The bed is uncommonly large. Constructed from a custom design, built by none other than one of the four men sleeping in it even now, it was built to withstand the onslaught it has received. Spacious as it is, when William designed it he did not truly think it would ever hold four men...
Likewise, the relationships that have been formed and created within it were not a part of some overarching plan. It began with a simple idea (food) and has become something much greater. This is not to over-romanticize the point, for it is as it is, but how did one simple desire to paint beautiful men turn to the fulfillment of a singular need for food at sea and become the fulfillment of two lifetime's liberation?
Cinnamon, hashish and clove curls in thought at it, a smoky veil lifting from the view of indigo eyes that moves over the three bodies besides his own contained in the bed of his own making. In a situation of his own making. And William marvels at it.
Marco cradles Amadeo, both are at the other side of his own husband. Marco and Amadeo deservedly sleep, and heavily. Marco's color is returning. William watches it as he smokes. It is like the spreading of paint in water, the slow reanimation of mortal flesh.
He turns with an exhalation of smoke, his arm reaching out to flick the ash harmlessly away from the bed's fabrics and inhabitants. A half-full glass of pear and honey wine sits by, steeped in the memory of this night, the nights before it, and the young men of Spain who perhaps started it all...
... Are you awake, amours? There is no sound. There is no audible voice. Just the spilling chime of water slapping against the stone. But within you, there is that ease of baritone, that slow, elongated gait of the Angevin voice.
"Yes," Ian murmurs, his back half to you as he lies on his stomach. His face is towards Marco, allowing his hand to rest on his waist. The rest of him was yours for the taking.
Ian sighs and lifts, turning his head and partial spread-eagle opposite. He smiles at you, hand reaching for your thigh. The sleeping Marco and Amadeo get Ian's back. A knee slip up the sheets and touches your leg, giving a nudge. "You're not sleeping?" Ian asks softly, content to lie. What's wrong? he wonders, sensing that you have been up, mulling life again. You think a lot these nights. Another sigh, and Ian closes his eyes once more. "What time is it?" he murbles into the pillow.
There are several things he no longer does. He no longer wakes when the sun is out. He no longer eschews reading (in fact, he reads quite frequently and until that point who knew that he still could?), and he thinks. Plantagenet contemplates. It is with that sound that he voice may be heard, rising up from the thoughts that had him smoking in contented silence. "It is around three or four, I think. It is hard to tell," he says a half moment after.
...And nothing is wrong, amours... but you are right. I do think. And I am as shocked as you are... The wit is never far behind these nights. William takes another breath of hashish and cinnamon fire, he breathes clove smoke like some Eastern dragon, and then with another reach, sets the cigarette in the marble tray to burn itself out -- or until he starts to smoke it again. In the meantime, it will rest.
And he...
The great form eases quite comfortably against you, his large hands taking you with a measure of tenderness, affection and absolute confidence in possession. He holds the most radiant creature he has ever seen, and he is content that this creature is his.
...I do not dream anymore, sleep will come when it comes, and it will come hard... There is a chuckle for the unvoiced joke behind it, the pun he does not speak. ...It is just amazing where we are... compared, amours, with where we were thirty years ago. Not to go back to that, how much can we talk about it. I suppose I am ... contentedly startled...
Ian smiles again, a light 'hmph' breathed through his nose. Academic agreement. "It's true," Ian whispers. His arm moves to rest at your chest. He doesn't really care to speak of it, but letting the thoughts come to him is acceptable. I'd rather not think of where we were then, really. It's over and it was stupid and there's annoyance riding the thought. I made mistakes. There. There's little editing when you're allowed to flow in someone's stream of consciousness. The communication is less structured telepathic conversation than a touch into a flowing river. It's a wonder you make sense of Ian's wash of thoughts, emotions, and continual self-conversations.
His eyes open though, feeling that perhaps you wish to talk. Hard. That was a joke. Too bad I took it seriously.
"Why are you thinking about it?" Ian asks loudly, despite his mind's attention elsewhere.
