Blood drips upon your lips. Drop. Just a drop. Falling on your skin like the start of a rain shower. Here. There. Upon mouth, at the highest point of your cheekbone, at your chin.
     Drip...
         ...Drip...
     Drop.
     The blood comes not from some wound at his neck or some intentional scrape, not even from your fingernails -- though he is marked where your nails dug in some point recently. They originate at his mouth, that mouth stained red from where he bit it. Or was that you?
     The blood drips to punctuate the thrusts that shake the bed, the bed built by the engineer he rolls you now. He built castles, and he built this bed to be a fortification, to withstand assaults such as this.
     There it is...
     You feel it on the blood. An explosion felt in the soul, running along the current of his length like lightning...
     William rolls, his body snapping and quickened breaths turn into one prolonged, Occitan groan.
     The bloody mouth, dripping Angevin wine -- the wine of ancients, what vineyard could touch it -- covers your own. A wide kiss, electric, unfolds as his motions start to slow, each one coming with a great sound, your name, and a heated flow...
     ...Inside you, I become a better man. I become a king crowned, a husband known...
     I breathe at your lips, a tongue swipe over the closing wound. I kiss again. I growl your name. My head is swimming with memories.
     ...Antlered men in the darkness, laying with their chosen lovers like gods...
     The spray of water from vikings legs as they drag their ships to the bank...
      ...An emperor's chalice filled with blood. These things are We, together.
     William stops, his body resting heavily as his hands, his arms slide upward along the surface of the bed, fingers finding Viking's gold. The kiss returns, his mouth returns, warm and wide, opening yours for something sweet and long. Still, the taste of blood. His blood. His blood that is your blood...

     Under your body, a man lies still. At some point, his energy fell away. Hands that clawed at you are now lax. He's stopped breathing. His skin is paler than pale, drizzled with a pastiche of color.
     Droplets of red on his face are brilliant upon smears of pink.
     Black and blue circles punctuate his arms.
     Groin and inner thighs are a tender purple.
     You, a better man now for it, completed and restored within the prize that is yours.
     The prize? A young man's with slowly parting lips, seeking a draw of breath.
     How can he return a kiss? A press at his mouth, and he can barely taste it. The blood has been plentiful, and even such a prize can drown in it. His own release came some time ago, thrust from his loins as if it should assuage the force upon him.
     It did not.
     Such a beautiful prize, now wearing the marks of the last hours. Not wounds of pride, not yet. They are not his that he should take honor in. Maybe later. For now, the marks belong to you, are yours, as evidence of yourself. When they are no longer visible to the world, only then shall they become internal armor.
     The man's lips beneath your part wider. More air. Something to feel, something that restores, even if only in the mind. He groans softly, his head turning askance, away from your mouth. But you are closest of close, William. He cannot run from your gift, this prize, he cannot speak. A silent prize that untold numbers of men, less than you, would have given kingdoms to know.

     He is still, and in stillness comes realization that could not find him in all his motion. There is the softness in his arms, the lax form of his husband, there is the sting at his arms that he only now feels. And as his body settles, weight redistributing, you turn your head, you groan, and now William is as still as you.
     His breathing is deep, quick. These two hours' labor still evident. And as you breathe, he lifts, his hands bearing his weight upward. He has a bird's eye view of the spoils, the prize spoiled.
     ...A bowl of fruit, rended. Torn. Suckled until the pulp is crushed and the juice runs thick and sweet upon the cloth of the table...
     The bruises on your arms, easy to see upon your fair skin...
     The bruise he can see when he twists his hips, when he slowly -- and very carefully -- withdraws himself from you. Sweet gentleness, found at last...
     The scratches on his own arms, healing. A few of them were deeper than surface...
     Your face, turned from him, splotched, pale, dotted with his blood, your mouth stained, even as his is.
     Why would you want to find this in another...
     There is a large but gentle hand at your head, the stroke of a thumb, the gentle guidance of your face toward him as he settles heavily beside you. His other hand drawing up the light, summer blanket and sheet.
     William is thinking of you, his forehead to your forehead. He cradles you where once he pummelled you. There is the perculation of thought, of feeling... but there is not yet coherence to put them in context. They form no word, no sigh. But if you hear or sense your name being whispered... it is his unspoken concern.
     There is no pride in wounding the beloved...
      There is just the evidence everywhere upon you of his lust, of his assertion. Love was with him, too. Harder to see or to feel when he is so overpowering.
     I'm sorry...
     I'm sorry...
     William closes his eyes, he breathes your name at your forehead and he holds you still.

