Misunderstanding? How can that be? I have barely said two words all night...
     William watches them go, those beautiful boys and he exhales again. Heavy sigh, something released in it. "This has not been the night I envisioned," comes the soft sound of his voice. "And I cannot get it back again. Part of me wishes to get dressed, to go out of the castle and to try it again..."
     That is an idea.
     "This is ridiculous, why am I the one upset. I am the one supposed to be having a good time..."

     Ian doesn't say anything, standing at the side of the bed. All that Marco says is true. Ian smiles faintly at the pair, indicating that this not about them, and waits patiently for them to exit. He exhales once, putting his hands on his hips once his robe is tied.

     There are steps coming from down the hall. Another summons made. Do you know Eros' gait yet? He is coming quickly. Must have been a hell of a summons.
     He does not knock but comes in from the sitting room. Slightly breathless -- he had to run from the ground floor kitchens, up flights of stairs, down the hall...
     "Yes, sirs?" he says, not bothering to cover up the fact that he killed himself trying to get here.
     William settles beneath the covers, lording over the bed. frowning from his last outburst. He puts his hand to his head as if he is getting a headache. "Oui.. Eros... could you please find a bottle of the pear liqueur." A pause. "Two ... make it two." I want to get drunk.
     Gloriously drunk...
     Or ingloriously drunk, I'm not picky...
     Eros bows his head to William and turns to Ian. "Anything for you, sir?" he asks softly. It is as if he knows there are tensions around. And maybe he does. He is a very experienced valet.

     "No, thank you, Eros," Ian says evenly, the annoyance flaming across the bond now. He cannot even stop it. We're in the middle of something and you want bottles of brandy?
     Another exhale.
     Now he'll wait for Eros to leave too.

     Eros bows his head again and with a pivot turns and takes his leave. He doesn't need a door slammed in his face to be able to take that hint.
     "Mais oui," William notes, eyes to the canopy. "I need a drink. I need something..." Indigo is brilliant, smoldering when they focus on you.
      Yes... a drink... why are you annoyed? He knows why he is. William looks from you to the ceiling of the canopy again.

     "I'm annoyed," Ian says, "...because you seem to be fine with spilling milk all over the floor and having the rest of us stand around and stare at it for fuck's sake."
     At least you know.
     "Nevermind. Enjoy your brandy," Ian waves off, bending to pick his glass up from the floor.

     That does it...
     William is sitting up, the covers come off, and then he is standing. You know the routine. He is going to go kill something. He walks straight to the wardrobe and removes a pair of lounge pants.
     "I don't know what you're talking about," comes the very precise Occitan. "And I didn't invite them in, you did, it was your idea. You want it, go get it. All I did was come home," pants are on and he is ruddy with anger, olive complexion darkened with the rise of blood and temper. "... my only thought was getting comfortable, getting laid and being content. And it is my fault that I am unhappy when all you can think about is the bloody scotch? Pardon me for wanting a little brandy... I'm thirsty..."
     Spreaking of brandy...
      There is the clearing of a throat, and William turns, dressed. He waves to Eros. "Sitting room is fine..."
     Eros turns. There is the sound of bottles being set down, and Eros swiftly leaving.

     Ian blinks, coming to a full stand with glass in his hand. "You came home. Fine. You want to get laid, fine. And you became a sulking child when I was interested in the actual gift you brought. And when I attempted to do a bit of reminiscing, return us to the mood, perhaps lighten things...yes, alright, I suggested the boys come in...you sulk further when I actually enjoy their arrival."
     "What was that...bit..." a feeling and thought more than anything else, "...that I wanted to be with them more than you? Such shite that is, William," the twinge of a brogue coming into Ian's voice, "...total shite and you know it. So, now they're gone and you're pissed that I call'd you on it?"