"I am not thinking about the mistakes, amours." William breathes it. And then he smiles and there is a great wash of emotion, not in anger, not in jealousy... and most importantly, not in guilt. ... Those feelings are gone. It is amazing. I do not feel guilty or ashamed for those stupid things... Indigo eyes look at you, fix upon you and touch you. William is smiling, not grandly, simply. But how that mouth holds it.
He turns to you as your arm curls around him. He turns to you as you come to him. ... I sit here startled that I am not killing myself with it, you know. Did you know? He makes a motion with his hands. It is gone, amours. It is all gone. He does not say he loves you, but his mouth moves upon your skin and you cannot doubt it. There is no room for doubt.
His eyes do not drift to Marco and Amadeo, though his mind goes there for a moment. ..It makes me feel better to know that they are here... after Victoria's breakdown... I was afraid to leave you for even a moment. I was terrified, in fact. But... I feel like if I had to go to Florence or Venice, that I could do so without fear. You would have Marco to keep you company. I... feel a great relief, amours...
"A great relief," William echoes with a breath, a great breath, unraveling a long and tightly held knot. That there will not be a time when I come home and find you having bled to near death or so alone that you are sad. "So... there," so you know now, if you did not before, the weight he has carried for years. You feel him set it down. The responsibility for all of it.
Like Atlas, I had carried this relationship on my shoulders for five years. I bore things out of self-loathing. I even tried to find a confessioner to take the load. Darius tried to tell me then, but now I understand. Forgiveness was... and is not... the issue.
Ian's eyes are a little wide and glassy. Then a frown comes as his hand caresses your temple and cheek. He doesn't know what to say for a moment What?. "I'm sorry," words expressed and thought, the ache still a little there. I shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have... Ian is half-shocked by it, the knife felt beneath his heart now visible. Betrayed, it seemed like. That's what it was. Like you had carved out my heart.
Ian sighs now and rolls onto his back. Unlike you, he refuses to step into the recent past. Some things -- what happened to him a thousand years ago -- he seems to have divorced himself of emotion. Others he perhaps has not truly handled as efficiently. "Sorry," he whispers, knowing you know what he felt then, the night he disappeared from this existence. And, apparently, you still harbor ache on it yourself. We've never really discussed the act itself...my own action. Ian's hand comes to cover his eyes.
"I wasn't...just sad, laird," Ian tries to explain. "I...doubted my...whole existence," he whispers, realizing it now.
I didn't want to get into it. I just wanted to remark on its disappearance. William sighs. Not ache. Responsibility... William exhales again and he shakes his head. "I did not mean to get into this all, that is not... it's not the point, amours, that was not the point. I am not digging through it. More... remarking on its absence." Absence. Do you hear that?
And the shifting of the bed as he bends over you, his mouth upon the hands that cover your eyes. "I am sorry, too," he murmurs.
He says it, even though he vowed he would never say it again. But now, he does not apologize for what happened. The apology is for bringing it up now.
Marco is smart... comes the insinuation of warmth, the internal motion of his mind upon your blood. He does not make you think... mais oui... A sigh at your hand, a deep-seated chuckle.
"I don't want to talk about that," that time, "... I am glad it is over."
That does bring a smile and arched brows of agreement and truth. "He doesn't," Ian smirks at you. "And I'm glad it's over too," he whispers, kissing your arm nearest to him. Ian exhales loudly, setting the last conversation down.
"Tell me, Will," Ian says softly. "You...are not worried?" About Marco...me... He worries about his closeness. It's a failing of mine...
There is a long look at you taken, indigo settling, fixing for a time before his attention shifts to the Italians that share his bed, and now his life. There is a long moment of quiet, and the bond gives away nothing. As if there were nothing there, but that cannot be true. He looks to the body of Marco, cradling Amadeo. Noting the similarities, but knowing the difference.
