The rowhouses along both sides of the Royal Mile are some of the oldest in Edinburgh. From the battlemount heights of the castle down the mile and a half walk down to Holyrood Palace, the sooted three and four level edifaces stand like guards, on post since the thirteenth centry. John Knox lived here, and across from that section of houses stands one of the few breaks in the gantlet: the old Kirk of St. John. A little grass remains around it now, but soon after, the rowhouses pick up again.
     Robert Burns lived in 16 Royal Mile, writing poetry that adorns many statues around Waverly Gardens. So too did Scott and a whole host of names that reverberate in Scottish history.
     A turn into one of the few alleys between the rowhouses reveals other doors. Building within and behind other buildings. After passing 8 Royal Mile, further up near the Castle, the alley is only about ten feet wide. Perhaps carriages used to go through, exiting out of the back of jumble of uneven roofs and buildings patched and stacked onto more recent ones, onto the wide grounds behind. But now, it's just a footway to the middle of manicured Waverly Gardens.
     There's a green door on the left side of the walkpath, just one of hundreds in and out of the old Royal Mile corridors. Behind it? A lovingly restored home, four floors, with a decor captured from the 1940s. Save the modern conveniences, the dated upholesteries and upstairs sitting rooms and bedrooms speak of the last time the owner spent any regular time at 9 Royal Mile. He's in now, along with his mate, enjoying the quiet of the inner alley and the care that Holyrood has taken with his least-visited home...

     Life was frozen here. Time has not passed since the end of the Great War. It would be hard to be anything but anachronistic, standing in front of a Deco console, pouring a scotch and wearing a tuxedo. Out of time and yet...
     Are we not past the surprise of this yet? The blending of centuries, and where they do not blend they jut out as separate facets on this great life. Jarring, but like the touch of fingers upon the temple of the head. Oh yes, that was Then and we were...weren't we?
     William is coming out of his overcoat, another jacket beneath this. How modern this tuxedo seemed, something new from the House of Valentino, but its lines are of the era that surrounds you: pre to post-War. From his hair to his shoes, he gives off light, unmuted by the affectations of an Act. The diamonds from the Kenyan mine, fashioned into cuff-links by your command and as a gift, are like crowning jewels. The only other one he wears: the ring you asked him to accept.
     A pack of cigarettes sound upon the glass of the bar, and afterwards the sound of two glasses. His breath, a speck of dust cleared away, and scotch older than the decor but nowhere near as old as the two of you is opened, the old seal cracked.
     And he looks to you, a tilt of his head as he begins to pour, as if to mark and memorize where you will be sitting. A smile hovers just shy of being realized in his features, but the warmth of it is everywhere evident, from eyes to the mouth.
     "I had forgotten," he begins, his words forgotten as he drops into the comfort of his native tongue, "...how intimate this place was. We spent a lot of time here once. It is still..." a hand waves as he pours the next glass, "...hovering on the air." And I am drinking scotch. This will be fun.
     He exhales, your William, eyes for a moment to the ceiling. He clears the evening's event with a breath. It both meant more... and less... than he thought it would. But you feel it. The subtle, yet shattering event. The paintings were of you. Your skin. His emotion...

     He'd entered first, with keys - electronic and otherwise - tossed aside. Behind you, the closed door sounds as it's locked and locked again. "It is," Ian smiles. The most normal of all his residences. Only New Port was nearer. "They say," Ian grins, "...that two RAF officers lived here once. During The War." His own coat is set aside, he also in a rather modern look with priestly tab collars. Ian grins, bending arms to remove his pearl and diamond cufflinks that are as dated as this townhouse.
     Ian looks upwards, as if he can see through the floors. One floor has two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a shared bath. Another? Converted to a large room with closets, private bath and sitting area. Above that? Library with a bedroom that now serves mostly as office. Before his purchase, the house could have easily been a flat for visiting students or a space for a nicely sized family.
     These nights, 9 Royal Mile sits mostly quiet.
      "Looks like they," the court's attendants, "...have restocked the bar." Ian moves over to peer near where you stand. "And..." Ian sniffs, "...something in the kitchen."

