He was up early today. The bed was empty and the sheets rippled where Edward had lain. The air is dry -- little sign of a shower -- and the closet doors remain closed. He's here, Valan, do not worry, but something has taken him from your bed and to another part of the house. The bedroom door is closed; he did not wish you to wake.
The waking is sudden. The sheets are displaced by hands coming out, startled. A burst of panic and then... he is sitting up, his hands in his head, fingers muss the golden hair and the world is calm. Calm.
And the world is golden around him once more. Something put in place perhaps over the passing of a few more months. The energy is still high, demanding, but there is laughter again. Laughter, and no apology. Valan chuckles to himself at his own panic not to find you with him, startled out of sleep like a ship that suddenly finds itself without its anchor and tosses on the water. But it does not last long.
Valan Montague is too curious to shower. He will do that with you hopefully. First, he wants something to wet his dry mouth. Maybe juice, maybe water. Something just to clear the stale taste of Nothing that has become his waking. Gold-green eyes blink themselves into bright consciousness and light his way to his saffron robe and his saffron boxers. It pulls out the gold in his hair and his eyes and pulls out the cream in his paler skin, enriching him. And, yes, it is completely intentional.
His steps sound on the stairs, rapid and heavy as he trots down to face the early evening. Valan stops at the foot of the stairs, suddenly, and he goes suddenly silent. There must be sign, some inkling, some revelation of Edward's presence...
Easy. He's in the exercise room. Once the bedroom door was opened, vampire's ears could easily pick up a rhythmic beating at the punching bag, sounding over the shuffle of feet and heavy breathing. He's been at it a while, and the breaths are more like grunts as Edward hits the bag over and over.
So, no need for a shower yet. Edward's in nothing more than silken black boxers. His hands are woefully unwrapped, and the damage wafts on the air. The aroma of blood comes fresh with each hit. Edward's hair seems darker against his skin and nape, dampened by a masquerade practiced for six-hundred years. His feet sound louder against the mat now that you're downstairs, and Edward's face down, his forehead touching the bag, causing it to glisten as well.
They're body blows, what he's throwing. The good, solid hard work of slowly beating something down with painful repetition. There's something fulfilling in it, something that drains you beyond the point of caring. Edward's shoulders and biceps are flush with rushing blood, the liquid visible to the preternatural eye at the top of his skin.
He doesn't see you, Valan. He's somewhere else. Edward's lips part for more air, and his eyes close as if to drift away. He's been here a while, but welcome weariness doesn't seem to come for him.
He's not about to interrupt you. A peek in to you and then he goes to the kitchen. He pours himself a compromise -- juice, yes, and orange, but blended with champagne. You miss all of this no doubt, being 'in the zone' as you are, but when he returns silently, with a glimmer of gold like some bird of paradise, he returns with his Napoleon (in America they call it a mimosa) and his cigarettes and he takes a seat upon one of the chairs near the fencing equipment. Valan leans his head against the glass and he watches you.
Sweat. Blood. Strength. Energy. The nose swells, the groin swells on instinct, and a cigarette is lit. For a moment, there is something burning on the air. Flame, to go with the sun who is sitting in the corner. L'Enfant Terrible, the rebirth of the Sun King. Even his skin is golden, like it is brushed with gold leaf powder or saffron, a nice effect from the saffron silk robe he wears.
After many moments, moments of watching you fight It, the Consuming It that feeds upon you all, after a few pulls of fire and smoke and a swallow of the Napoleon, the glass resting upon a revealed fencer's thigh among boxer and robe, Valan murmurs, "That is no way to treat your hands, ami..."
His voice has taken on a suffuse and golden glow to it. Warm, barely breathed and yet it sounds, reflecting off the surrounding glass like sunlight.
He looks as if he could cry. Edward suddenly stops, hands grabbing the punching bag as it flies back towards him. His cheek caresses the leather and his chest serves as a stop. His breathing is fully ragged now, and Edward closes his eyes as he rests his weight against the suffering equipment. "They're...fine..." he hyperventilates, letting his face turn downwards as he rests.
One eye opens at you, then quickly shuts.