     "Shh," Ian mumbles. Be quiet. There is nothing to say. We are as we are.
     He will miss your wounds, crowned as you are in them. The bruises and scratches at your arms and shoulders. The path of beaten skin at your side where a knee landed.
     He's tired, Ian is. He suckles his bottom lip, finding himself in the tactile. But the lip is covered in blood, and whose taste is much too known now to give enjoyment. His mind says I need a bath but Ian's not at a rush to make his way from the bed.
     Instead, he sighs, a little confused as to what's happened.

     There is a knitting of brows, motion brings ache, but he doesn't dare complain. There is just a look of perplexion and then he exhales, settling into the bed and on his side, beautiful -- and bloodied -- face half concealed by the feather pillow.
     He is exhausted. Drained. Spent. William takes a breath and breathing slows. He closes his eyes and he rolls back with another exhalation.
     Indigo stares up at the ceiling of the canopy, deep blue-violet still flickering with the energy that was raised, the blood that was tasted, the journey taken and only partly remembered. His hand is still at your head, beautiful blonde head. And he turns to look at you. His eyes fix there. He stares, but he does not speak.
     Nor does the blood move with his voice. You asked. He gives.

     His hands can be like silk or like pummeling stone. They come to rest on his stomach muscles, causing them to shudder under his touch. Ian tries to focus on you beside him, eyes clearer with each passing moment.
     What's wrong?
     It comes unfocused, the most clear of his muddled thoughts and emotions.
     What did I do? I didn't do anything. Stop...he can hear it. No matter. It's too late. The mind only says what his expression shows. Is he alright? Are you alright...

      Indigo settles on you. There is nothing for a moment, but then there is visible upset, a wash of something dark across his features. ...I have hurt you... look at you...No..Don't.
     ..I am sorry, Ian... please forgive me...
     There is calm for a moment, and then there is emotional upset, a burst of something in his gut, and his arm reaches for you, beneath you. That great body, the one that beat against you until you were senseless, receives you... but with as much tenderness as he is ever capable of.
     I haven't bruised you since Switzerland. Remember that night. The one where I asked you to take my name, the cross, you did not answer, and then we ruined Georg's sleigh bed.
     ... I ... do not know what gets into me...me... I guess... You should be so fortunate as to have that happen, him getting into himself. Ha. William lifts upon an arm, his other lightly moving over you, his dark eyes trailing after. Taking it in. Surveying the damage.

     A smile forms in remembering Georg's sleigh bed. But the twinkle leaves once his body's moved. Ian grimaces and grunts in the motion, exhaling once held.
      "Shh," Ian says again, unsure if he's speaking or not. The cross. I have worn it since. I...am of you, yes? We are the griffin and the lion, aren't we...
     The smile comes back once more. Ian sighs, thoughts fluttering here and there. Just leave me here a moment...I will be better later. Oh, I want...a bath... Soon, his mind swims in images of flickering water upon stone.

      ...That is what it says on the towels... Deadpan. Humor. God love him, he does have a sense of it. And when to use it. William sighs, closing his eyes, he nods. "Mais oui," he murmurs, voice deep and soft, "...we are."
     You are right. There is nothing to prove here. Nothing to assert. Nothing to confirm. It is. It is, simply. It is, deeply. I do not have to brand you or myself to remind you. This is not how I want to remind you...
     His hand -- hands that have held many, slain many -- lands gently upon your hip, his mouth brushing your forehead. "You want me to help you..." he offers it. No one is as gallant after being as wretched as your own husband. Though 'civilization' slipped when Atlas shrugged, Plantagenet takes up the mantle again. A black eyebrow lifts. He thinks of carrying you down...

     "Yes," Ian whispers, sure that his lips moved. He smiles again, eyes less glassy than before. His hand lifts to rest on your shoulders. Of course you are carrying me. Look at me...

     There is a wash of crimson. Bruises turn purple at it, a nice royal flush. The marks on his arms heal, the scratches only stinging in memory now. The bed sounds as William begins to move, slowly unwinding from you. He sits up, purple shouldered and a bruised rib. He deserved that.
     The air moves coolly by, soothing against sweat moistened skin. There is a rise of blood, sweat and salt on the air as William stands, and as he lifts you. As big as you are, he holds you without strain, cradling you and the sheet you bring with you.
     William inclines his head, tipping it back to look at your face. ...The baths... The master bath for the masters of the chateau is none other than the reconstructed Roman baths. There is no modern shower, just the heated water below. And only one way to get there, the tunnel on the other side of the tapestry.
     ... Which servant would you like... to tend you...

     "I must choose?" Ian quirks, brow arching lazily. Well. He blinks a few times, deciding eventually not to choose. Arms circle your neck as Ian's feet brush together. I'll be better in a bit... he promises you both, sighing as he quiets for the walk. He'd rather not talk too much Talking boring... and rests his head at your temple.
     Why do I stay with you? Ian asks for the first time, humor behind it.