"No," he says finally, eyes and attention returning palpably to you. "I do not think I have reason to worry. He has a place in your heart," I know it, "... and Amadeo...I know you care for him, too." Marco, the more. And I know why. "I am not worried about Marco," comes the roll of that royal and leonine voice as the body of the king (and that is what he is) settles in the bedding, he settles on his back, his eyes to the canopy, to the idea of stars beyond it. He thinks of painting the canopy, suddenly. "I will outlive him," he murmurs, he smirks. An eyebrow cocks upward and he looks to you. "It will be me that you always come home to. I will worry only if you do not return."
Great shoulders roll and he chuckles. "But I know that this will not happen. For I am me... and he is him. Ne c'est pas? I know what I do for you. I know how much you love me. I know what my place is, and I will not hesitate to remind everyone." Yourself including, if necessary. "I do not think it will come to that." Do you?
William closes his eyes, smile smoothening to a grin. He knows what his kiss does. He knows what his mouth does. He knows the capability of shoulder, arm, chest, legs and groin. There is a self-understanding and a self-knowing there that no mortal can approach. It is beyond confidence. It is assurance. With a capital 'A'. He opens his eyes with a flash of blue-violet, cocking up an eyebrow again. "You should not worry either..."
...What failing... comes the thought after a moment more.
"What failing?" Ian repeats, not knowing the topic. "Oh, me...and..." how I seek you in others. "Nevermind," he waves off. "You should make sure that I never worry...about me. Remind me often," why I seek you in all things. "Maybe I worry too much," Ian admits, then narrows his gaze, as if having to reconsider that comment.
"Aristotle's Shadows," William murmurs. And you thought I never paid attention. We have talked about this before. The fencers. The gift. It makes William smile, a curling, wicked look for a moment, a wash of decadent 'oh yes' and then it recedes. "Come here," he says softly, voice deep, a resonance chest and gut and blood, and he reaches for you.
"You should not worry," he comforts, arm around you, mouth to your forehead. "You do not seem to be when you are with him... with them. Do not worry about finding me in them, amours. I'm usually in the bed with you...well," a chuckle, "... sometimes in the bed with you. Find Marco in Marco, and Amadeo in Amadeo, for I am right here." Enjoy them for them, and yourself for your own sake.
"I am not worried about being replaced. That simply will not happen," an edict given. "It is not possible," an assurance voiced. "If you see me in them, then I am flattered, but do not consider it a failing. When I am enjoying Amadeo, I think of you. But Amadeo is Amadeo. I think of him too..."
Ian's still as you speak, trying to take in the words. There's something wrong in enjoying the person as a person. Won't you...be upset? It's...being unfaithful? Ian sinks and sighs, hearing himself. I can't change...it's been like this for so long. I've thought like this for so long.
"Ach," Ian spits out, suddenly sitting up beside you. Hands run through his head, pulling his face and scalp. "I can't change," he says firmly. "It's how I am." It's unfair to them all; it has been this way since the first time I was with someone when you left Scotland for the first time. How long ago was that? So long ago...
Ian seems more frustrated than anything else. The sheet crinkles around his hips, leaving the back of him exposed. He looks over at the two sleeping. "We're going to wake them," he murmurs.
"It is unfaithful the moment that your tenderness and care for them supplants your care and love for me. For in all my life with you, you have been the sole occupant of my heart, Ian. My devotion was always," please hear this, "...always to One. To you," he murmurs, his Occitan flicking at the lift of consonants, dragging with the elongation of vowels. It is a lilt, a lyrical rise and fall that has a natural song-cadence. It is no wonder it was the language of the troubadours. It is music.
"Infidelity is a loss or betrayal of faith and of the heart and soul. We have never been unfaithful, Ian. Never. Not I then, not you now. For is your faith to me damaged because we have chosen occasional companions? Would I put up with that for a moment, if it were true? Non. I love you, but I would not tolerate infidelity. Nor should you." Not once did his voice raise, but in a fluent glide it eased between you, against your ear as surely as his tongue is wont to curl. William glances to the sleeping pair. He smirks. Wake them? Not likely. After what we have all done... and the blood that has spilled... they will not wake until the sun has started to set. They are on our time, amours... do not worry about them...