"What are you doing up?" he asks, glancing at the watch on his wrist. Edward inhales and stands on his own two feet, hands gently touching the bag's sides.
But you are not. "It was time, I guess. I sat up in bed, you were not there, I thought I overslept. It is still earlly, mais oui..." His voice issues out, each word as if chosen carefully, thought upon, savored and then released. Valan blows a little smoke, then lifts his glass for another sip. "Do you want me to leave you be for a while?" He brings the cigarette to his mouth again and a golden eyebrow lifts.
"It is okay if you say yes, ami," Valan purrs, a slight laugh on the edges of it. "I just... thought I would watch..." He rolls his shoulders. Why should I not want to look? Look at your body moving. Valan licks his fingers and douses his cigarette. He will save it for later. The juice is what he needs. Already he feels better for the clearing of that taste. Is it death?
He does not speak about your display. He has seen it of late. You do this nightly. It is becoming a ritual, this. You bleed. You sweat. You try to burn it away. Whatever it is. Life. Me. Us. Whatever.
Valan rises with a breath, "I will leave you be, I should not have interrupted, ami..." he notes. "I will be up in the shower..." And as always, you are welcome to join me. The invitation is open, ami...
"Don't go," Edward breathes, his chest heaving still. He swallows and looks around the room, save for the line of sight blocked by the bag. He sighs deeply, and absently, brings his left hand up to his mouth. His lips close over his knuckles, where most of the blood flows. "There's no need for you to go," Edward mumbles over his curled hand, eyes focused on you. How can he not be so focused? You are beauty perfected. More golden than gold.
A sniff, and Edward switches hands. He sees the blood left on the punching bag, then looks at the blood that has smeared upon his chest. "Not sure if there's much more to watch though," Edward confesses, stepping backwards from engagement position. Eyes look you over again, as if considering something. Dessert, perhaps. But then Edward exhales again, tongue swirling around his fist.
"Mind sharing?" he suddenly quips, gaze flickered at your glass.
He is still trying to learn how to gauge when to leave Meurelle be and when to throw himself on Meurelle to put out the fire. Perhaps in fifty years it will become a concert. As of Year Two, the orchestra is still tuning...
Dawn is in the smile and late afternoon in the look, and he holds the clear glass of orange liquid to you: come and get it. "Of course not, ami. A Napoleon for my Charlemagne," Valan chuckles. Well, it was the only big Medieval man that came to mind.
He is very dessert like these nights. Some amaretto concoction. Sweet orange and warm honey. Like a marmalade. Themesong: Savoy Truffle by The Beatles.
Valan murmurs, "Bonsoir," to you as he hands you the glass. The smile is still curved on the mouth, the saffron silk moves against his tall and muscled frame. "Oh, I do not know," he grins, "I think there is still plenty to look at. A good workout?" he wonders. Have you exorcised It enough for one evening?
The bag does look pained...an impossible feat for any one mortal. Edward's cut down the bag's life expectancy considerably. Leaving his hands for now -- as they're already healing -- Edward takes the glass with a brush along your fingers. "It was alright," he replies, eyes unable to leave you once you are so close. Edward takes a restrained swallow, then hands you your glass. Yes, a few hours of draining helps a little. Just a little. But maybe soon, it will not be enough.
"And bonsoir," he breathes softly. "Rude of me not to...be more polite..." Reprimand. Edward exhales, letting his head fall to his shoulder as he considers you once more.
The face of the Sun King erupts in a grin. Polite? "Last time I checked, ami, it was your house, your life and your man here before you. Who do you need to be polite to? I am not a guest..." And that tickles him. "What do we care for the niceties of polite speech," ah, and that effluent warmth was all in English! Such big words these nights.
You take the glass and, freed, his hands take you, a touch landed upon your sides and Valan leans in, placing the first kiss of the morning to your neck. He is welcomed coolness, perhaps, upon heated skin. Cool, but not icy. "Maybe tonight we will fence to pass the time," he murmurs there. Valan tilts his head, straightening to look to you. "Did you have any plans tonight?" He takes back his glass. He takes a swallow of the drink.