     "I remember such an officer," cap upon the bottle of scotch, whatever is left over (if anything) shall return to Chinon with the both of you, a good companion for the short journey. Planes flown, cars driven by others. It is what he wants: to sit in the back seat with you, or in private quarters. Tonight, however, he is going to enjoy the house that was once Home, however temporary.
     "Either restocked or left over, either way, laird, the stock is as we would expect to find it. The scotch, old. No doubt we shall find our sheets warmed and ready when we take them..."
     His hand comes out, your scotch offered to you, his lifted for a sip. Indigo is thought-crammed, the night lingers with him and this house. This house. "What was the old adage?" William murmurs. "To king, to country, to hell with Fritz?" Raven brows lift and that mouth spreads into a sudden and smooth smile. "We could turn on the Victrola and listen to the old tunes," a chuckle edges his syllables, pulling them long and slow, and the sound of it holds in his chest. "I love you. And... I hear that RAF officer was rather fond of you as well..." William takes another swallow of the scotch and he sets his glass aside, hand taking up the pack of cigarettes (and lighter stowed within). Cigarette finds its way to his mouth, he lights it, he exhales again and his hand reaches out, scooping up his glass again.
     "It was a good night, non?" He moves past you to take a seat in one of the leather chairs. It squeaks at his weight and adjusts a moment after he settles, causing black eyebrows to lift again. Slowly. "What did you think?"

     "An excellent night," Ian smiles, still blushing faintly from talk of the War and an officer who loved him. "Slainte..." he purrs, lifting his glass to you before taking a taste. Ah. It is nice. "At least, we can always come home again," Ian whispers, looking around the room and to the old player that sits beside something a little more modern.
     "What did I think?" Ian begins, smacking his lips together at the change of topic. He moves to where you sit, setting his glass on the side table. At your knee, Ian's hands lift so that he might remove his coat. "It was marvelous. But...perhaps for not the reason you think?" Once coat is gone, a soft swoosh to a nearby seat, Ian begins to unbutton his shirt.

     I remember there was a night I blew in like the north wind himself, a rendezvous before another flight over France. I breezed straight into Scotland and right to this room. In pilot's gear, I put on Gershwin and I poured two glasses of scotch. And I waited for you.
     I fell asleep waiting. I woke when you lifted the needle on the fifth playing. It was the first time I had seen you in months...
     "Slainte," William echoes, clove smoke issuing blue-ish brown and grey. He flicks ash into the tray, then leaves the cigarette to burn slowly on its own for a moment. A sip of scotch and he holds the taste a moment. "It was ..." William looks to you, dark eyes fastening. Such a look. "I did not know that it would affect me as it did. To be so ... open." Revealed. "I am glad I did it. And I am glad you enjoyed it, and Jezebel..." Broad shoulders roll. "But I will not do it again. It is... too much. You, you can see them..." he continues, taking up his cigarette again, "... and that is enough..."

     Ian laughs, untucking his shirt. "It was a bit much, any way you slice it," he affirms, hands coming to rest on his hips. "But...they seemed to enjoy it all, despite themselves. I'm not so naive to realize that while they all may like us, that does not mean they like each other," he smirks.
     Ian sighs as he steps out of his shoes. "I...enjoyed how you were," he says, completing his bit from before. "And how your work looked and how we looked together as artist and model." There is a confession for you. Ian stands at your knee, then twists to take a seat on your lap. "That...meant more to me."

     A bit much is right. He shares your opinion and he shares your look as you join him, one arm sliding around your waist. His other remains free, the hand bringing to him both drink and cigarette in alternating moments. The scotch rests upon the arm of the leather easy chair, the cigarette is balanced between his fingers, occasionally between his lips. "My model," William exhales, he smiles, tipping his head back, smile trailing slowly, smoke lifting from his nostrils. "My husband. It is as I always wanted." A confession of his own. "Since I first returned from Italy. No..." he admits. "...before I left. When I learned to prepare my first fresco...your face and form were in my mind. And now...you know..."
     "Of this evening," he continues, tapping the dead ash into the nearby tray, barely needing to lean over to do it, "...oui, it was the same for me. I enjoyed seeing you...on the walls and at my side. It is how I like it. You, everywhere..."
     William stamps out the cigarette and settles in the chair, both arms around you now. He leans in, his mouth at your ear. "I did not need to show the world. I only wanted to show you. I am glad you had a good time." William smiles. "And that no one argued during it or threw wine into one another's face. And that Sebastian kept his comments to himself." A pause. "Almost."

