Ce qui fait La Vie... la vie... est courante. Avoir un programme. Faire quelques choses par coeur et remplir ceux chronometrent. Et j'ai tellement du temps.
     That is what they say on the talk shows. You must have a hobby. You must find fulfillment even in the tiny matters. And I, I who have now so much time on my hands, I need this even more, yes? Or, I go quickly crazy. The energy gets to me. It owns me and then I am running around town, shooting off my mouth, my lover's gun, or just throwing myself at him like a desperate thing seeking fulfillment through his cock. And while that is the surest way to find it, mais oui, it cannot be simply Edward and Edward's Cock that see me through this Time of mine. That is, as they say, unhealthy.
     So, here is how my evening goes these last few days. I wake up, there is a sliver of pink in the sky. I shower, there is such warmth and heat, and I am up even before my ami. I wake so early. I go to the kitchen, I cook crepes with Normandy apples and cinnamon or... pears and honey...or any number of French concoctions, sometimes with brandy. I have this waiting for him when he wakes, it is presented on the bed. Now, after we eat and while he is making himself rough-gorgeous, I take to writing. In a small leather journal with a string.
     I write about everything. Me. Him. Him and me. Of this life I have. Of the things I think and wish to do. I do this every night while he is in the shower. And when he is done and dressed and looking the way he looks, I put the book away. And the rest of the evening I give over to him, to being with him, to creating a life joined. I have gotten my golden hue again with this. I am not so dour now. No sulking, no more. No stress on what I shall do with the rest of my long Existence, for it shall all be revealed in time. For now, it is simple pleasures. Contentment. Enjoyment.
     Contentment et plaisir et Eduard.

     "What did you decide," Edward says, walking across the room to the armoire and opening it, "...about the fencing class? I think you'd make an excellent instructor for the evening practice. Shelley's still murmuring at me about it. He thinks the Academy could use you." Edward smirks, reaching in for one of the black shirts folded neatly on the second shelf. "Question is, can you get along with a Toreador," he adds, laughing behind the open panel.
     "Hm. It's got...cat hair...on it. Fuck. What is the fuck wrong with Lisle of late?" The girl at the cleaners down the street. "This is the second shirt I've gotten back that's fucked royal."

     Fingers wave and I look up from my little book. I take a piece of pear. Thank the Lord I may still eat. What a curse for a Frenchman, mais oui. Everlasting life without food and wine? Kill me. "I think I can get along with anyone," he says this in English, your golden Valan. "So long as they have a penchant for conversation." That is very true. Like Davydd, he can talk to a brick wall and consider it an evening well spent. "I will, I think." Gold-green eyes lift up to you and Valan smiles.
     He rests yet upon the bed, dressed in a brown-red and fitted sweater, with thin gold lines running horizontal. A fitted mock turtleneck, very Oxford. With this, brown wool trousers and brown suede leather shoes, a Doc look but a Norweigian label. Very posh, very dapper, very post-graduate. Very simple. No ones hair should be that gold, and yet there it is shining for you. Mussed, as usual, smelling faintly of honey. Beneath the soft sweater, you know there are two belly chains sparkling. A secret known only by you.
     "Ami," Valan softly clucks, "...you say this as if you think I will pummel the man." And that smile! Dieu! Tres Loire, that smile. And the wickedness that goes with it. Such protests of innocence from such guilty mouths. They are all this way. Yourself included. But your diatribe on cat hair halts the rest. Golden eyebrows knock upwards, knitting and he frowns. There is nothing good about a cat. Le chat est mal! The cat is evil!
     "Here, the brush," he says, again in English - take a moment, be proud! - and he reaches into the side drawers to remove a lint/hair brush. "She has a cat in the shop, oui?" Valan rises, he comes to you. He will do the brushing himself. His smile says as much. "And what do you think of me at the Academie?"