I had a few. Most of them had to do with me being on my back, of course. "You beat the pulp out of that bag," Valan notes, the bag visible across your shoulder. Poor bag. He turns his head and bends, smiling at your ear. "Were you imagining anyone in particular?" A little tease. Well, one might as well have a sense of humor about it or it will just be oppressive.
There is a feeling when he touches you. It is pleasure. His face, his smile, the sound of his voice, the seeming warmth left upon your skin when his hand draws away. Valan takes another swallow of the champagne and juice and offers it back to you. More, ami?
More...
His brows sink, and brown eyes seem to plead. Stay or go? "No specific plans," Edward breathes, licking his bottom lip where the Napoleon passed. "And no one in particular," he states. "Just...exercising. Trying to stay...fit." Even in the saying, he didn't believe it. Perhaps it is an acceptable answer.
"What of you? No fencing at the school?" Edward asks. His jaw, posture, and other places, harden considerably. Hand waves off more to drink with a cascade of fingers. "Your students? They do not need the practice time?" Do they look at you as I do? That brings a sigh as well, to find himself thinking of such things.
"Ah no, they do need the practice," Valan smiles, his voice moving slowly over the English words, heavily accented though they are. "But I was there last night. I may go later for myself." He has a set schedule of two nights per week. The rest is at his discretion. "I think it has been going well. I was out of practice," he notes, eyebrows lifting a touch. "But it is coming back to me... hard to believe I was a champion once." He laughs and the Napoleon is finished.
Valan leaves your side long enough to set the glass somewhere else and give you a moment's respite from his touch. Does it feel like the waning of the sun? But it returns to you, the Sun does. "But if you want to go out, we can. I can go fence and return. We could meet for a drink, if you like. Myself," Valan exhales as his hands come to your muscled sides again, "I am content to stay in... a night at home." He leans in, his mouth pulls Napoleonic at yours, tempting a kiss.
Brief. Brief but pleasurable. Brief, it gives you a moment to breathe. Valan smiles again, eyes beaming. "Ah, that is what I have missed. I knew there was something this night was lacking. I feel better. Are you alright, Eduard?" An eyebrow quirks. You are especially strong and silent tonight, ami. His hands knead you a moment and then he steps back. "Now all I need is a shower..." The way he says it, the way it eases out upon the glow of his voice. Did he say he needed a shower or needed you to lay him on his back? What is the difference these nights...
There's a soft agreement for the students and your plans. Good, good. Words are distraction, however brief. "I'm alright," Edward finally replies, his breathing still shallow. Thin, as if labored. At the observation of his silence and shower plans, Edward looks at you between lowered lashes. "I think I need...mm...something to drink." Barely audible that. His hands clench and open, arms half-bent, as if to take you into his arms. He staves it off, however, with a relaxing of his shoulders.
But Edward has not left his spot. Instead, he looks down to where you touched his skin and then to your hands as you step back. His brow furrows an instant, then relaxes again.
"Maybe staying in is...a good idea. I've already seen to Thierry's latest problem," he gets out. The most words in the last twenty minutes.
There is a smile, agreement reached, and golden eyebrows lift slightly. The full mouth moves to speak but it stops at the smoothening of the look. His eyes drift downward from your face to your chest. And then his hand comes out, a touch of his finger to your skin, a drag down the center of your body until his finger hooks around the waistband of the black silk boxers.
"I know what would be good to drink," Savoy Truffle anyone? And Valan tugs slightly, to pull you with him. He laughs quietly, it brims like light in his eyes, and he lifts his gaze to yours again. Golden Idol that he is, is there any wonder you worship it? Valan moves slowly, backwards, the saffron silk sliding against his form, chest and arms, against his legs, between which saffron silk pools. And there, perhaps missed when he first entered, the newest of his adornments -- a new belly chain, this one of gold so fine it nearly dissolves when touched. "Between Thierry and Villon," he calls the great princes by name these nights, "...it is a wonder I get to see you at all, ami..." Can I be blamed that I am greedy when you are here?