A heavy, Plantagenet hand lands upon your thigh beneath the sheets. A clasp, he squeezes slightly to assuage your worry, your concern, your frustration. No one is asking you to change, laird. I am just telling you not to worry...
"I have worried," Ian half-laughs, "...since the night I was made This Way," he confesses. "And then..." Ian smiles at you, "...since the afternoon of your first installation." Ian sighs, eyes wandering around the room.
"And Truth, William," he says to you, hand around yours. "If I had not felt unfaithful and treated unfaithfully...would I have..." done what I did that night. Attempted to end whatever was happening to me, to us.
"I was tired. And I thought...you were tired too." Be honest...
Be honest...
... To be honest, I don't want to go over that again...
William looks at you. "For me... there was never a break of faith. Never once did I love anyone but you. Never." He leaves it at that. He is not about to go point-by-point over his mistakes. Over yours. What's the point. "I was tired of my role, I was not tired of you or this..." In moments previous there was not upset, there was not anything there but freedom, relief, love. But there rises now a rivulet of emotion.
The bed sounds as he leans over, he half rolls over you, his hand landing upon Marco's head. "Svegli... l'introito Amadeo alla vostra stanza. E quasi alba..." he whispers, voice echoing against Marco's own blood.
Marco lifts, eyes blinking open, his skin shuddering, waking him suddenly. He looks between you for a moment, then to Amadeo in his arms. He nods. "Si," he whispers, voice soft in his sudden waking. He looks to Amadeo, hand upon his shoulder, lightly shaking. "...Amadeo, risveglio... viene... noi deve andare..."
The bed sounds but does not squeak, sounds with the shifting of the two men. Amadeo wakes, but only so much as to move, even still a little painfully from William's earlier onslaught -- perhaps you can sympathize. Marco helps him from the bed, looking to you. A farewell. A soft smile. He will want to see you again.
"Buona notte, ragazzi," William says, and the bed sounds again as he lowers, as the two naked Italians move from the bed, fully visible to you, one helping the other, an arm around him. Their room is now in the adjoining suite. They do not bother dressing.
"I am sorry I have us reliving this sad chapter again. I had put it behind me. I had remarked tonight how far from me it was. How for the first time in many years I am free of guilt, and free of the need to punish myself," his voice is soft, speaking inmost thoughts as the door to the chamber closes. "You do not think I am being honest." He feels it. Be honest, you said. "If I thought you were wronging me, I would tell you, Ian. And if I thought that I had wronged you in my heart and soul, I would have not continued to do so. How could you live with a man that cruel, that knowingly cruel. And how could you forgive such pain and suffering?"
There is quiet from Ian as he looks down to the bed. They are good questions, all, that you ask. "Maybe, I just needed to hear you...say...that I had not wronged you," he whispers. "I tried not to," he murmurs. He must believe this on his own, William.
"I know that you did not," Ian says. "I believe this and understand it now. I do, really, Will. You just...seemed upset by...Tanner. How I treated him...it is how I treated others. I...I remember you asking...how was glorifying one different than short-changing many," eyes turn to you. "I thought it was. And...I guess I was wrong."
That -- was what Ian needed to say. There has been much discussion of you, indeed, Plantagenet. But little of Ian's own sense of guilt over his attempts not to be.
"They are like security blankets," Ian smiles, looking at the door as the two leave. "I need one," he confesses. "I always have," Ian says to you.
He sighs, having something else to say. Perhaps to your last questions. "I thought, you thought," he grins for the tangle, "...that I had wronged you. With Keith, with...those others. And that you thought I would do it again...with Alire. That pattern bothered you," he half asks, "...and I did it. Maybe," Ian sits up fuller, "...it was projecting. I felt..." hard to say, "...hurt. And I thought you felt the same."
"As all things Plantagenet," he murmurs, settling in now that the bed is remarkably large once more, two less bodies. "I considered it my own failure, rather than you hurting me in recompense. Though, I felt then that I deserved it, the hurt. It was, afterall, what I had done to you. I absorbed it. I should not have."