     "There's a time and a place, Ian," brogue rises in your voice, his syllables only become more precise. The Occitan burns, it lilts sharply, it rolls lowly. Your voice pitches higher when you are angered, his voice pitches lower. "The time and the place is not when I have my tongue around your anus. And just how did you think bringing them in was going to help me?"
     His brows sweep upward at that and his eyes lock on. "I'll grant you that I was disappointed. But instead of you trying to ... engage me, jesus christ you could have kissed me or held me... you immediately turned to them. What am I to think?"
     He rises as fully as you, tall and towering, hands on his hips. "You could have touched me yourself. You could have whispered to me. You could have done any number of things," William exhales and the anger leaves him suddenly. "You didn't. And I'm sorry I didn't take it well."
     He exhales again and he shakes his head, dismayed. He turns and looks for a robe, even though he's hot enough to sweat -- and is. When he turns around there is something of chagrin in the expression. "I'm sorry I got offended. I'm sorry I got sullen. I'm sorry that this night is shite," sudden English amid so much French. "I was goaded..." And it went downhill from there.
     Feet dug in so deep, he tilled the earth and crushed stone. William exhales again, from dismayed to disappointed and a different kind of upset. Regret. "I'm going to have a drink or two in the other room. You are free to join me if you want, or if you want to join them... that is fine too..." He says it softly. It has the ring and timber of truth.

     "I'm not interested in them," Ian says, sighing once more. This time, it's a release. "I'm interested in being with you. But being with you apparently only means having your tongue in my ass. It doesn't mean sitting with the thoughtful gift, enjoying it, and discussing our life." Arms drop and Ian runs a hand through his hair. He ruffles it, as if forcing drops of frustration to fall away.
     Softly, he adds, "It can't get much more fuckin' intimate between us...than talking about a life that only you...and I...know." Back then.

     "You're right," you might want him to repeat that. It sounded like he just admitted he was wrong. Without any further balking. "I need to be alone, I think..."
     William looks at you. "If you don't mind..." He does not yet turn to the sitting room. He isn't going to run, storm off, any of those things that used to make you cry. Or slit your wrists.
     "It is very hard for me to ... switch gears. It is a flaw. I am aware of it, Ian. I .. just do not know how to stop it." When the energy is going fully in one direction, he does not know how to stop and to turn directions on a dime. He is all charge, no retreat. He glances to the sitting room. He glances to the bed. "It is not enjoyable for me. Perhaps it would be easier if I chewed my pillows to bits like my father." It is inherited, this flaw. "But it is hard to find good pillows," he says it seriously, "... and I do hate picking feathers out my teeth."
     He lifts his hand, he rubs the bridge of his nose. "I am sorry. It is all my fault. You are right, I was acting like a child. So..." he pulls on a robe, "I am going to go in the other room. I am embarrassed to be in here right now."

     "I don't need you to say that I'm right, Will," Ian murmurs. "That's not what...it's about. And...you don't have to go," Ian sets his glass on the nightstand. "It's your room too." Ian pushes off from his spot, moving around the bed to stand in front of you.
     "And don't be embarrassed. I guess I should have...paid more attention to what you wanted. It's been a long week," he murmurs, sympathizing with you. "I'm sure...you're starving." For lots of things.

     He is a prideful man. That's part of the problem. You can wound his heart, but his pride? That smarts the most. And right now, his pride is as bruised as your skin was the night before he left.
     "I am a grown man, I will deal with the hunger," he murmurs. As tall as he is, he feels about an inch tall. That takes some doing.
     "I will... be right back..." William is going for that liqueur. It will hold him for now, until he is in a better mood. Hopefully, it will improve his mood. "So, maybe I can tell you the story of your scotch while you drink it... and I can tell you more about the project I may take. If you would like to hear it..."

     Ian just nods, letting you choose the course of things. He moves aside, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. I'd love to hear about your project. Crossing his legs, Ian exhales, setting his chin into his propped hand.