     "What did you want to show me?" Ian asks, pulling up and back a little to see your face. Socked toes wiggle absently; he a boy in a man's expensive fashion.

     "To see you... as I see you," William says it simply. "To show the evidence of what I feel, and to the extent I feel it. Some men write poetry, some others songs. I am no writer," he smiles, winding his mouth moves and he takes the final swallow of scotch. The glass is set upon the side table and his hand returns to you. "I think sometimes I have tried to tell you how much you mean to me, how handsome I think you are, how much I love you, but I think sometimes I do not say it well. Sometimes in the past, I have not made myself as clear. But the paintings, amours, they are as clear as daylight, my emotion open and evident. That is what I wanted to show you."
     He leans in, strength and solidity at your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. And the rest of them saw it, too. They saw how much I loved and love you. What they do with that will be up to them. But they saw it. It was unmistakable. "After eight hundred years," William murmurs, "... I still have the desire, the need to show you. To prove it, to demonstrate it, and to live it. It is not not enough for me to... merely say it..."

     "And now?" Ian asks, toes wiggling a bit faster. Hands rest on yours and Ian smirks coyly. Silly question, but it was there.
     "I'm teasing," he murmurs, knowing his question obvious. Ian chuckles, silk shirt glinting at its edges, much like the platinum watch on his wrist. Ian goes quiet a moment, his neck bare where his hair is cropped short.
     "I like this house," he murmurs, looking up again. "It's...a home." And it has been for a long while. "Real people lived here."

     The shorter hair is ... much more convenient. The neck is on display. You might as well be wearing a sign: Plantagenet eats here. William is distracted, and for a moment he says nothing. Real people.
     You said something...
     Eyebrows lift and the expression wakens. Indigo lifts, his head inclining, gaze moving over the ceiling, thinking of the upper floors, then looking around this room. "It is. Maybe we should take the time to spend a weekend or two here when we are in Scotland. This winter," his hands settle on your thighs, a patting to make his point. "Or the next spring." His fingers curl against your trousers, his mouth finds its way to your neck. Scotch and cloves and cinnamon coming with him.
     A viper edge makes a mark against your skin, and his mouth pulls beneath your ear. "So, we return to Chinon... maybe in a few nights, hmm?" William whispers at your ear. "We could stay here now... sleep in our old bed, listen to our songs, drink our scotch, maybe dance a little bit, play some cards and make love. How does this sound? And in a few nights, we return to our Chinon and swim in the Vienne..."

     "I like it," Ian agrees. You can go home again. "But back north before Chinon?" He wasn't totally prepared.
     "And we haven't danced in a while..." Maybe there's music appropriate.

     To Strathfayr? "Certainement," he says after a moment. He is ready for the warmth. Summer and autumn, these are Chinon's best seasons. The heat and the fire of the summer. The autumn harvest and the opening of new bottles. "You need to pack more?" William grins at your ear, then leans back so that he may see you, a hand finding your stomach, slipping beneath the untucked shirt. "Avons-nous oublie quelque chose? Ah, now it is my turn to tease. Sure, amours... we can go north. How long?" Yes, he wants to know. It has been winter and spring and part of summer in Strathfayr. William longs for warm water...
     Ah, the Roman baths...

     "Just to make sure that I have everything. Two nights," Ian says. In truth, he cannot leave Scotland without seeing Strathfayr. "That's all. Then we can go to France," he murrs, hoping that's alright. Fingers toy with the edge of his shirt.
     "I'm tired," Ian softly admits. "And I bet tomorrow," he almost laments, "...will have a full schedule." Teas, coffees, visits...

     "Very well... two or three it is. One last tour before winter." Of course it is alright. A hand pats your hip and he leans back in the chair. "It will be a full two or three days, mais oui. We will probably have to rest for a few days at Strathfayr just to get some peace!"
     William exhales again, "Come... let's to bed. I want to be horizontal suddenly. You know how the mood strikes." His mouth forms a smile, even a slight smile is full. His hand comes out, an offer to brace and balance, so gallant non? -- for you to rise. "Which bedroom? I do not even remember which one or where they are. Do you?"

     "Oh, I do," Ian grins, pushing up from his comfortable chair. His feet land solidly on the floor between your parted thighs, allowing him to rise easily.
     "Two floors," Ian looks up again, "...up."

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2003 10:23 PM