Easily...
     Naturally...
     Chenonceau has slipped into Residence once more. The walls and floors exude a warmth at ease with itself and its purpose. All of those years spent in vacant exile are over, and stones and tiles radiate with usefulness again.
     Restoration is a strange process. Often, it is so subtle as to go largely unnoticed. But with the passing several nights, from last year to the next in a single sunrise and sunset, it lies everywhere, obvious. In Chenonceau. And in those who dwell within it. Rejuvenation is contagious...
     The intimate quarters of the former royal apartments have been most intimate since your arrival here. Tonight has been no exception, but even as passion is easy, so too the gentle touch, the stray of a hand -- or of a solitary finger. The passing of quiet words, and soft, but throaty laughter.
     The hearth provides the only light within, and fills the chamber with subtle shades of gold. The warmth? While the fire does what it may, the true source of it has been close quarters in a large bed of many covers and pillows, the passing motion, now settled, the salt of sweat now dried.
     His hand is in your hair, moving that way it does when he is contemplating. Idly, the curl and uncurl of Plantagenet fingers at your scalp. The slow slide of your hair along his fingers until it falls back, only to be disturbed once more. And so on...
     William lies beside you, still partly tangled with you. Indigo eyes roam from your golden hair at his finger tips to the ceiling of the canopy bed that contains you. The drapes are pulled tight on three sides. The forth parted so that the fire's light and warmth may ease within.

     "What do you think, truly?" Ian grins, still laughing at the tales of dogs and vampires stuck in wolf forms. "If I learned such, would it be useful? I think not, now that you tell the other story," Ian mock-grumps, then smirks. A warning against learning abilities and not fully mastering them.
     He turns quickly upon his side to face you. Ian's fingers touch your chest, eyes staring where his fingers land. "What ... too ... would you think of staying at Strathfayr this spring? I haven't seen a spring there, Will, in four years now. I know it is not the blossoms of Chinon, but it does have lilies and heather, laird..."

     There was already a smile forming before you turned. That smile. Even when it is loving and sincere there is an edge of seductability about it. He can't help it. But if you doubted the sincerity of his smile, you find the truth of it in the eyes, dark as they are. There is laughter edging the color, laughter shadowing the pull of his mouth. "I just do not want to see you have to eat Alpo for the rest of eternity," comes the languid baritone, Occitan lilting. "It is not dignified..."
     This, too, is easy. Drifting in bed, laughing with you, drinking wine. Well, he has not reached for his glass in half an hour. Could it be that William has forgotten about it? Has Hell frozen over?
     As you mention spring and heather, the smile slants. "I was... thinking of asking you the same," William murmurs, lifting up on an elbow, hand holding his head aloft. "The two best seasons in Scotland are Winter and Spring. We could winter and remain throughout the spring, then come to Chinon for the summer and stay until the end of fall."
     We are of one mind these nights. And is that a comfort for the world?
     William grins, "So... oui," a bend and a kiss upon your forehead. "... we will go back home to Scotland and we will stay to watch the heather come in and turn the world royal violet."

     Well, there. That was too easy. Ian nods and grins, gaze still following the paths set by his fingertips, as if charting new territory. Grey eyes watch fascinatedly once the scouting party discovers the rising angle towards the center of your chest.
     "I haven't regretted," Ian's Gaelic comes, "...moving back home. I'm glad we did, Will." He can't imagine the state he'd be in if he had remained in the States. "This...is where we are supposed to be." Eyes meet yours, to see if you agree. But he knows you do. Ian smiles softly, his thigh lifting to rest on yours. His foot brushes the back of your calf. A laugh. "Maybe I should find a different topic. I'm wandering," he whispers, leaning in to kiss where his fingers have paused.

     "I like the way you wander," the voice purrs leonine in the broad chest you kiss. It hums against your voice there, and William shifts, a leg sliding to slip between your own. How quickly you and he form a knot. His fingers slide down your back, fingers leaving your hair to follow the curve and strength of the form he has adorned on not just a few canvases. His hand lingers, Plantagenet lion paw at your hip, holding both light and firm.
     "It was a strain, being in America," William says after a moment. "Trying to fit into a new world, a new life. It ... created a strange dynamic. Home... is different. It is hard to believe that we spent the better part of a century away from it." If we had returned sooner, things would have been different. But... they have turned out alright in the end.
      Blue-violet eyes are lidded as he leans in, a kiss to the crown of your head, and he remains curled against you. Watching you kiss his chest, take the sight of him in. "I haven't regretted it either, nor of giving up work," William grins. "I am happy to tend to you, to our spaces, to art. I know business has been... demanding of you lately. But I also see you are enjoying it. And I..." his laughter resonates in his chest, his hand gripping you. "I like interrupting you..."