He pauses, he looks to you, and his hand is in your hair. Indigo settles on the mercury. "You did not wrong me, Ian. Was I ever from your mind or your heart? Was it not so... the more of them, the more of me?" Again that night of opium. Unbelievably all of those words rang true to him and stayed with him.
"I thought... what I thought, Ian, was that I was a failure. That I was a disappointment. Not that Tanner or ... what was that other one earlier... ah," he grumbles, unable to remember the names of your lovers. "... anyway...whomever... I did not think that they were better lovers or more able to love you than I. I didn't even believe you loved them more than I. I thought you respected them more than I. That they gave you something... something that I could not. I was not capable of it. Business, politics, being more Ventrue than William Plantagenet." A look to you, a smirk. That old thing. "That was the source of my upset. I did not feel betrayed," William murmurs, mouth brushing yours as he softly continues, "I did not feel wronged or supplanted. I felt inadequate. And I am a prideful man. I know," he exhales. He thinks about it a moment. He is utterly quiet. And then...
"I felt as though I had not ... measured up in some way. I felt that way with my brother," when he speaks it in the singular, it is always Richard. Always. "With Augustus," the King of France, no less, his own liege. "We were the same age, Augustus and I. And Augustus... well," he chuckles, "He was Richard's favorite. So..." He has never once mentioned that so succinctly, so simply, so directly.
"When Alire," softness upon the name, softness for an old friend and an old hurt, "...appeared, I saw in him all of the qualities that I did not think I had. I saw in him all that I thought you had deserved. I knew in him one of the gentlest souls on earth. And I ...felt that if you had gone to him, I would not have been able to compete with that ... goodness and rightness. That he, from his soul to his wardrobe, was all you ever wanted in a man, in one package. And I did not want to be left holding the horses..."
"So," he chuckles suddenly, "... in my flair for the dramatic... I pitched a Plantagenet fit..."
Holding the horses? A metaphor he does not know. But he can understand the concept of left behind. "They were all you, in some way. Me," Ian smiles, "...trying to be better. Maybe, if I kept trying," he smiles wistfully, "...I'd get...whatever it was...right. Eventually. And then maybe you would...be less intrested in other activities. Even art. I don't even know what right was," Ian laughs, "...just...if I did it Right ... you'd...not look at anyone else or do anything else. Maybe, I don't know when to stop, hmm? Pale substitutes, all," Ian murmurs, bringing your hand to his lips. "I don't know how I could think...that if I showed you how I could love you by being with someone like you that...you'd see...how much I loved you, really," Ian grins.
There, the melancholy sets in.
Ian exhales, shaking his head. "I was so confused at what I saw in your heart...when I tried to look there. That...was mine." My error.
"So, now, I have this..." habit. "Every one," that I am with "...must represent you. And yes," Ian's mouth opens at your palm, "The more of them, the more of you. It was true."
"I'm sorry," Ian grins, blushing almost. He turns his cheek at your hand. "Did you love Richard?" he asks openly. It would not be so surprising. Many did. Why not a brother feel something more than filial? "Personally, I liked his younger brother better," Ian teases.
Eyebrows lift. "Why didn't you tell me you had a thing for Geoffrey?" A pause and he smirks. "You are not going to lie in my bed and tell me now that you loved John, are you?" Yes, he knows you mean him, but a dose of humor was needed. As for Richard. "I was eleven, what did I know...but that it was Augustus he chose." he murmurs. That is all he says. It is not all he knows. You know the rest of the story. He punished Augustus for the rest of his days. Augustus fled the crusades and William died. He never had the chance to conquer France as he intended. But look who is living in Chinon, oui? It is not Augustus. It is me.
My, my...there is still a little hate left over afterall...
"We both know that Marco is not me," back to what started this all. "And ... that I feel no harm, no hurt in him being here with you. I would not allow it otherwise. As I said, it is done. There is no ... reason for me to be worried. So... let's not, hmm?" his thumb moves against your skin. William smiles, he bends, he kisses you. "Lionheart's little brother is happy to hear that," he murmurs there.
