the language of troubadours and southern vineyards to your ear, the breath of voice against it, brushing. And then his lips.
     And he joins you in it readily. Grinning. Loving every moment of it. Clandestine. Titles. The promise of finding himself in you...
     And the cotton cannot lie...

     "The uppermost deck," Ian grins, avoiding your gaze to stare upwards at the ceiling and beyond. "Where no one goes...where the wind and the stars are our only companions..."

     Under the stars...
     Indeed, there is no better way...no better meetspot. Real or imagined.
     "He will meet you there," William murmurs, mouth lifting. A kiss to your lips, a second capture of them. To the center of your forehead, his gold cross -- that of his father -- brushing coolly against your chin. "With a bottle of the finest from his own orchards," Indigo finds you and the smile broadens. "The Duc du Normandie asks only that the Comte bring himself." A pause. "And a blanket, mais oui?"

     "Mmph," Ian nods, agreeing in principle to it all. "But...what if...it is revealed that the Duke and Comte spend their time together in such ... fashion unbecoming? What then?"

      "The Duke will bring his sword. There will be none to speak of it," And with a wink, your Angevin duke begins to lift from you...
     But one last kiss. It cannot be helped...
     It is placed, parting...warmth... at the flat of your stomach. And there William sighs. I'm an addict...
     And you feel the surge from him as he kisses you there. And the room becomes so much the smaller. Soon, even the Mediterranean shall feel... intimate...

Posted by rowan at May 28, 2003 07:06 PM