     He returns, a bottle in each hand. Not wine. Not brandy. Not scotch. These are of his own making, his own attempt at alcoholic alchemy. Unlabelled, they are known by the bits of fruit that linger within. Deadly to all but those of the strongest fortitude... and most vampires wouldn't dare.
     "I can't tell you the name of the painting, or the artist. I am being sworn to secrecy. But... I can tell you that it is a painting that has not been seen by the world in a very, very long time. It is in severe straits. Amazing, truly, that it even still exists. I have been asked to put my hands on it and raise it up like Lazarus from the dead."
     The bed squeaks with his sudden and heavy weight. His hands work to open the decanters, freeing the wax sealant and removing the top. The room is filled with the heady flavor. One could get drunk on that alone. "It is a difficult project to say no to. It is a difficult project to say yes to." Indigo lifts, settling on you. "I should have eaten while I was away," the source of all this woe, most likely. "I have been... very preoccupied with what I should do. I have... I have given enough interest that the clients will bide their time. For now. I will have to give a final answer soon."
     He doesn't even bother with pouring a glass, he drinks straight from the bottle. A long drink. He lowers the bottle and looks at it. Not bad for the first batch, aged to perfection. "So, I was thinking of ... all of this," only part of which he has explained, ".. and I meandered into the old spirits shoppe. Evan MacInnery fell on hard times. Some of his best items were sold, he needed the money. That 1780 was just one of the 18th and 19th century bottles they had received. Problem is, few are wealthy enough to invest in them. They were ecstatic to see one move. I should have bought more," he thinks on it now. And he takes another drink.

     Ian considers you as you drink and talk. "Maybe," Ian nods. "We can call and see what else they have," he suggests, uncoiling himself to place hands on his knee and one on the bed behind you. There, he leans so that he's at your shoulder.
     "So...are you going to do this thing?" Whatever the project is, he shall not ask. He's more concerned that you make decisions you're comfortable with. "Something that hasn't seen the light in ages? How...many ages? Just out of curiosity." Intersting for market purposes.

     "Centuries," William murmurs, turning his head. A bend, and he kisses your forehead. He sighs there. "In fact, it is one that even I believed was far gone. Lost. It would be... a great achievement, and I would make a lot of money, but it comes at a high price. I may be able to...work my way around that, but there is risk either way. Personal risk." Not his business. Not the structures of his art empire. Not his relationship with Medici. Him. "I could make peace with the risk, I think it is worth it. But I am having trouble... reconciling the cost."
     He looks to you again, leaning back slightly. Now that you see him this closely, now that his blood has calmed, now that the energy is peaceful, you can see that he is paler than usual. The olive is still retained, but his complexion shows his hunger. The suit and the lust covered it before.
     "I have to submit to domination. To have the knowledge of my working on it stripped..." Whatever it is, it is huge.

     Ian sits up, leaning back a little. Hand comes off the bed behind you. "What?" he whispers, rather surprised. No one asks that. No one. That's insanity...and bespeaks of far more than simple restoration.
     Ian looks down between you both, keeping his counsel for a moment. His brow knots as he thinks...permutations and possibilities playing out in his mind. The situation unfolding before the end request. Infinite calculations.
     "Is it stolen?" Ian asks softly. "Belongs...to someone else? Someone died for it? What?"

     "You cannot steal what does not exist," he murmurs. "It has no provenance, but throughout time, many have tried to recapture it on canvas. Some have died. Many more would kill." He looks to you again, then to the bottle in his hands. He takes another swallow of it. It is sweet. Potent.
     "There are others who would jump at the chance to work on it. There is no one better suited to work on it than I. But... the domination makes it... unpalatable. It is a dilemma." No wonder he was wound so tightly.
     "I would have to dedicate time to it, if I were to say yes. I would work in my lab only. No one in, no one out. I think it would take me a solid year, doing nothing else but tending to necessaries," eating, making love, the usual short list. "So... if it were you... what would you do..."

      Ian sighs, listening carefully. His mind is spinning, still working through accidents, incidents, and probabilities.
     "I'd perhaps do it, of course," he comes up with, "...but try to renegotiate on my terms. If I am the choice," he tilts his head to see you, "...then they will work to have me do it." Things...are always flexible. Depending on how much you want it.
     "You are in the driver's seat," he offers. "Don't forget that."
     Another quiet exhale. "Who'd...do it?" The dominate.

     "Someone we both know. The person is trustworthy...but I have every intention on renegotiating. That is my hope. That the work and the security I can offer will help... soothe the nervousness of the client. I think that while the fears should be taken seriously, the request is an overreaction. I am banking on that."
     William nods, he sets the bottle on the table and he falls back, arms and legs wide. The bed shifts noisily. "I am asking for the money up front, naturally. Twice my normal, already exorbitant fee." Finally, he smiles. It's been hours. William looks to you. "You are too far away. Come over here. Lie by me..."