      I don't know... comes the honest response. I ...am trouble, I am high-strung, I am French... Humor blends with seriousness. ...I am too big... I talk too much... And the list goes on. ...I am French... That seems to say it all. William sighs.
     A servant has been called.
     Formidable arms hold you easily, even as he accesses the panel behind the tapestry to lead you down. ... I don't know, Ian...because for some reason you find me lovable... Still, he is serious. The panel closes behind you and the stairs lead down to the underground passage. It is lit with sconces, golden light against the golden stone. Otherwise, very dim. The bath is not far.
     ...If you do not let me near you for a month, I will understand... Finally, a moment of humor. You can nearly hear the Occitan drawl.

     "Two," Ian says softly. "Two months. And you'll have to bring me breakfast each evening." Seems like a good penance. You like penances, yes?
     Oh, the water. It's not so far. That seems to bring some relief to Ian. Everything will be better once he's floating in water, aching body lifted and cleansed. The waters will momentarily gleam red where he enters, but soon, all vestiges will dissipate in the larger pool.
     Why do I love you? Because you are strong. You make me laugh. You are jealous and prone to temper. Your hands on me make the world disappear. When you smile, the world explodes in color. My heart aches and sings to see you happy and still with me. Because you dream beautifully, you color sweetly, and you want quickly. That's why. In part.
     Ian's breath rushes at your shoulder. Tale told, he exhales again, resting for the last of the descent.

     "Two months," he says, with that tone: how am I going to make it two months? "Two months," he says again, this time with a breath. He accepts it. ...I am an expert at penance, mais oui. Two months seems fair. I'll even add a rosary...two months and a rosary...
     It is not far. You can smell it from here. Stairs at your back, ahead there is only hall. The ceiling is so low, it brushes William's hair as he walks, but you are held safely, no danger of bumping your head. Not on his watch.
     There is nothing said or slighted by your list. William accepts that too. With an exhale, and a brush of his mouth on your head. ... I love you, too...
     Amours...
     "Here we are..." It is not a long walk from the bedroom, thank the lord. William balances you, half turning in the wide opening before the door to allow a hand to open it. You can feel the warmth, the moisture leeching through the walls, the smell of honey, of mineral water.
Behind you, coming from the direction of the bedroom, the sound of the servant called. Do you want me to stay with you...

     I was teasing Ian reaffirms. "I could not go two months," he notes. "A week would suffice," Ian grins. "And of course...stay with me..."
     He's ready to be on his feet again. A little energy has returned; bruising begins to heal. Griffin and lion are we...a fine standard, isn't it, laird? Ian smiles to himself, taking delight in the image of the flying standard, fluttering in the wind.

     "Thank God," comes the low whisper. You are set upon your feet at the mosaic, lions and griffons at your toes. The rampant lion, mouth open, claws extended. It is the Plantagenet heraldry for a reason. "A week it is. Agreed."
     He should suffer something, after all...
     There is a smile, finally. Slight though it is, it lives in his eyes. He reaches up to your face, back of his hand lightly moving against your skin. There is a lean, a kiss. "It is," he murmurs there. And the smile finds itself, remorse easing a bit, having been voiced. ...They go well together, I think. They're suited...
     His hand falls away and he leaves a kiss behind, a brush of his mouth, blood in residue there. He licks it, and quirks up a brow. "I bit through my lip," he whispers. And beneath the blood, there is a bruise where once there was a puncture.
     You upon your feet, his hand is at the small of your back. ... Large mineral pool, or small heated pool...

     The answer comes as Ian steps forth and moves down the steps of the mineral pool. Other nights, he'd jump in, allowing himself to drown. Tonight, he wades in gingerly, wincing as the cool water slowly rises against his skin.
     Hands are out flat, as if gauging the rise of the water level. Ian slowly drops a step at a time. When the water meets the backs of his thighs, the curve of his well-used rear, he comes to a halt and stands there, eyes closed.
     Much better. See, I told you...
     "How about a drink too?" he asks, more than likely meaning Scotch.
     At least...did you enjoy it...Your Majesty? Somewhere in all of that, Ian felt the king find his crown.

     The servants surely know better by now. To come empty handed? In this house? It is the easiest way to earn a pink slip. The feet sound outside the door as William takes a slow seat at the poolside, feet draping in. The water is cool, soothing. Neither warm nor cold, not extreme.
     There is a visible twitch of flesh, a look of violet-blue, a quirk at one corner of his mouth. Oui. And then he smiles. That look. You should make him wait a week on that look alone.

Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:49 PM