"So," Edward grunts, his shoulder bearing down as he throws a massive bodyblow at the punching bag. It's followed by another, along with the chuff of his breath.
     He's been at it a while.
     "I figured you'd gone underground, ne'er to be seen for a while. Wales is much the fuck like that -- Sandrine's alright with that? Your burrowing, hibernating habits? She must hate being hooked up with a hedgehog -- oh!" Edward swings again, this time grabbing the bag as he comes upright, out of his posture, "...how is she?" He'd forgotten to ask in the last hour. Your arrival, his being half-sleep and not prepared for company. It was a blessing that Edward even got out of bed, dressed, and made it to the training room. Of course, once talking began, his night's energy had to go into something. Might as well be the bag.
     Third bag this year already. They don't last long, not being made for preternatural, supremely so, bashing.
     "Yeah, that's it," Edward says, his face drowning in sweat. His hair sticks to his face, and his shirtless chest glistens. "I think that was the question," he winces, thinking before he returns to pummeling the bag.
     Well, something has to take it.

     When did you get in, that was the first question. Oh, he replied, I just ... flew in. Ha! Flew in a manner of speaking. Slithered, more like, a very drake among men and on foot from Haymarket to Dannerly Court just this side of Kensington, his crashing pad of six months. Or whatever the fuck it was. "Oh, and what would you know about Wales?" comes the ever-inflecting, lilting and lifting, pitch of his voice rising from the gravelly depths to a tenor height at the end of his question. That quick muddle of English, and it was English, is more a collection of vowels and sounds clapped at the end with a punctuating laugh.
     He's been in the country too long...
     Davydd's bronze eyebrows cock up and a smile explodes over his expression as he plops onto a bench, weight given to it without regard to whether it'd hold him proper or not. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he ended up on his ass now... would it? "Sandrine's good," he rumbles, a hand rubbing at the ghost of a beard now non-existent -- damn the woman, she's foisted civility on him! And the eight-century old scar at his chin is visible -- a testament to one of his battles with William, and one he takes pains to remind Plantagenet of at every opportunity -- though only to those most sensitive or keen of eyes. "Lovely as ever, mysterious as ever," Davydd goes on. "I don't know how it is she's still with me after two years. You'd think between living with me and in the Welsh rain, she'd have come to her senses," huge exhale, "...bah! Hedgehog." He finally waves, smirking. "Fuck you very much, she's worse than I am about the hibernating."
     Davydd looks left. He looks right. No, still no Valerian. "Eh," he snorts, getting back to the topic, "... there wasn't much cause to be here, apart from coital interruptions. It gets a bit tiring after a while, you know, always having perfect timing."

     "Do I look like you've banged up anything?" Edward asks, bare hands grabbing the bag. He looks left and right in sarcastic flippance. He rolls his eyes. You got here too early, for sure.
     "She's a nice girl that...I can't figure why she'd waste good years on you too. Time goes slow in the Arctic," Edward snorts, sending a left-right-left combination to the bag. "She's got years t' spare ya..."

     "Not today, thank the lord," he rumbles and then he laughs. Laughter that carries right on to your sentiment of his woman. Well, the woman who lives with him. "Ah, you're probably right there," he mutters in quick-like, Welsh staccato. "Mind you," his arms cross at his chest again, "I'm half waiting for the other shoe to drop. You know me, I'm at my best when I'm brooding. I'm not sure I'm fit for happiness, to be honest. It's not for everyone. I'm not even sure I understand it, to tell you the god's truth, and I'm being totally honest, boyo. But, I do care for the woman." He does indeed. In fact, he loves her silly. Sandrine? Well, she's a puzzlement. You can see that, too. Davydd will flat-out admit he hasn't a clue about how she really ticks.
     To be honest, if she were a clock that is, to follow this metaphor, he's still trying to tell whether she is, in fact, a clock or a writing desk.
     "The way I figure it, I have another year, maybe two, before I cock it up," he snorts. "But I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts, boyo." She does, however, truly puzzle him, no matter the jokes and the light-hearted stab at his potential loss. In some ways, it seems inevitable. Coo, doesn't he sound like a pessimist?
     "She does fancy me," he grins and waggles his brows. "You know... so I'm ... riding that?... for as long as it takes me, if you follow my meaning, and I know, knowing you, that you do. I bought her a bit in town," he reaches into his light jacket, summer being what it is in London it's still cool enough in the dead of evening for a light jacket, and takes out a pink chiffon wrapped something-or-other. The cloth sounds in his grasp and with a dashing of pink, Davydd holds up a jewel that could fit into his palm: multiple rubies set in the shape of a heart, a three-dimensional jewel. "It opens," he holds it up and demonstrates. "And in it... another bit of loveliness..." Inside the ruby heart is a glittering strand of diamonds, folded neatly. He closes it with a slight snap and grins. "Ain't I the romantic devil... this should get me into next summer at the least, wot?"