     The bed sounds again as Ian moves to rest on his side next to you. His head lands at your shoulder, and his knees bend into your thigh. He smiles too, glad to hear about what is happening to you. "You'll figure it out," Ian murmurs. "Amazing though...the work. You should be the one to see to this," he agrees.
     He's warm, despite being in a robe and recently flailing about. Ian's hand lands on your chest, broad and wide. He strokes gently, wanting you to feel him. "Is this better?" Ian asks, mouth kissing your ear.

     "Much better," comes the low sound of his voice, quiet, so that only you can hear it. His arm lifts beneath you, his hand coming up and resting lightly upon your head. "I love you, you know..." sudden English, much more warmly spoken than before.
     He closes eyes. He draws you in, exhaling. Exhaling effluent Occitan, words of praise for you. "I missed you, did you feel it? It is not the same, sleeping in that house," in Edinburgh, "... without you."

     "I know," Ian whispers, liking the universe better when the two of you orbit in celestial perfection. "I missed you too," he confesses, snuggling closer. His robe falls away from his thigh, exposing skin saved from the harsh light of day.
     Soon enough, though, Ian smiles. His hand pulls at yours furthest from you, encouraging you to roll towards him in a facing embrace, an embrace that should land your lips near to where his robe falls from his shoulder.

     His mouth parts at your skin, the punctuation to the rolling motion you began. William forms around you, his weight borne mostly by the bed, and you are quickly surrounded. Strength on all sides. And hunger.
     As soon as he settles, as soon as his mouth parts, canines distend and part your flesh. Flesh folds around him, he can feel each molecule, and he tightens around you.
     And all the knots unwind. Here, the universe is always in alignment. Here, it always makes sense. William closes his eyes. Here, he proves and feels his love without words, nothing needing to be said.
     And sometimes, it's really the better way...
     He becomes heavy, or is it the loss of blood that makes the world sink beneath you? And the bed. There is no sound for a moment. Nothing. Then he breathes, he moves and the bed makes its first sound. Orgiastic. The energy that passes between you could not be raised by ten, fifteen, twenty bodies. The air crystallizes around him, he around you. The spiral of his tongue against your neck, the slide and press and curl of it, closing the wounds. Like the sliding of arms, many arms around the neck, the waist, limbs around the waist. Lovers in multitude...
     As if this bed were full of Angevins and Italians...
     But there is only William and you...
     Healing, his mouth lifts, warm and bloody. His mouth covers yours in a wide kiss, but then he breathes, his hand gripping the bed linens and he lowers to the bed, overcome.
     After a week's sojourn, a week's abstinence, after such hunger to taste such power, such richness, such pleasure, such love...
     William can only lie there, sprawled upon you and murmuring your name. You touch him and wherever you touch him those sensations are doubled.

     The moments simply slip away. Ian's eyes open and his hands do caress your back. His robe does little in the way of covering. He wears it out of habit.
     "One night," he whispers, "...we'll believe what we say: that there is no one else." He smiles, knowing you both are sometimes guilty of it. "Until then, we keep practicing."
     There is no rush for you to move. Ian's knee lifts as his exposed leg bends and lands at your hip. The other dangles beneath you and off the edge of the bed. He breathes softly, closing his eyes again as the blood tries to settle, so recently coursing through his body.
     "It never fails," these moments, "...a memory comes back. Something I've not thought of in a long time. That was buried and forgotten. Sadly forgotten."

     "Je suis desole," comes his murmur, slow and thick, the French rolling against your skin as William shifts. One leg bends, knee lifted, his other left long and behind him. His head rests against your head, dark hair blending with the gold.
     "What memory, amours," he wonders. It stops him from his apology. And the explanation for the apology. And the wave of feeling damned silly. Oh, no...wait. There it is. William exhales. For a time he concentrates only on your hands upon his back, the haphazard motion, idle stroking.
     Why do you get so cornered... and why... when cornered, Plantagenet, do you become so unruly? So childish? Why not rail? Why not roar? Why do you simper?