     "And I..." Ian looks up, "...like your interruptions." Merely suggested before, the slight, angled smile and flash at Ian's brow confirms his motion towards you. "Work...is fun again, I admit," he whispers, hand leaving the edge of the world to fall into the dark abyss between you. Felt, if invisible. Consider it deep space exploration.
      "Mmm," Ian purrs, remembering something at the same time. "I forgot. A call came today," call somehow requiring a gentle pulling, but whatever, "...apparently, there is a boar at home." Scotland. "Eamonn and the boys have found some destroyed trees and a few wild animals that didn't make it..."

     Fingers curl against your hip and his hand slides downward, grasping at the small of your back before pressing downward to cup you. Fingers roam and William tilts his head, dark eyes seeking to find your hand moving on him in the darkness. The voyeur streak finding expression and release -- despite the fact he cannot see what he most certainly can feel.
     "Mmm... I know," the smile pulls, a languid slant, "...and I like watching, as you know." The chuckle is dark, wicked, full of too much knowing. And for all that, decadent. "To listen to you on the phone... to do what... you love," conquest, "... I have wanted little else but to be on my knees." William chuckles again, the laughter as much a soft groan.
     "Boar?" he asks suddenly, indigo eyes popping open, eyebrows cocking up. "Hmm... we will have to do some hunting then. Maybe it is that same boar. We never did catch him," you know the one, the one who helped him discover the hunting shelter. "I long to be in snow again. This time of year, I just want to be in snow, hunting, coming to you wrapped in furs," as he has come into your office-den on several occasions this winter, wearing a fur and nothing else, interrupting at least one conference call...

     He figured as much. "Eamonn will do a bit of tracking this evening, he said. Maybe it is more than one, at this point." Fingers move together, and sometimes apart. "Apparently, others have mentioned damage at pub," Ian shrugs softly. Where else would Eamonn get all the scoop?
     "Aren't you allowed to come in furs...oh, you said coming to me, wrapped in furs..." Ian smirks. "Aren't you allowed to interrupt me only once? Did we have rules about this?" Or about how long one is allowed to caress and stroke with his hands, before mouths are required? No? Ian quirks, as if trying to recall the latest guidelines. "I did get through the rest of the call pretty well, thank you...." he remembers, the length in his hand now some sort of touchstone.

     Stone is an accurate description...
     There is a grin for it all. Fierce. Sensuous. Pleasured. Loving. Tortured. "Plantagenets do not follow rules," voice as taut as the rest of him at the moment, "...we make them up as we go along, as long as it suits us....oui..." Ah, now that affirmation had nothing to do with the topic at hand.
     Speaking of ...at hand...
     In your grasp, he has lengthened and thickened. The twitch -- a grace of mortal response, courtesy of magicks -- coming with every stroke. But it is with learned discipline that the conversation continues. "Really... hmmm... maybe it is not a boar. No one is being hurt? You know what they say ... keep to the road," and William wildly grins, canines distended, lengthening even as he does in your hands.
     His hand slips between the rounds of you. Two can play at this game. As your hands caress, his fingers tease at entry. "Hmmm... I thought you would manage," back to the phone call as his fingers slip between you. "... you always do. Your desk makes a half-decent bed. Just the right height with you flat on your back with your legs in the air..."
     There is a rising dampness, the first sensation of salt and Him, liquid rising to smoothen the way. "I am glad... we have come to ... a way to work together," and he grins broadly, fingers swirling, then breaching you at last.

     His eyes close, as if touched by some exquisite pleasure. Color rushes to his cheeks, and for an instant, Ian's hands still. He inhales sharply, pressing his lips together. His skin is forever young, forever yours. Untouched by time.
     The smile stretches slowly as Ian melts from the abrupt claiming. Once more, his fingers glide, but this time in a more deliberate fashion. White-blonde hair rustles beneath your chin where Ian's head dips forward.
     But what was I saying?
     Working together...that's it. Us working together.
     "I love you," he whispers at the catch of your collarbone and chest. Ian does not notice his movements back towards your hand, or the gentle motion forward where he holds you. "We shouldn't have taken so long..." to learn how to be like this.

     His lips glance your forehead. White-gold hair of a Northern Son. Lidded eyes catch the sight of it as you lean in. His voice is a breath at your skin. Deep, held in the chest you kiss. Languid, slow to pull from him lips. Distracted. But somehow, as bodies begin to dissolve in and around one another, the conversation is an anchor. You drift back into his hand. His hips curl, thighs tightening, length pressing against your fingers. You create between you a kind of writhing ocean.
     William closes his eyes, his smile tracing against your skin. "Hmmm...and I love you. And even though it took us a long time to get back home, hmm? We are here now." Now. "And free... Dieu, the life we are having, amours... and will have. I am looking forward to spring in the highlands. It has been too long."
     Long...
      The groan is long... the length a fitting match...
     "Long in coming," William says with a sliding grin. And he chuckles, he can't help it, and he moves in your hand. Even as he moves his hand in you. Fingers stroking, it is a slow, deliberate consumation. To feel you there, enjoying him as he is enjoying you -- there is an electricity that moves through him, and his body reverberates with it. The length in your hand thickens, and twitches.