Beneath your trailing finger, Valan, comes a rumbling in Edward's chest. Fullness near your crooking finger. Edward doesn't comment on the double-entendre; he wants a drink and he wants a drink of you, yet he seems loathe to ask. Asking leads to demanding; demanding spirals some place he fears to tread.
Edward's eyes lower as the floating silk flutters downwards, but he suddenly stops the forward motion. "Where...did you get that?" he asks of the chain, hand lifting to touch it...then stopping before his fingers meet your skin. Did someone give you that? Did you buy it?
He does not play with fire, he does not tease you by casting a coy look and noting it was a gift. He would never say this unless it were true. "I ...bought it," he murmurs, fingers dipping beneath the black silk. That sort of teasing he does not hesitate to give. Jealousy, however, no... this is not a toy. "I am preferring gold these days," you don't say, "... I saw it off Savoy," says the Savoy Truffle. Valan grins, leaning forward to whisper, "I thought you would like it as well as I did. And do you, Eduard?"
Fingers slip against the fullness beneath the silk and the smile broadens. Fingers stroke and then return to hook into the silk, the progression to the living room continued. No, not the bedroom. The living room. Proximity to the comforts and convenience. The kitchen and the bar and the sound system.
What would you do, Eduard, if someone gave him a gift? Would the Thames run red?
Valan lets his fingers slip again. another touch given, another stroke and then his hand moves away altogether, confident that you will follow him. The sofa sighs as he sits, and the silk billows out a moment, caught suspended on the air like a feather on the breath of the wind. The Sun is in your living room now, lounging. His hands move unclasping the golden chain, the metal dripping upon his fingers and he holds it out to you. "I thought it would look especially good while dancing. You and I should go again sometime. Funny that it has been a while now. It is amazing how fast Time passes now. I thought it was fleeting before." Valan smiles and his hand is offered out to you. But that is not all. It is not just his hand that is offered.
Edward is quiet a moment, eyes affixed upon you. Can you feel his gaze, Valan? It moves upon you as his hands will very soon. Experiencing you again, remembering your perfect imperfections. The shape and move of your muscles. The sound of your skin. He can feel every moment of you by simply looking at you and letting his mind wander. It's more than love, you know. Immersion. Do you remember his worries of two...three years ago? When Edward feared loving you, bringing you with him? When he feared that in order to love you as you were, he'd have to make you something else?
That's in his eyes too. Fulfillment of a prophecy. Resignation to it. For to capture what you felt then, you both had to change. The irony of it all, really.
Edward's fingers touch you softly, but are rough at their tips. He takes the new chain, letting it cascade in his palm like pooling water. "It's beautiful, I like it," he whispers, in his own reverie. He gives the chain back, expecting that you will replace it around your waist. It will be a guide for him, when he goes seeking the deepest parts of you.
The blood at his hands and chest has dried. "Tell me something," Edward says, hovering now above you, looking down. "Tell me...how...I am to dance with you? Everytime..." he murmurs, looking to the floor, "...I am with you...the same thing happens?" eyes shift up. "It always ends the same...with us," Edward's chin dipping. "Always the same."
Gold gleams from fingertips to fingertips. As you release the chain, he takes it up again. As you hover, Valan sits forward, saffron slipping off of his shoulders. As the chain encircles him again -- Cleopatra's asps were never so formidable -- Valan tilts his head. He looks at you. He looks at you looking at him, and he sees his own reflection in your eyes.
But he came to this willingly, Edward. He threw himself headlong into the fire, and now he is burnished gold from it. There was no hesitation. And there has been no fighting the Life, the Becoming. He is unfolding now. He is unworried about the mortal he was. He is not that now, and he does not mourn it. Resignation? No, more like a hail of gunfire and brave charge...
A golden eyebrow lifts, soon joined by his other, a slight quirk and his eyes search your face, then look upon the blood, the drying blood. What a pair of gods you are. Golden Apollo and Red Mars. Green-and-gold eyed Montague looks back to your face. You are a paragon of strength, but you are worried. "It troubles you..." Valan says quietly, warmly, his voice still suffuse with sunlight. He lifts his hand as he sinks, inviting your hover. "You worry..." I can see it. "You should not worry. So, we dance... and so the dance becomes sexual... the sex is a connection. That is all. And..." his laughter is low, his smile pulling slow, "... mais oui... I did not think it could get better... but," and the thought moves over him. Cream complexion brandies with a blush and Valan purrs a grin. "No wonder you are so popular..." he teases.