     "A trip to Versailles," Ian murmurs. "Remember? Jean-Phillipe's party?" Ages ago. "The palace was...less than a year old." And the young comte, a familiar of the Duke of Orleans, was having a birthday party. Ian smirks. "We fought over what we would wear. And then...we went separately?" After the lovers' spat. Stubborness on both sides.
     "No, that's not what I said."
     "Yes, it was."
     "If you want to go in that, I said that I didn't care."
     "No, you said it looked like rat shit."
     "No, I did not."
     "Is this about Denis?"
     "No, this is not about Denis. I told you, I do not care about Denis. This is about you and having to be difficult."
     "Me, difficult? You are the last person to call someone difficult."
     "We're going to be late."
     "No, we won't. You'll be late, because you are not dressed. I will be on time...because I am leaving right now."
     "Go ahead."
     Ian's eyes open and he smiles.

     He lifts upon one elbow, leaning over you. A smile traces its way across that mouth of his, dawning, like the memory in his eyes. Blue-violet licks with light and fire. "I probably swore more," he notes softly. William shakes his head. "Il est un homme tres difficile, ce Plantagenet," he murmurs. A brow lifts. He does not question it. He does not expect you to.
     The smile turns to a slight frown and he rakes a hand through short shorn hair. A mussed modern style he has taken this past year. He looks glorious. Now, if only he would act as glorious...
     "It is funny, I do not remember this Denis." And it's not important that I do. "It was not about them," a glance to the next door room. "Though, Marco came into my room... cocky and challenging. Were I already not with my back in a corner, self-inflicted, I may have been able to ... deal with it more directly," by reminding him of his place. "I do not know why I am so quick... It must be my nature. But," an exhale, "... sounding like a petulant child, this embarrasses me. I must do something to address it..."
     So he says, and he rolls over, off of you, to lie on his back. His hands come to his face, he rubs. His skin alive, every molecule alive, every atom alive. William rolls his head against the bedding turning his dark gaze to you, brows lifting. "Still you tell me that you love this man?" The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost smile. "What are you to do with this man?"

     "Nothing. I'll let him Be," Ian smiles, eyes on the canopy that's your bed. "I like him as he is. I just had to understand that...that was alright." And to let the rest go. Dreams dispelled. Ian's head falls over to see you, his cheek on the bedspread. Arms are raised above his head, so that Ian's face is partially hidden from you. A grey eye and half a face, with a smile gleaming.
     "I know," Ian adds. "What it was. I am not angry. One of us just needed to stand and get off the ride," Ian grins, "...as they say." Borrowing a phrase.

     He snorts, as if to say: it is probably for the best. But humor at least is lifting to the surface. It is the sure sign of mollification. And the motion of his arm, outspreading, welcoming you to use him as the bed he is. "That is for certain," William whispers, mouth sliding in a smile more true, "... you know I cannot. I am in it," his left hand lifts motioning straight ahead. "I know how to charge, I am really good at it. Backing up?" His hand lowers, eyebrows lifting. William shakes his head, "Not so much..."
     Another exhale and it is cleared away. "Should I speak to the ragazzi," he wonders. Speak to, remove memories from. "I was small in front of them," he whispers. That, he does not like. But it is my own fault.
      "Maybe we should have more scotch now... you like your present?" 1780 scotch. Quite the gift.

     "Talk to them when you wish," Ian agrees, "...you are their Lord." That, he does understand. For him, it's something he rarely worries on. "They will understand...and Marco will...apologize for his impulsiveness."
     "And my present is...remarkable," Ian confesses. Honesty's there - you saw his reactions earlier. "Spectacular. If I am not careful, I could drink it all now."

     "Mais oui," he shall. And there, just like that... it is done. Even for all of his rashness, that impulsiveness, that temper and passion, once things are settled to his liking... it is settled. When it is done, it is done.
     Now does the smile creep over the whole of his expression. Wide and warm, it makes his way from his eyes downward. Even his body reflects it. "Actually... to be truthful..."
     And the smile slants, the eyes half-lidding and he looks to you. He's up to something...
     "There are actually two bottles. The second one is from 1802. This is how much I missed you... how much I wanted you..."

