...Such exactness to mimic an artist's (and reprobate's) thrilled stroke. It is less painting and more surgery. A pear begins to take proper shape, not as he would have painted it but as He would have painted it. Dulled gold, the color pulls against the canvas, a shock of tone within an otherwise sterile environment. Was passion ever this clean?

     ...A smile pulls in the shadow, formed by an Italianate mouth, landing against your collarbone as Marco meets you in the threshold that exists between the master bedroom and that of the Bei Ragazzi. He smells of sunlight and pears, his white shirt only half on, about to be discarded with a turn of broad shoulders.
     "Rimarrete stasera con me?" Marco asks you, he grins it, the devil, against your ear. You will stay with me tonight? All night, he says at your ear, at your chin, as he smiles that smile at you, brown eyes shimmering with ruddy warmth. How can you say No to that face, that body? Why would you?
     Behind Marco, flickering light in the bedroom, the feel of the full summer wind, heady. A chaise lounge of scarlet and gold, shimmering. A bed as of yet undisturbed, made after Marco and Amadeo woke.
     And, thus far, no sign of Amadeo...

     At Marco's chest, Ian's finger lands. He's twisted slightly, just enough to look askance at the young man. "I'd come to see how your evening was," Ian replies in Italian. The tongue is becoming less rusty by the week. "And see how you were doing." Ian leaves the question unanswered.
     Peering inside the room, he looks left and right. No Amadeo. Curious. "I thought you two were never separated," Ian muses, his own shirt fluttering at its tails. Apparently he has had some meeting this evening -- his slacks and shoes are rather dapper. Seems he'd only gotten as far as untucking his shirt, to make himself comfortable for the night.

     "Good, good," Marco says. "Amadeo is in the bath," he says, a simple answer for his lover's absence. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes still smoldering, even if his smile is somewhat tempered. "He wanted to swim. He is from the islands, he never tires of water."
     He angles slightly, a look given to his room and then to you. "Would you like to come to my room, have a drink with me," a suggestion, an entreaty to follow his initial question. "We ... do not often get the time to be... alone."
     And it is true. Seldom is the time when you are with Marco and Amadeo is not also present. Or William. But William is engaged tonight, as he has been engaged for the past few weeks -- and is likely only to become more so as the months go on -- involved with the Painting Of No Name. And now Amadeo...
     "I have the wine from two seasons ago, a good bottle," Marco says, smiling he leans in, his mouth dipping to just the right of your mouth.
     Why does he have to be that fiery and so sweet? It should be illegal...

     "Your room," Ian smiles, hands in his pockets. "Yours and Amadeo's yes?" The smile remains, though Ian gaze moves from eyes to the lips near his. He knows quite well who's room this is, despite the technicals.
     "And certainly, thank you," Ian nods. "I'll pass on the wine now." He's had enough Scotch for two tonight already.

     Oui, as William would say, it is my room. But then, you do not need any prompting from memory to know this. You can hear it as naturally as you can hear Marco's breathing.
     Marco tilts his head and nods once. "It is the room where we sleep, eat, make love, listen to you and for you, and dream -- by your generosity," he does not want there to be a misunderstanding on ownership, or gratefulness. But as you half agree, he half-slants a grin and moves aside, a sweep of his hand, his expression, his gaze and his body inviting you in.
     The room is large and tidy, but not overly tidy. There is a carefree livability about it that overlies a layer of seductability and decadence. Marco closes the door behind you and moves forward, picking up his half-full glass of a good season's wine.
     "I think this is the first time, si? The first time we have been... on our own." Marco has wanted this time. It is evident. In his aura, in his body position and language, in his looks to you. He takes a seat upon the arabesque sofa that rests beside the infamous chaise lounge.

     "Yes, I think so," Ian says, walking in and looking around. The decor is not his, but he can understand that allowances were made for the new residents. "Well, save, when you first arrived. I think we were alone then," he recalls, remembering the pirate scene gone awry.
     "And are you and Amadeo enjoying things? The horses, travelling..." and other things you might do.