     His pending annoyance sweeps away as you approach. Edward goes ahead and puts the shirt on, lifting his arms for the brush. "Oh, I think you will be fine with Shelley," he says, looking ahead at some fixed point mid-air. "There will be questions about your ability, where you are from, your speed," now he looks at you. "You will just need to temper your feet and hands...as much as your mouth," Edward grins, quickly stealing a kiss.
     "The students need to progress. Most will not against you, as far as speed goes, though their technique may. You'll have to handle that as instructor." How do you encourage students who cannot win. "Focus on their technique. If you keep your speed to normal rates, maybe they will see their improvements."

     A burst of color follows, from quick explosion to even spreading upon his features, cheeks, mouth, neck. Creamy pale complexion quickly coloring. Like red paint dropped into a glass of water, it moves over all of him, even what you cannot see. "Mais oui," he says at your mouth, and he brushes you, his hands moving without needing his eyes.
     When I am this close to you, it becomes impossible not to want you. It becomes impossible not to kiss you, so I do. Drawn to you, like gravity. We, simply, must collide. It fills me with so much. So much. Want. So much languor. It is effort, it takes all the effort in my being to part a kiss once begun. You make me dizzy. Hungry.
     It is like watching a warrior steel himself against pain to watch Valan pull from the kiss he gave you. Such effort is obvious. And the return to ...normalcy. Simple movements. Him brushing you, attending you, he moves around you, behind you. "I instructed a little before, but it was different. There were...smaller degrees of separation between novice and amatuer, amatuer and professional. It will be a good challenge for me, to see if I can ... be as they are, and yet be myself. To be swift, yes, but not...too swift. I have not had something yet... that could teach me as well as this. Being in a club, who cares. Everyone is high or horny. It is not an accurate measure..." Valan's voice softens. You move through me. Like a bolt. I just want to press myself against you. Feel how strong you are, know that you are stronger even than you feel. He closes his eyes. The brushing slows. "I think," he says after a while, "..I got it all..." The hair that is.
     Valan takes a breath -- it is still so strange! -- feels the little explosions and pops of chemical reactions that end far sooner than they should, and he comes around you, to face you. You see so clearly how you affect him. Gold-green eyes sparkle like the gems you bought him, that are dangling coolly at his navel and hips like small kisses. The color of his skin, risen high with the blood throwing itself against the barrier of his skin, presenting itself to the one it hopes would take it. "I will simply tell them the truth," Valan thinks to whisper. "That I am from Academie Francais sur Loire, my name is Valan Montague," he never mentions his middle name. Dieu, non. "And the rest?" Valan smiles warmly, brilliantly, "I will make it up as I go along, mais oui. But... will do my best to temper my mouth. I do not know where I get it these days, so cocky," he breathes. A smile. "I shall bite my tongue. A lot."

     "I find that helps," Edward grins, arms lowering. What courses through you, courses through him. But after six-centuries, Edward's slightly amused to find that he once was like you, but no longer. Seeing someone at the Beginning can tell you just how far you've come. "Just a drop or two," he says, buttoning his shirt now, "...and the world settles. But that's me," he adds, fingers working downward.
     "Did you think about the finances," Edward asks, bringing up his second suggestion. "You handling them for us?" That includes him too. The incident with the castle still sticks with him. So much for him to still learn, though Edward realizes that it's not his forte and in at his core, he doesn't care. But the mind knows better. He must care. "I'm mediocre at it and well...we do need more than we presently have." No one's broke, true, but times change, needs change. And where there was one, there is now two. And economies don't scale linearly, but instead exponentially.
     Well, at least that's what Ian told him anyway.