     Ian's eyes widen slightly.
     "Why didn't we start there?" Ian smiles. A drink or two, toast each other, and then the bed would have been happy with two. "You are too good...we must call them and ask about others now." Well, not this minute, but most definitely.
     Ian quiets, cheek still to the bedding. He watches you, not in any rush to make up, as it were. "So, Prince William. Here we are."

     "Where are our servants? When we don't want them around, they're available by the tens. The minute I want a late night drink, they scurry like rats..." The smile explodes, brilliant, devastating. A moment of silence passes and he is calling for Eros.
     "We should have," William breathes. "I should have showed them to you, toasted to your beauty, then let you undress me. That is how the night should have gone," he notes. "But... I will have Eros bring the other bottle... for you to taste. I am not sure I should," he chuckles. "I think I will stick with the pear brandy..."
     Eros Foury enters quietly. "Yes, sir," he says, his voice quiet, discreet. As if he were worried about waking the household.
     "That was quick," William marvels. Eros smiles. "The other gift, please... and a bottle of pear brandy..."
     "Anything to eat, sirs?" He looks to both of you.
     William shakes his head. "Non... just the bottles."
      "Oui... it will be just one moment..." Eros disappear through the door.
     "So, Lord Dunross," William counters. Here we are indeed. "I think we should lie here," Occitan licks against the air, "... I want to watch you ... drink your scotch. I want to watch you enjoy it. And I want to hold you. That is enough for me." Tomorrow morning... who knows...

     "Strangely enough," Ian blinks, looking up, "...that sounds...good." Scotch makes him happy. You. Wealth. Scotch. He doesn't need much more.
      Beside you, Ian sighs. Polar opposites, both spread across the great bed's foot, staring up at the canopy so familiar.
     Boy, this was a strange night...

     Strange. At times unfortunate. At times infuriating. "Next time, when I go out of town... I will take someone with me." A pause. You come to him, and William closes his eyes. He takes a moment, using you to fill it. There is nothing for a moment apart from you. Feel, smell, sound, the residue of your taste upon his tongue. The sight of you as you settle beside him. The duke's arm comes around you, drawing you nearer. "I will begin working soon," his voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath. "When I do... will you stay?"
     Eros enters quietly, his sound stirring in the background. He appears on one side of the bed, deposting a case, unlocking it. In it is an old bottle. On the other side of the bed he places the unmarked bottle of golden liquid. With that, he turns, heading back into the sitting room. The soft whisper of the door closing, gently closed, sounds a moment or two after. You are alone.
     Even the squeaking of the bed in the next room has quieted, the sounds of male voices murmuring into sleep. "I expect I will spend three to five hours a night on it... at a minimum. I want to finish it quickly...as quickly as I can. I have grown to treasure my retirement." He keeps saying that word!

     "That's fine," Ian says, still looking up, melting into the burgundy above. There's something comforting about it all...to see the square that secures you both in the privacy of this room, yet a universe beyond it. He can almost see the stars from here. "I will...have things to do."
     Only then does the arrival of the scotch get an arched brow. Ian tries to bend his head backwards, to see the bottle up towards the head of the bed. But it's impossible in his position. "I guess...I should move," he says softly, really rather content. "But if I do, it'll be to crawl beneath the sheets with my drink." Not down here at the foot of the bed in conversation mode. Scotch in hand, he'll be ready to call it an early night. "Stumps already," he smirks.

     "I will not forget what is most important," William pledges. His arm brings you to him again, his mouth brushes against your skin, he breathes your name. And then he releases you.
      "Come, under the covers," he says, his hand patting you and then his form begins to move. Glorious. Comfortable. Content. He sits up, he looks over a shoulder to you. He smiles.
     In that smile, you can prophecy things to come. The pouring of scotch and brandy. The lift of golden drinks, though different, in a unisoned toast. Beneath the covers, his hands will claim you. And two hours from dawn, he will move with you, with the last of his night's energy given to you. He will fall into Sleep with you in his arms, bodies tangled, smell of ancient scotch, brandy and sweat like mist upon the air.
     It will be quiet. It will be private. As if it were done beneath the eyes and ears and nose of the disapproving world. When you wake, he will move with you again.
     And again...
     And a night will be lost...
     In that smile and in that look...

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