     The bag's demise halts for a moment. Edward was truly into it, listening to you talk, but once you're done and show the present, he stops and stands upright again. There's a twist of his nose as he looks past the gift you hold, and instead, into your eyes.
     "What," Edward sighs and half-exhales, "...are you saying, Davydd?" No, that's annoyance in his voice. "Why do you say shite like that?" Edward asks, as if he's seen this a million times. His breath is ragged and he struggles to make sentences with the air he has. One hand waves, and Edward shakes his head. "Why do you say shit like that? She's leaving," he says, voice suddenly yours -- ever the mimic -- and sigh coming again, "...well, this will over soon..."
     "Christ, Davy, you sound like the bad Oracle of Doom."
     Edward stares at you, a mix of annoyance, disappointment, and real confusion in his expression.
     "Stop talkin' like that..."
     "When you talk like that, Davy," Edward murmurs, turning his eyes back to the punching bag, "...it happens like that. Is that what you want?"

     He wraps the bauble back up and it's stowed away nice and safe in the inside pocket of his jacket. A button holed, and then it's twice as safe. "I don't know," he says.
     He looks to the left and to the right again, as if expecting 1) reinforcements or 2) the clowns, and then hands to his thighs he stands up for a moment, hand to the bag. "If I told you, I didn't know about any of it, it'd be the god's truth," he crosses his heart, "...and this time I mean it."
     Davydd steps away a half-step then wheels about, "Do you ever wonder when you're in bed with your boyo or on the sofa or wherever, do you ever look at him and find you don't really know him? Not really... and do you ever, when you feel that way, if you feel that way, say ...anything? I mean, if he were to ask you: Edward, are you happy? Doesn't that sort of mean that he ...isn't? I mean, if you have to ask if you're happy, how happy can you be?"
     All's not well in paradise, maybe. But then, Davydd's heaven isn't like everyone else's...
     "So, that's what I'm trying to figure. You seem to be having an easier time at the Love Thing than I am, so, brawd," brother, "...what would you think of that?"

     He was about to take another swing, but the words halt him. Edward's brow furrows for a moment, as if he trying to find a response.
     "You don't think she loves you?" Edward asks, leaving the rest on the floor. One item at a time. "It's a beautiful gift, Davy," he does add. "Lovely. She'll like it..."

     "I've always known my heart was my own. Hers is her own. They feel differently. She likes me a good deal, aye? She moved in with me, must mean something don' it? But... what then? Love? Maybe. I think it is for her, I know it is for me. That about sums it up."
     He nods to the words about the gift. Very lavish. Maybe she'll cry. He's not sorted her all out: what she'll do or when she'll do it. But he does feel she esteems him very highly. It's very Victorian, in its way. Davydd twists a smile. "I don't mean... eh, what am I saying? Of course I mean to talk shite, it's what I do." He chuckles. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be me and the world as we know it would be a different place. Quieter, for start." Eyes widen a touch to that. "It's how I handle uncertainty, by entertaining the worst possible scenario. It takes the sting out, boyo. That's all." He shrugs his great shoulders and returns to the bench.
     "Alright then, no more doom and gloom. You know, I can't help it really. No more than William can help being French." And all that implies...

     "He's not French," Edward states. "I'm closer to being French than he. He's Angevin..."
     There's a last glance before Edward positions himself before the bag again. "Vampires," that word, "...are a fucked sort, Davy. Y'never know what's happen'd t' one, to make 'em like they are. If you're worried, maybe y' should ask her about it..."

     He smirks then looks puzzled. "But isn't Anjou in France?" He still laughs. It's still funny.
     Davydd gives an exhale on vampires. You lot are a bit fucked. How fucked does that make me, pretending to be one? "You should try being an undead fae, for laughs," he mutters, then rubs at his chin as he would if he still had the Van Dyke, or goatee. Long gone, that, but old habits are what they are. "She has been with Christian for a while. God only knows. I'm afraid to know, to be truthful," he laughs. "I have a strict don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to fucked up Toreador bullshite. Can you imagine? Hand raised by that one? It's a wonder she's as open and sweet as she is and not huddled in a corner muttering about Christian Dior." He nods, though. Talk. Gah. I'm awful at that. Ha. Funny, isn't it? There is that look that passes over his near golden expression -- something like terror.
     "So, you're saying I have to talk to her about it." Davydd smirks.

     There's an audible grunt at the notion of undead fae, but Edward makes no comment. He chuffs with each stroke of his hand. Well, until the last comment, wherein Edward breathes between punches, Yes.
     Strange that. Edward suggesting talk.
     He and Valan must talk a lot.
     "Meet her where she needs you," comes his voice, hands lowering another time from a series. Edward looks over at you, then says, "Or already be, where you want to go. You asked me. That..." since you brought up Valan before, "...was what I did."
     Stepping from the bag, Edward reaches around for a towel. He doesn't seem to have more to say. All this from a man, who, in the last four years, has found his voice, changed his path, found a man, and apparently sleeps with men. A simple solution, really. Go where you want to be.
     "If you are honest," Edward inhales, as if to come at his point from another direction, "...with yourself, all the time at every moment, you are open to change. And then, what you want....will happen, Davydd. I know this as I stand here." Don't ask me to talk like this again, Edward's eyes say. "To be open and free, Davydd, you must be honest. Or...have you forgotten this..." Edward looks momentarily saddened, his brow dipping as he looks at you, one towelled hand on his cheek. "Be honest, Davydd," Edward whispers. "That's all I can offer you, brother." Then maybe, just then maybe, you'll get what you really want...