     Oh, that night. He doesn't remember that night, really. Bits and pieces. Much of what occurred was over his head to be honest. The decor is eclectic, more modern French and Venetian than the Spanish, Moorish or Medieval influences found elsewhere. There are definite Italianate touches now, all of it evidence, fingerprints that Amadeo and Marco leave behind.
     Enjoying...things. Marco smiles a lazy smile. "Oh, it is... such a life, Ian," he murmurs your name, the sound of it with his voice, it is honey and wine, warmed by the wine he is drinking. "One I could not have imagined as a boy in my village. My mother was a seamstress, my father a vintner... our life was...nothing like this. To manage just to get to the Accademia," Equine, "...that, I thought, would be the summit of it. But then...look at what has happened. My life is full. I have a sweet lover who loves me. I have..." his skin actually goes ruddy when he speaks of you, "...another I care for, who is so beautiful," brown eyes fix on you, he smiles, that mouth, "...whom I enjoy so much." And then he grins. "The travelling is good because the company is good."
     Marco sips at his wine, looking to you past the red of the liquid, the edge of his glass. "And you?" he wonders. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

     "I am," Ian says. Never an admission. Ian walks the room, as if slightly distracted, examining colors and fabrics. "I'm glad though, that it is enjoyable for you and you have a full life. Not so many can say that..."
     He spins, Ian does, and heads back towards you. A lazy walk through the park. "Amadeo does love you. That is nice."

     "He is good and he is sweet," Marco says. And he does care for him, that is true. He loves him, this can be seen. But his interest, lust, desire is not abated by the constant turning of the conversation to Amadeo. He smiles to think of his beloved boy. "He loves life. How could anyone be around him and not consider themselves fortunate... loving life. He has the sweetest laugh, doesn't he..." He boasts, something Italian men love to do. "I think it is his sweetness that Your Guillermo," William, "... found appealing. And then... Amadeo is a ...very enthusiastic lover who likes to try new things all the time. You... and Your Guillermo..." he has never asked such direct questions, but... he hasn't exactly had the opportunity before. "...you enjoy sharing your lives as you have done... with us?"
     Marco takes the final swallow of the wine and he sets the glass down. He does not continue to drink. He likes to taste the wine, but he does not like to be commanded by it. He settles back upon the sofa in his undone white shirt and black trousers. "We love you both," he murmurs. "We like pleasing you. Making you... even more happy than you already seem to be... if this is possible..."

     Ian stops a bit away. There is no answer to the question he can give. He feels the urge to be flippant, and then stuffs it back into its place. "I will say," Ian begins carefully, "...that with all of us so happy, that it makes little sense, really, that things are...as they are." Strange, really, his frowning brow suggests.
     "You are happy, you were. You had roles, and we paid well. So..." his arms extend as if to say why this?

     That stops Marco. Things are... as what? "I was happy, yes. I am happy, yes. You... do not want us here with you, in the house?" This is a shocker, and he looks shocked. All that's missing is the slacked mouth and wide eyes. The expression is the same. He's a bit stunned.
     "Am I misunderstanding?" he thinks to ask. "I thought things were good, but your expression seems to say something else. Was I wrong in something I said? I did not mean to offend you, Bello Signore..." Marco begins to rise. This is not exactly going as he dreamed or fantasized that it would...

     "No," Ian says, lifting hands. "I'm asking you...why? That's all."
     "I don't understand," Ian adds, "...as you were happy and well to do...why...this?" Why have you chosen to be secondaries in a relationship? With your employers?

     "We are here, Bello Signore, only because you and the lord asked. Because you wish it. We," he and Amadeo, "... enjoy it, love it, we do benefit from it, you take most excellent care of us, as if we were lovers... family." His shoulders roll. "Amadeo and I are ... very open people."
     That's a phrase...
     "...when Guillaume," he goes back and forth between William, Guillaume and Guillermo and lord. "... came to us, he invited us to sea with the two of you, it was a chance to ...do something we had never done. Hopefully, to enrich our lives, individual and joined. And it has. Not monetarily," he adds softly, standing fully. He thinks to cross over to you, but he waits for now. "But in ...experience. My love for Amadeo is not diminished because we share our time with you. I think a life as rich as yours seems to be in experience... could only enrich our own."

     Ian is quiet as he listens. His gaze falls to his foot, the point of which swivels at the floor.
     "And Amadeo? This was what he wanted for himself and you as well?"