Come, it's not the end of the world. Do not look so serious!
There. He tried to resist it, but you got him to blush. Edward's lips slant and he turns away for a moment. Yes, this is serious, but he's suddenly remembered his popularity indeed. In truth, he was never quite sure why. It wasn't the general party atmosphere then?
"It bothers me," he says, "...for some reason." The seriousness returns, but so does the desire as he look down to your reclining pose. "Something. It...I...I mean...is this...how it is for everyone?" Who are in relationships?
Eyebrows open outward again, and Valan sits up. He pats the seat beside him on the sofa. Join me -- I don't bite. "I do not know...I never thought to ask, to be honest," Valan murmurs. "I can easily imagine that William and Ian have an... active relationship. Have you watched them together? Have you seen the staff they have? This can be no accident," he smirks. "There are no accidents," he quotes.
Valan's fingers move over his stomach, the gold chain glittering beneath his touch and he gleams. If only you had a handful of grapes, what the picture you would make. "I am sorry, Eduard. I did not know it bothered you. You think that... perhaps because there is so much of that, that there is..." gilt-green eyes fix upon you, "...nothing else? That is not so. I love you and I like you. You are my greatest friend, and you are my lover. So, do not find it strange, ami, that I want to be on my back, side or stomach for you. I ... like to fuck, and we are exceptional, do you not think?" Valan smiles sunnily.
"And you are beautiful when you blush. It is a wine red, Eduard. With the dark of your hair and your eyes," Valan sighs, theatrically -- but it is no jest. "So... tonight we will not fuck. You and I will sit on the sofa and read..."
Edward laughs now, seeming a little more at ease. "Ah. This is the part where I say, 'no, no, I didn't mean to suggest that we wouldn't.'" He had not thought of Ian and William's staff, but now that you point it out, he exhales, thinking a moment. "Their...staff...?" he asks, making a circle with his left fingers and inserting a right index finger in and out of the circle. Wow.
Valan laughs and it lights up his face, his mussed hair -- is it not the picture of the young man who existed once upon a time two years ago? "It is good to know that some of the things I taught as a boy were universal," he says, speaking of the hand gestures. He raises a hand. "I am just saying that I do not think it is a coincidence that their staff is populated with beautiful young men. In Scotland, I was given my own valet... and he was given not just to brush off my clothes and hand me my jacket, mais oui. It was all I used him for," he immediately explains, then slants a smile, "... and dinner. But... if I had wanted more, I can imagine that a different Strathfayr altogether would have been offered to me. So, do I think other couples do this? Certainment. But I do not care what they do," a shrug. "If it bothers you, I will try not to be so beautiful and desirous. You will have to try not to be so alluring and powerfully sexy."
His foot lifts, it brushes against your leg. "Pour me another Napoleon?" Valan purrs. "I think I'm addicted." Speaking of addictions. "Does sucking your cock count?" he asks suddenly, grinning like a cat. "It is a lot to ask for me not to want to have my dinner." It is his favorite meal, and how he most prefers his dinner. "There are some who say it is not really sex..."
He watches you another moment after you speak. Considering. Eventually, he nods, and turns to see about making your Napoleon. "We'll have dinner," Edward murmurs, accidentally sauntering to the bar. It's mostly an attempt at casual relief. He sighs as he moves around the bar, opening the refrigerator beneath to find juice. "And...that..." he can't even say it to you, "...counts. In fact," Edward grumps, setting glass out and pouring, "...that's probably what I need." Something basic, calming, and without work. However, once you have him where you want him, it's unlikely he'll remain seated.
Another exhale and Edward gives his attention to his hands and the bottles. "I'm not trying to be alluring." Gah. He winces. "That sounded stupid." Because he wants to be. "Just...you..." he sighs, "...make me crazy, Valan. Just fucking nuts," he laments, putting ice into the glass.