     To be honest...
     Gods teeth, why does it always come down to that? Can't we all just pretend we're happy and get on with it? Honesty, bah...
     Davydd blinks at you. Maybe he understands the bit about... being where he wants to go. Though, he's having to digest that. By his silence, that would be a safe assumption. But for someone who hasn't lived an honest life in eons, what does honesty mean? What does it mean to be honest with oneself at this point? At all?
     But Davydd's not going to push his luck and inquire any further. You've already said more honestly to him this night than you had in perhaps the last century. Why blow it? "Well," he says with a clearing breath. He doesn't follow it up with anything else.
     "So how is Emperor Valerian?" he switches topics with all the deftness of a Morris Dance. "He'll be disappointed that he missed me, to be sure..."

     He smiles. "I think he's alright. Haven't seen him much yet this evening." Edward moves over to plop into a leather chair. Legs spread, he drops the towel across his knee. "In fact, he will miss you. And I...have a sudden need to go see him." Confession in that, speaking of honesty and the Other. You've reminded him that he must practice what he preaches.

     Aye well, it's better to be an icon than utterly forgotten -- even if he is an example of What Not To Do...
     "Busy then? I don't hang about in society circles, mind you, so I never hear a goddamned thing. Settling in nicely, is he? Figured as much," he answers his own question with a spreading smile. When he smiles, he glows. There's little better than that. When he broods, he's a veritable thunderhead. "I like the boyo," he admits it. "If I weren't such a tit man," he laughs, "I might could fancy him." As if. "That's good," he says suddenly, quietly, truthfully. "You and him. So long as you're happy, Edward-bach," hands to his thighs again and he stands. "That's all that matters. You still on vacation from running numbers for Villon?" Running numbers, grifting term that. As if (again). "You seem to be rather Blighty-side these nights. Not that I've taken much advantage of that. You should come out to the country," he accuses as well as invites. "I've a big castle, you know. You'd hardly see me!"

     "Blighty, eh?" Edward thinks, nodding. "Guess I have." No mention of Hank's recent discovery. "Maybe this sitting in one place too long is getting to me." Edward stands too.
     "And happy's a strange word," Edward returns to the topic previously at hand. "I am...better than I have been before, Davy. This I know."
     And now, there's something for him to do.
     "Wanna pint later? I can meet ya out in a bit. We can go bother Mortimer's assrabbits, eh?"

     Honesty. Happiness. Maybe we should just forgo all words that begin with 'H'...
     "I will say that I'm a bit surprised. But... the Emperor's old enough to travel," Davydd mentions. As if you hadn't already thought of that for yourself. "Well, the standing offer is open if you want to lay about in the lap of luxury. God knows Welshpool isn't exactly the Hippodrome, but we get by."
     A pint. The magic words. (And you thought the magic word was 'assrabbit'.) Davydd breaks into a relieved grin. A drink and violence? Count me in! "Meet me at Davy's, I'll be getting a head start. An'..." his hands come up to stop you before you start, "...if you can't make it, no worries. Just give me a ring on the bone."

     "Ah, yes, the tellingbone," Edward smirks, moving to guide you to the door. "It'll be a couple of hours. Don't get too far ahead of me," he smirks, towel coming to rest around Edward's neck.

     The look. It's pure Gwynedd. It can be found in nearly every photo of him taken, or every memory in the mind. That look that at once says Up Yours and Are You Kidding? "Bah," he smirks, "... drinking Guinness is like drinking water. I won't start in on the whiskey until you get in."
     On most other nights, he'd fight you as you escorted him to the door, making a big case out of it. Oh fine, he'd say, send me off so you can shag. Oh sure. Wait a tick, I forgot my 1) coat 2) phone 3) wallet 4) insert other innane object here. But not tonight. You move, and the mountain moves with you, taking the chrome phone out of his jacket and peering at it. Yep, it's on. He pockets it straight away as he comes to the front door. Moments folded, a quick farewell.
     But before he's ushered out on his ignoble behind, Davydd pauses in the foyer, adjusting his jacket and giving you a look. A serious look. And, yes, an honest look. "Diolch," he murmurs in his own tongue. A strong pat of his hand lands against your shoulder and he starts to make his way.

     Edward is slow to close the door. He watches the departure, then slowly steps back into the house, shutting the darkness out with a push of his hand. Turning on bare feet, Edward faces the living area again, pulling at the towel for a stretch, then pads inside, turning towards the staircase.

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2003 08:13 PM