     Just a drop. Or two. And the world settles. And crystallizes. You can smell it. You can sense it. You can almost feel the two drops of it roll against your own tongue. He bit his own, and it does indeed help. The mind flashes on, the lust takes a holiday and synapses fire and set into place. The clicking of the universe found in the lifting of his eyes. "Yes," Valan turns, leaving you with a touch to your waist and he returns to the bed, and he picks up that little book he is always at, it rarely leaves his side these nights. "I have been thinking about it. I have sketched out a few plans, things that I think we should do immediately, some ...constructs," for lack of a better word, "..that should be developed, and where I think we should be in two years and at ten. I know it is a small number, that we will have to ...plan based on decades and centuries, but my mind is... not quite..." he searches for a word in English, the right idiomatic phrase, "... around that yet?" he posits. "I am used to paying attention to such things. It is the one thing that Etienne instilled in me," his father, "...apart from my love of fine wine. I have handled my own Trust for a long time now. We may be able to develop constructs around already developed resources, but I am still thinking about the creation of a joint entity, what sort of demands it will take to operate, who will take care of what during the day. Money management. Diversification." He stops now. "Anyway, I have it written down ... if you would like to look at it..."

     "No, no," Edward says, shirt buttoned but not tucked in. You'll handle it. He's done well to still have any money at all. He moves towards the standing mirror that Maria gave him, rococco feet holding it steady at the floor. Edward unbuttons his slacks, letting the panels rest open. "Just...when you change things, tell me," he murmurs, hands brushing his shirt hem around his upper thighs.
     He looks at you in the mirror for a moment, then says, "You alright?" He's going out in a while. A planned recon meeting to check out heroin dealers who may have supernatural backers. Edward smiles a little, continuing to tuck in his shirt.

     "I will," he promises, and he will handle it. Besides, it will give him something important to build. Something to aim for. And that is what he needs. The fencing, finances and writing will see him through. It is... such an awkward time. So young, so heady, such energy and without the control that Age will provide. No longer coltish, full yearling this and in his second year, itching to race forward. But still so capable of breaking his own legs in his excitement.
     The reflection in the mirror shows him beautiful, golden, seemingly relaxed. But you know him. "Oui, I am...alright." I will be without you for awhile. "It is good to see you... doing what you need to do." Things have been different. You have not been here constantly. Is it alright if I miss you? Valan smiles at himself, at you. "I am seeming too much like a wife," he waves his hand, ignore me. "I will start working on the finances. I will call Shelley and tell him I will be there starting next week."
     I am alright. Valan takes a breath and he stands from the bed. Enough moping. "I will be here," he softly confirms. No more going out. No more going out alone. He learned his lesson. He is not yet cut out for it. Being followed, he didn't even notice that, getting drunk and getting into fights, it's not worth it.

     "Wanna go with? It's a nice night for a..." Edward says, still looking at your reflection. His chin is downcast, mostly because he's buttoning his slacks and trying to see you in the mirror's tilt.

     Valan smiles. Being asked, that was everything. "Non..non, I will be a distraction. You should go do what you need to do. I do not mean to sulk. When you come home," his finger trails over your shoulder, his reflection now next to yours. "... and if I am asleep, wake me. If I am not asleep, kiss me." Make me Yours when you come home, and that will be enough.
     "I have things to do here. Plenty to keep me occupied. I do not miss it, Eduard," Valan murmurs, "...going out, getting drunk or high and getting into a mess. I do not miss it. Do not worry." He leans in, he steals a kiss, retribution for earlier, kept short for sanity's sake, any longer and he may go to his knees, yes? "Do not worry about me. You go. I will be here, getting our lives in order," he grins now. "And making arrangements for next week. And waiting for you to come back. Thinking, wondering and hoping that you will make love to me when you do. Take that thought with you, ami." He chuckles, his eyes lighting up with it, and with that he steps away.

     Edward blinks, then lets out a couple of laughing chuffs. "Um, maybe you should come with me," he suggests again, this time firmer. He grins. "You're starting to sound like...well, I don't know what it is." A smirk and he turns to follow you, now dressed. "You won't be a distraction. And," he says on an exhale, "...there's nothing wrong with going out and getting 17-ways fucked up." Heck, I've done it steadily for the last fifty years. "Just be prepared when the shit flies back, is all. And know...that I have enemies." That's it. That's all. Hands come up and he shrugs. "That's all I want, ami."