"You can make love to Marco all you like, I will still be painting," he chuckles. "Maybe I will paint that. You know..." clearly you do not, so he is about to tell you, is what that means. "...I would have them make love for me when I was painting... I would watch them, think of you, and paint. Maybe I will have to have all three of you do this for me the next time I get ...stuck." His arms come around you and you are drawn to him, pulled like the undertow of the sea by his arms beneath the surface of the covers.
"Do we understand one another," he says softly at your ear. "You know that I love you, I know that you love me. I know that there is no one who could replace me. You know that there is no room in my heart for anyone but you. I know you like to fuck Marco. And Amadeo," he smiles. "I know that I make you cry out like no other man in this world. Even if Amadeo and Marco are both piled upon you, it is nothing like being covered in me. Have I left anything else out?"
"No," Ian laughs, cheeks ruddied courtesy of Marco. You make me sound like a lecherous pervert. Ian shakes his head, face at your chest. I think that's it.
At least you did not have incestuous dreams of an older brother and then twist your loathing of his ultimate choice into punishment heaped upon his only living relative. So, you like to sleep with multiple men. I would take that perversion over the other...
He has come a long way when he can make fun of his own foibles, even those previously most secret. He says it, even as he expects this shall be a topic of conversation, possible revulsion, and more than a little bit of fun.
Long and strong legs stretch out and he sprawls lordly, half covering you as he rolls over to lie on his stomach. You feel the musculature you have memorized these many, many years. His mouth brushes at the line of your jaw. "It will make me feel better to know that you will have someone with you if I am called away. For now, it is Marco. When Marco is... no longer suitable," for he shall become so, unless we ghoul him, "...then we will be careful about who will follow him. And think of it this way... if I have to go somewhere, say... I could take Amadeo with me... I would not have to hunt, and you would always know what I am having for dinner." His laughter moves him against you, though the sound of it is soft.
The motion, the laughter, the sound of water slapping against the stone. All of these sensations blend as his mouth moves along your jaw, to your chin, to your lips. The mouth unequalled pulls at your own, suckling the taste of you, the flavor of all that has passed your lips this night, and his half-covering becomes a slow, rolling conquest.
But now... amours... now it is our time... and it is my turn...I have you... all to myself...
Melting sounds like this. It comes in silent acquiescence. The relaxation of the muscles, unnoticed. The lowering of the eyes. The opening of one's hands. The heavy breath, sent forth by easy exhalation. Slightly parted lips and a rush of warm blood to feed the stillness.
Ian's hands rest lightly along his husband's formidable biceps. The kisses that grace his chin and lips are met with the closing of his eyes. He has always given himself over to this...these first moments of vulnerable surrender and open reception. Breathing your shared desire first expressed. You ask for him in the touches of your fingers, the kisses adorning him. I want. Ian replies with a heaving of his chest at the touch, the whine caught in his throat. I want too. You can have whatever you wish, for I wish the same...
Marco and Amadeo. Ah, this is not theirs. They are to sleep, dreaming of angels. Ian smiles suddenly, his fingers pressing into your arms.
He is not normally wont to expressions of tenderness. To lay with William is something more akin to weathering a hurricane, sleeping on lava and having mountains move on you. It is more cataclysmic and soul-rending than the soft claspings of warm bodied mortals. But when you spread beneath him, when you acquiesce so sweetly, you find something more sweet, more honeyed in return. Savoring.
There are two hours yet before you will fall asleep, and those hours and you shall be filled to the brim of daylight...
Your husband lifts from the kiss, lifts from the touch of your hands, the touch sliding from biceps to forearms as he rises. Nothing but the sound of water upon marble sounds for a moment.
And then his mouth is at your stomach, parting, claiming as it dips to groin, and you feel his hands, his arms, surrounding your hips.