     Ian looks up, grinning fully now. How can you talk? he wonders, not attempting the same. Instead, he lets his head fall against his pillow again. Ian's fingers release you, and one hand comes to touch your cheek, the other your arm. Now, he'll try and speak.
     "We could have picnics or swim," Ian murmurs. "You know," he sighs, still moving gently, "...the glade near the west wood? The creek widens to a pool? We haven't been there in ages," he sweetly laments. Something from a long time ago. Memories rush forth, and Ian finally leans up, blinking once at you before he places a kiss upon your lips.

     He laughs and the control slips a little, as no retort comes quipping back. There is the distracted but quite keen gaze. The devouring look as it slips between you, watching. Predatorial voyeur upon the beginning of another coupling. How can I talk? I cannot now.
     Images slip more than words, the layers of time unfolding from where you are joined. An image of a summer night, a short summer night, sometime long ago. In that pool, wading, naked -- as if there is any other way -- and making love, with horses tied nearby. It's been a long time since you and he have been there in that season...to enjoy Scotland... as much as you are enjoying one another...
     Your hands set him free, a bondage from which he sought no delivery, and his fingers sink into you, thrusting gently. Two. Three. Making way for him. His mouth captures, it suckles, it teases, it covers. Lately... he has been having a ...fruit fixation. The taste of it. Eating it. Painting it. Sipping the juice from your skin. Yours, a plum's. William takes your mouth as sweetly, and with as savoring a sear, as if you had a wedge of something sweet between your lips. But to him, your mouth is better than the fruit of this world. Even of his own orchards.
     And his hand rolls against you as he rolls you onto your back. To fingers slipping within, deeply, his thumb and forefinger stretching to roll against you, tickling against the orbs. William parts the kiss, but he does not replace his fingers with the length you have stroked to life. His mouth pulls against your chest and lingers at your stomach.

     I remember it clearly, the last time we were there....
     Decades ago. A summer in Scotland before we found ourselves trapped in the Americas. At home. We'd spent many an evening there, splashing about. Swimming together. Twined in each other's arms as we swirled like naiads. The horses stood as guard. And when we tired of floating, we lay upon the grass, drying in the twilight's breeze. When we could stand it no more, we made love. And swam once more.
     "Has it been that long?" Ian asks out of nowhere, letting the words cross your joined mouths. When he really thinks on it, it has been a short forever.
     "What happened to us, Will?" Ian wonders sadly.

     His mouth stops its worship at your stomach, and indigo eyes slip upward, trailing as palpable as fingers to your face. And the look is open, the expression Knowing. Holding in it the full knowledge of all the joy, and all the sorrow that has passed. William looks to you a long while, a handful of heart beats in it, and he settles back beside you, his hands merely holding you.
     Holding you is enough...
     Decades ago. Nearly a century ago, in truth. It was between the wars of the 20th Century. After that, you and he were in America. Why you and he did not stay to help rebuild Europe, he'll never know. "I don't know," William murmurs, half hovering above you, propped up again. His hand lays upon your stomach. Fingers curling and uncurling upon one of his favorite scapes. "I think it was the culmination of ... sickness," we both had it, "... and time. And forgetting." Indigo eyes fasten upon you and the look is placid-serious. "Sometimes, life gets the better of you. I think... somewhere in Edinburgh," he shakes his head. "I... just... got sick. Then we were sick together, and tired after the world wars. Maybe... if we had retired a bit and remained in Europe... it would not have taken us as long. But..." there is a slight smile, but it is deep in its affection and in its warmth, "...we cannot retrace those steps, nor should we. They went around in unpleasant circles. Now, well... for years now... we have been walking forward. Maybe not sure of what the direction is," a slant of a smile, more self-directed, "...but it has been...forward."
     William bends, his mouth brushing against your own. "I love you. And I wish we could have gotten here, where we are together, with less pain. But... I am just happy we are here now."

     A smile is returned by your blonder self. Ian nods and closes his eyes, hand resting upon yours. "Forward, ever forward," he whispers, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "I see it clearly now," he murmurs, "...you and I. One time...I saw nothing but darkness...."
     Grey eyes open to see you again, a familiar, silken texture. Ian's fingers brush back and forth over yours as his stomach hollows on an exhale.
     "I'm ready," he whispers, knee lifting as his foot comes flat upon the bed. Finger hooks around your wrist to pull you downward and closer where he lies.

     "You were not alone. In that darkness... we could not see our own hands in front of our faces... is it any wonder, then, that we did not see it in one another?" His voice is deep and soft, resonant and at your skin. William bends as you pull him, he comes slowly to you. There is no need to rush...
     For tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will come, and you and he will still be Here. The location does not matter: Chinon, Chenonceau or Strathfayr. Kenya, Switzerland, America. India, Cairo, Monte Carlo...
     A knight's arms slip thickly beneath and around you, and he rolls you in his arms. "Forward," William murmurs, smiling at your mouth as he moves forward, "...forward... you and I..." The silk and fine linen moves against your skin, and then the weight of a warm-skinned Norman duke...

Posted by rowan at June 18, 2003 08:14 PM