     Like a wife? The eyebrows arch open, upward, answering your question for you. But it is not such a bad thing, to be there or here for you. Someone has to. I do not mind being the wife for you. To take care of things, to build things. I am never going to be the kind of vampire you are, not in that way. My ways are different, already...
     ...And yet, when you ask. Again, when you say it...
     "I am not really dressed for it. They will think you brought your college chum from Cambridge with you, like it was a cricket match. Old bean," he tacks on with a laugh. An exhale, and he heads to his own closet. He has to have his own. The man shops like a demon. "Alright, alright... I will come with you. Let me change, yes?" And he thumbs through a selection of suits. Thwack! A suit and shirt are tossed onto the bed, red and black, the hangers banging against one another as they land. Thump! Boots tossed to the foot of the bed. And Valan is twisting out of his sweater, fine lean form, fencer's form underneath. And a belly chain.

     "Alright," Edward grins, chuckling as he takes a seat on his side of the bed. Shoes remain off, but he'll deal with that soon. "Ami," he begins, "...if I...I'm sorry for...whatever. I can't say that...I have an existence and things to do...and not let the same be for you." Every man is free. "You are...a free man. I just worry too much," Edward exhales, running his hand across his leg. "Being Free...is also deadly." Are you ready for that?

     Valan turns, a pivot to glance back to you. A look of perplexion is rooted on his face, springing blossoms of What Are You Going On About, and then he smiles. "Do not be sorry, Eduard, sorry for what, ami? There is nothing for which you should apologize." He comes to the bed, closing his own closet door. Shoes are removed. Pants too. He still wears boxers, of the silken variety, electric red. His physique set off by them, those fencer's legs, the tight waist, the long, lean arms, strong shoulders, broad chest all brought to light by the flash of red at his waist, groin, thighs. He takes up the trousers, nice Soho look this will give him. The Hipster you know and love.
     "If I wanted to go out, I would go out. I am not chained here," he notes. He steps into tailored trousers. "All of that drinking and drugging was making me... argumentative?" A sweeping brow, a slanting smile. "I think that is a word for it." He shrugs, pulling up trousers but not yet fastening them. Next comes the red shirt. "I am not strong enough to pay the price my mouth ...usually...dictates. Until I am... I will stay in, I will be constructive, not destructive. Besides, destruction, self-destruction is overrated. It is for artists. I am not an artist, ami. I do not need to throw myself off a building to prove a point. I have nothing to prove to you or to anyone else. I only need to be happy with what I choose to do. That is being Free."

     Edward gives a slanted smile and a nod for that assessment. Whether or not he agrees or disagrees is irrelevant. It's a philosophy and he is not willing to argue for or against it.
     "Since you're going," Edward says, closing his eyes, "...what do you think you'll do? Or, what will happen? I," Edward explains will be the interested buyer. "Johnny Bravo," not his real name, "...is the one in the know. Kind enough to broker a small transaction. We meet, do the deal, see who shows, who's around, what the shit is, and see what we can get out of them. A dependable buy. Won't be much longer than...maybe...ten minutes."
     "Well, at least that's what I have planned." Drug deals can oft go awry.

     "I do not know, Eduard. I have never scored heroin before." Said so blandly, so matter-of-factly and bone dry. He pulls on his red shirt, it is something of a blend, not silk and shiny but matte of color, and yet it is as malleable as silk. It would dissolve, you are sure, if much pressure was applied to it. "I will," lips smirk, "...look like death warmed over? I will look like a hanger-on... I do not know, you tell me..."
     Buttons are done, shirt tucked into pants, smooth lines created, belt done. He reaches for his jacket. He can blend in with the various facets of London: hipster, jokester, gangster, heir. "You are wanting, primarily, to see who shows up, oui? You want to know ...what else? Where the shipment is from? Who is responsible for it? I think if I say nothing, it will be for the best. I will try to be invisible."
     Before slipping into his jacket, he heads to his side of the bed. Valan opens the drawer. He takes up his gun. Nice smooth action, ultra-modern, ultra-light. He checks the clip like he's flipping through a wallet. He secures the piece. He removes the holster, black, it will be put on, and the jacket over it. The gun will be at his ribs.
     "Maybe my inexperience will help the," his hand waves, "...authenticity of the scene." A smile. "So to speak."