...This is mine... His mouth brushes over your groin, his nose nudging you. His mouth suckles. ... They are sweet boys... but they cannot make you claw your way out of bed like I can, curl your toes, make you cry out... you miss me... when you are with them. You would have to have them in you... both of them... to be as full as when you are with me...
And what William's mouth claims, few can counter-claim. It is a husband's right, it is a king's place that he asserts. And he claims dominion over this bed.
It is his...
The 'mmph' Ian emits is sudden. The arms around his hips forces the arch in his back, but Ian bends more, allowing the top of his head to touch his pillow. His left knee falls open and hands widen to hold the sheets.
Oh, it is true, I swear...there is nothing like this...nothing like you...more...yes, more... Bedding moves around you, crumpled and dragged by clawing fingers. Hips, once still, rise and fall in your arms. He tries to hold, to save something, but with you, control is futile. Just a touch makes him want to rush headlong to the end, to the levels of pleasure that Ian knows await him. He groans at it, then allows himself to take a breath, to let things crescendo at the pace you set.
This is the contentment. This is the understanding. This is the knowledge that makes him smile to see you in the arms of another. For he knows that there is nothing like his touch, there is no one who could make you feel as he does. The sun shines on that revelation and there is nothing to spoil it. No doubt to darken it. It is truth, blatantly on display with every curl of your hip, widening of your legs, sound from your throat, with every slip and slide of you within and without his mouth.
There is no taste, no memory of Marco, of Alire, of Keith Tanner, of any one of those lovers you have had, or shall have in the future. Where his mouth falls there is only you and him. Where his tongue delves, thrusting, where do memories of others go?
... Our love is stronger... the thought trails along your blood, beneath your skin stroking from where his tongue swirls within you to your heart and your mind. ...than the bodies of all the men who have wanted to be... where I am now... Not to mention the ones lucky enough to actually make it, only to find themselves discarded when the Norman arrives.
I do not need to hear it. I do not need the confirmation that it is true. I know it is true. When four fencers held you, I thought I would never be able to equal the touch of four, mortal men. How laughable.
How laughable, amours, to have doubted this for one moment. If you had one hundred mortal men in here, it would not matter.
Upon Ian's lips, a smile grows. Oh, William, yes...yes...
Exactly.
At your arms are Ian's hands, pulling at you. He's half-sitting up, as if in response to the thoughts you convey to him. Up here...I need you...here...I need to see you and feel you on me...
Ian blinks, wondering if you understand. The smile has gone, and while propped on one elbow, Ian extends an open hand.
I am up here...I want to see you love me...
You can teach an Old Plantagenet new tricks. Perhaps you thought he might never understand. He might never get it. That all of that information was wasted. That those heated conversations in Seattle and later in New Port were just exercises in releasing consonants and vowels to the atmosphere.
You of all of them should have known better. And it is proven before you. Proven in what he says, in how he is. In how he covers you now, slowly as you watch him, so you can watch him. He looks at you, blue-violet gaze unyielding as he guides himself to you. You feel the weight, the thickness, the pulse. And you see the indigo crystallize, shining with the brilliance of jewels. Light is not swallowed into the darkness. It reflects, glassy, as his universe stills with the pressing of the crown within you.
For a moment, that is all. For a moment, it is enough. You know what follows. Sometimes the beginning of the act takes half an hour, half an hour for him to sink into you, for you to adjust to it, before bodies slip and slide. William's mouth parts at your chin, he sighs, and closing his eyes from the intensity he presses forward.
Indigo glints as his eyes open slightly. They roll as he presses again -- only half way. He withdraws, he presses again, almost three-quarters. It feels like the next press of him will end up in your throat.
He's eager to feel your weight. To know the sensations between the rounds of his rear. To experience pain and hurt swirled in escstatic pleasure. Ian holds his breath when the cool air rushes his body in the moment before your crown touches him. He anticipates your move, your shifting of position. It's part of him now and the blood accelerates in the realization.
The first touch is electric. The slight parting. The press hasn't begun...that is instants later....but in the placement of flesh at his opening, Ian's eyes close.