"Hmm... Chinese take-out..." he suggests, and he lies back, his back to the arm of the comfortable, modern sofa, propped up by the pillows and gleaming upon the pool of saffron silk that fell from his shoulders but moments ago. His fingers rest against his flat stomach, nowhere near as chiseled as yours and William's. They move now and then. See, even he cannot resist touching himself.
"You do not have to try. You have those smoky dark eyes. You look at me, especially when your chin is tilted down a little, when you look up.. ah... what can I do but lie here and spread open. I cannot believe I am the only one who has fallen for that look." He smiles softly, warmly. "Crazy," he says, his voice easing over the word.
"But it bothers you? That I drive you crazy. I touch you and..." he waits. What? "I mean, is it unusual for a lover to make the other one crazy as you say..." What is the difference? Why does it bother you? "Is it... being out of control?" Valan wonders. "Do you think I am clingy or... dependent? Maybe we should have that Monogamy Discussion we have been putting off...maybe that is part of it..."
Monogamy discussion? Now Edward looks up, drink done. "What monogamy discussion?" he wonders, moving around the bar. This is as monogamous as he's been...well...ever. "Maybe...I'm just a fuckin' prude," Edward says, leaving the last bit behind. He walks around, black boxers fluttering at his thighs. "Fuck if I've ever felt like this. And Christ, having to tell you about it..." he laments...
"The one we should have had when Davydd slipped you the little black book, well... silver... that he borrowed from you. I am not blind, Eduard. Besides, we all know that you are not gay. I am. But that does not mean that you must be this way. You love me, I know. I love you, you know that and I know that. And that is the part that is important." Valan rolls his shoulders slightly. "I have had you to myself for three years," he murmurs, and he smiles. "And I know that I am the One that is in your heart. You chose me. You asked me to join you. I joined you. What is more important than that? If it would make you feel less... I do not know... trapped or...pinned in... for you to fuck some woman when you are out taking care of Thierry's city then...who am I to say I do not want my Eduard happy. And," golden eyebrows lift, "...whom else should you tell, ami?" Valan smiles gilded. "You should tell me. I am your lover, yes? That is what this is."
You walk around the bar and Valan sits up, preparing to take the Napoleon. "In some ways, I must admit that I enjoy ... making you feel something you have never felt before. I know that I please you. I hear it in your voice. I feel it in your skin as you move on me. I know it, Eduard." A strong leg lies over its partner as he crosses them at the ankles. "I do not think you are a prude, well..." Valan grins, "...for a straight boy..." I must make you laugh. See, ami? It is not so bad.
"Oh, yeah, this is very straight," Edward says about as dryly as he can, waving the drink between you and him before he gives it to you. "Christ, I don't want other people. Women," his hand waves. "Whatever. Right now, I just want you." I just want to figure out how to handle you...and me. And this thing between my legs and in my chest. Hands are firm on this as he motions at you. Just you.
Edward sighs again, but keeps himself an arms' length from you, near your feet. Hands rest on his waist. "I must be a prude. Repressed. Something. It's never been like this." Avoiding sex. Well, the potential for eternal hours of it. "I'm...nervous," he says last, quietly.
At least it has at last been spoken. Valan is content with your answer. He nods and the matter is dropped. He smiles as you mention straight, your sense of humor intact despite yourself. Valan takes the glass and takes a sip. "Dieu, this is good. A better Napoleon than I make, and that is saying something."
He looks at you a long while, his eyes making their way down your form, face to figure, and his lips upturn, a slant. A savoring slant. "You're not a prude, Eduard. You yourself told me that you had not been with many men. Maybe... you are still...coming to terms with it in some way. You do not act repressed," Valan murrs, grinning broadly. "Not last night or the night before. When you are in it, you are... fully in it." Very fully, in fact. "You do not hesitate. You are... incroyable... " That word. It was the first word he said to you, or close to it. He said it about a thousand times after you were first together.
As you speak of being nervous, Valan sets down his drink and reaches for a hand. "Nervous... nervous about what, ami?"