     "You can stay by the car? Act as driver?" Edward thinks. "I want you to see, but they won't like a third showing. Hmm. The car would be good. You're a partner and our driver. But not in the exchange," he nods, seeming as if he might go to sleep again. A sigh, and he puts his hands behind his head at the Spanish-style metal headboard.

     "Ah, oui... car would be good. I like that. I will drive." It is decided. But the gun is slipped into the holster, the jacket over holster and gun, just in case. He does not leave home without it. Valan smiles to you, though you miss it. He sits on the bed, flush to you, the bed bouncing and sounding with his weight, his hand goes to your leg.
     His fingers press against your leg, sliding, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric. His fangs distend, automatic reflex. A pat and he starts to rise. "I will stay in the car, I will listen, I will watch, I will drive. "After the deal... what then? What do we do with the drugs? Do you do this for the Clan, for the Prince...?" Who is involved? Why do you make drug deals?

     He shrugs, not replying with the choices offered. "I want to know...who thinks they are doing what. And I want to know who is in town, what they're bringing and what the lines are. Because..." Edward says evenly, "...a fuckin' lot of that shit is being run by...let's say...fuckers who'd rather poison our food supply." No prince or clan commands him. "That's why," Edward smiles at you. "I hate malicious bastards."

     The expression is Oh. I had never considered that. Valan nods simply. "I understand now, Eduard. I will drive then, and otherwise stay out of the way and observe." He situates the jacket on his shoulders, lightly brushes his hands over his clothing, a look to himself, the twist of a wry grin. "I am ready when you are..."

     Edward looks up at you, allowing his face to fall into a lascivious smile. "And you look marvelous. You can take it off now," he says matter-of-factly, glancing at his watch. "We have a few hours. 1am."
      Edward shifts onto his side, propping head in hand to watch you.

     Tsk. You are the devil, Edward Meurelle. Caught, his face inflames with it, his eyes sparkle where they look up past lidded lashes, gold. His mouth slides into a smile, curling. But he makes no protest. He does not deny you. He will get his, you know. Eyes on yours, he slips out of the jacket. Very nice, that. D&G, a label that suits him.
     The holster is next, the flip of a buckle and its slipping off, it drizzles off his fingers landing on the jacket which lies upon the bed. Valan's eyes lower just briefly, to look down the length of his own body, then the length of yours. More?
     Do you want more? The shirt too? The trousers? He is not shy, and it is not shyness that stops him now. He wants you to tell him. He wants to hear you speak it. Ask it. Demand it. Valan's smile deepens.

     He stares for a second, then a moment, deciding indeed what he wants.
     "The chain," Edward says, "...show it me..." his voice falling to a whisper. "Then...turn off the lights." The rest, as they say, need not be known.

     There is no smile, no quip, no joke. Valan's eyes shift from your face to his own fingers, mussed gold hair with its shock of color catching the light, how it holds it. How the light holds him all over. You can tell, you can see where it reflects and how it holds him and why...
      ...and the red cloth dissolves at his fingertips, pants unfastened and shirt pulled free. It wavers as buttons are unfastened...not from top to bottom but from just above his navel to the end of the shirt. His hands part the shirt. An enticement. A preview.
     Yellow-green gems drizzle against the flat of his torso, dripping downward toward the waistband of red silk. The pants are sent to his hips, slack, his hands slide upward and remove the remaining buttons, shoulders rolling out of the fabric. Valan lifts his eyes to you. His mouth upturns just at the corners, just the slightest of smiles. Hands move downward, fingers roll over the stones of the chain, they sparkle.
     And then Valan turns, smiling, to head for the light...

Posted by rowan at July 03, 2003 11:35 AM