It comes now. There he...it...is. I understand, Will...oh, yes, I do...
Grey eyes open when his body yields to you. Can you see your reflection in the storm? Ian watches, emotionless. His nostrils flutter, and the slightest beads of sweat gather at his brow. His mouth parts, as his abdominals and groin open and relax.
I've been here a million times before. I want this every night I exist.
Only when you sink does a noise escape from his mouth. A groan twined with a stare.
You know...you know what you are doing to me...don't you...
You must. For you move again.
Oh, Goddess, he's hard and it hurts...
...but don't stop...
...please don't...
Soon, the ache melts. Ian moves with you, groaning with each push, whispering Yes with each withdrawl. The words fall apart in his mind, and only the occasional syllable can be plucked...
...yes...
...hard...
...William...
He knows...
The eyes darken with it, and the vitreous shine of his eyes contains a sudden, piercing focus. He knows what this is. It is pain, it is ecstacy. It is completion, it is discomfort. It is owning. It is forever. From crown to hilt, from flaring of flesh to the thickness of root, forever.
You may breathe when he withdraws, but then he comes again, his shoulders, hips, back, legs, arms coming with him. It feels that way, that arm, chest, hips, back, shoulders, legs all come with him. And when he can go no further, his mouth parts at your chin and he breathes your name.
Ian...
And in it are the names he knows you by, the names of lifetimes lived in the nearly millennial relationship. The secret names: Aithlen, angel. The hereditary names of Wrad the Stag, descendant of Epona. The names that unlock the gates to hidden parts of your soul. And he is the only one with the keys. The only one who can open them with the press of his thighs against your own, widening you beneath him.
And he doesn't stop. And he wouldn't even if you asked him. Maybe if you cried and pleaded. Maybe it would only encourage him.
William's arms sink into the bedding, sinking to surround you, the tightening of strength, formidability lifting you. And then it begins: the onslaught. Him within you, him upon you, him around you. You are on your back now, and there is no telling where you shall end up...
...apart from exhausted, fully used, ecstatic, trembling into daylight...
He's learned not to fight you, to let the waves of pain and lust wash over him. It is easier that way, it's perfect that way.
Ian will end up, across the bed, calling out in pain and pleasure. The bedding will pull into his grasping hands as his body bounces beneath you.
His head will end up dangling at the mattress' edge, eyes closed and body tight.
He will call for you to leave him alone.
He'll call for you to fuck him again and again.
He'll tell you that its too much, hard, hurting...while the key opens him wider and wider.
And you'll see it all, William, a world inside Ian that you know far better than he. A world of wars and longboats, of queens, moonlight, and white-haired champions so beautiful and deadly. Of men who have passed secrets to other men, as long as time has allowed. A place where Romans stand in white togas, and generals with their lovers cross the Pelopenene, determined to win.
Where demi-gods look across their brood, and see you both, together, eternally.
It is at the point at which you plead, that your skin reddens, splotchy where you are joined, near crimson at your face, your neck, the small of your back and your rear.. there, the darkest of all, where he will slip into those Occitan grunts and in the most beauteous Langue d'Oc tell you to take it, all ten of it, length and diameter.
And he won't stop...
It will only encourage him...
And when you beg for the pain of it and the fullness of it, the press and the thickness, the weight of it, he will grasp you, pull you to him. And it will be an hour from that point before he lunges. And Marco and Amadeo will wake to hear the smacking of the bed against the wall, neither one of them under the delusion that they are capable of that great, colossal racket.
And he will go to Valhalla and Tir Na Nog. He will stand upon the seven hills of Rome and flow like the Po. You share white-haired ancestors, longboats and sails painted with dragons. Your blood spotted with the raised standards of legions, eagles and dragons, lions and leopards. Italy. Norway. Normandy. Scotland. Anjou...
And then, only then will the tenderness rise to the surface. It is, with William, a product of exertion and exhaustion. But maybe you won't feel it. Maybe you won't remember it. For about then, the sun would be rising...
Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:49 PM