"If I fucking knew, we'd not be having this bloody conversation, now would we?" Edward chirps. "And yeah," hand waves, "...when I'm there, I'm there. It's just..." and his face contorts. "How I feel." That's more accurate. "I told you this before," Edward says, doing a snap turn to head back to the bar. "Like something's fuckin' inside me..."
Well then...
Valan exhales, his hand drawing back. You refuse to touch. "I am sorry you are nervous. I wish I knew what to say or to do, Eduard," Valan says softly, calmly. "It does not sound... this feeling... like a feeling I would want to give you. Like something is inside of you." He is concerned a little, perhaps bothered a little.
A hand plucks at the robe. He pulls it over him like a blanket. A fluttering, golden, silk blanket. It covers his stomach and thighs, it covers the golden chain around his stomach. "I wish I knew what to say to help you." Valan sits forward a little, lifting his glass again. He takes a sip in silence.
"You can't," Edward says, not having noticed your hand. At the bar, he's fixing himself a drink to join you. He glances up to see you moving, replacing your robe. "I'm sorry," he says, "...it sure isn't because I don't want to..." he admits, "...and in fact," Edward grins, pouring himself a shot of scotch, "...I'm sure, after we have these drinks, we'll be well on our way..." The scotch, as soon as it's poured, is downed. There. Courage in a shotglass.
Edward exhales, breathing the fumes rising from his throat. The bottle and bar are abandoned, and Edward walks directly to a spot near your knees.
He is not upset about the fact that you are not on him right now, that he is not fighting for his life, that he's not being pounded into the fabric of the sofa. It was the refusal to touch that bothered him. He is not used to this. "I am not upset," Valan murmurs. "Not about that," he notes. "You are not obligated, Eduard. I do not want you to come to be because you feel that I expect you to. That is dangerous territory to enter. It is easy, ami, to get lost in such terrain."
A sip of the Napoleon and he sets the glass aside again, just as you are coming to stand by him. "Maybe we should just ... read. Maybe I will rub your shoulders instead...maybe it would be good for a night... to simply... Be, ami. Not anything else. Just you and me in a room together..."
The breath rushes across his lips. Edward doesn't leave his position. He closes his eyes in a clearing blink, a wonder of how did I do this?
"You'll rub my shoulders and I will want you. You will sit across a room, and all I can think about...is this...stone-cutting diamond...that rests between my thighs. You'll ask me a question and I'll feel your breath at my ear. I'll look at you and want more...always more...more of I-don't-know-what." He makes a low tsk at his lips.
"And even now, despite my...fuckin' whining..." protestations would have worked, "...all I can think about...is when you're going to make me shut up and do what I do best...."
He looks up and shrugs sheepishly, asking to be put out of his momentary misery. A roguish look, part coy and part happily resigned.
There is that look. Those eyes, sable smoke. The look that knows it has a good heart, but likes to pretend it's quite wicked, and in a face like that we are more than happy to play along...
Eduard, you have yet to know your full power... I think perhaps that is what makes you nervous. When we are together, there is no way to conceal it..
Valan's fingers move over the silk and then plucks it, plucks it as easily, and the silk flutters down. When you closed his eyes, he had slipped from his boxers. When the silk robe falls, there is nothing but golden Valan underneath, golden chain lighting your way.
Valan smiles slowly, smoothly, like the dawn of the first day it comes with a shock of beauty. It will shiver in the memory for all time. Gold-green eyes fix upon you. Your eyes. Then your mouth. From your mouth down the center of your chest. He follows the line of the sculptor who carved you, to your stomach and to the blackness that shimmers there, covering but not concealing. He does not tell you to come to him, to do what you do best. He does not speak at all. Valan merely smiles, that slim, confident, world-holding smile, and his finger loops in the waistband of your boxers once more.
Do you look there? Or does your gaze follow the path of his other hand, moving freely, slowly between his thighs. He opens himself, he unfolds to your gaze. He puts himself on display for you. And then his hands pull down the darkness, sending it scattering like sunlight dispelling the shadows of early morning. And the heat of the day crowns over you.
Slowly...
With the roll of his tongue...
Posted by rowan at August 01, 2003 01:17 PM