     "It was Amadeo who was chosen by William," Marco says, sitting on the arm of the sofa. "First as a model, and then Amadeo told me there was more than just modelling." Marco smiles. "I was asked... only after the lord had already slept with my lover. I could be open to it, as I was and am, or I could have... in vain... protested and what then? To lose both a lover and a job... why do this when I might also get to experience... something or someone," his dark eyes soften on you, "...new."
     Marco smiles warmly to you. "You seem to be worried. Are you worried that this is hurting my relationship with Amadeo? It is not... upsetting you and the lord, I hope." He had not thought of that, since it was the two of you who started it.

     "So," Ian goes on, "...you thought if you said no...that you should lose your position and your lover?" A hand runs over his white-blonde hair.

     "I was not worried about the job because of the lord, but ... such drama. Most employers should frown on it. And ... there was no need. I ...choose to be open. Amadeo and I spoke of it. It is not as if I said nothing. I simply did not say anything to the man who chose him," William. "I am Italian," he smiles, "...but I am not crazy."
     He exhales a bit, settling again on the sofa. He pours another glass of the wine. "I did wonder, at first, whether I would still have Amadeo. The lord is... well, I do not have to tell you," Marco says, mouth curling a smile. "But Amadeo assured me... I trusted him... and I chose not to be jealous, possessive and upset."
     Marco stops himself and tilts his head. "I am rambling, I think. Sometimes, the wine." But it doesn't stop him from drinking it. "I have great respect for lord Guillaume," he murmurs. "I like him. I do not want to sleep with him, but I care for him. Sometimes, when I reach for you and he reaches for Amadeo... I think we are sometimes ...what is the word I am looking for... squaring off?" he tries that. "He and I have... similar tastes and... similar preferences."
     They both like to be on top.
     As it were...

     Ian considers the words. He does not acknowledge or offer his own opinions on the subject. He looks away to one of the walls for a lingering moment, as if studying the textures and colors there.
     "And me..." Ian begins. "Am I so much like your Amadeo?" For this, he does not look at you. Ian's gaze is somewhere else, far from this space. Even so, he remains Present.

     "You are You," Marco says. You look away, but you must hear him rise from the sofa again, leaving his wine behind. "But...things that are similar... you are both loving. You are both sweet." He is standing beside you now, a hand reaching for you. "I like to taste your skin, your skin is even softer than Amadeo's," he adds softly. "You are both confident, you know what you want from me, you reach out and you take it. When I touch you, I want to keep touching you. When I touch you, I feel love. Caring. You care. It is not... empty desire, Ian," he acknowledges you again. "It is very full, very rich. It is a compliment to our relationship. We love you very much."
     Marco bends, he adores you with a kiss upon the side of your neck, his hand landing at your opposite him. "That is how you are like one another. But... you are very different. Trust me, I do not confuse the two."

     Perfectly still, Ian whispers, "Sweet...is not a word used about me, Marco." Ian shakes his head. His hand lifts and he massages his brow. "We have known each other a while, Marco. You would do well...not to romanticize me..." Not a threat, but an honest warning.
     "And you should care for your Amadeo," Ian murmurs, looking to the wall again. "Remember that. He needs you."

     "I understand," he says simply. And as you massage your brow, as you do not look at him, he gives you the space you did not ask for by speaking but in your every silent indication. Marco nods, he sits back on the sofa, he stares forward, thinking.
     "I will care for him," he responds easily, brown eyes lifting to you again. "In fact... I think if you do not mind... I will go seek him out in the pool..." But not without your leave.

     "Of course," Ian replies, giving a smile though wan. He turns around to see you, nodding his head as if to reinforce his point. "I am sure he will be happy to see you."

     Marco smiles a little, a twist of those lips. "I did not mean to upset you, signore," he says after a slight pause. "I hope the rest of your evening goes well." If you wish them, he knows you have only to call. They will answer.
     He shrugs out of his shirt, leaving it behind on the chaise lounge as he passes by and turns toward the door to the hall from that apartment.
     This was a strange night! Amice, you will not believe it when I tell you...

     ... There are steps in the distance, no... below. William must be stirring from his underground lab...
     It is true, he is stirring. In part, because it has been four hours since he cloistered himself down below. In part, because of something else. A thread of... something, fragile like saffron. A feeling. He may as well go see what is happening...

     Left alone in the room, Ian takes a last look. A slow turn, a full wind of the clock. After a sigh and another massage of his brow, he heads back towards his own room, consternation in his face.
     At his side of his bed, Ian sits heavily, arms anchored in the bed. In the silence of his room, Ian Dunross begins to cry softly.

     It was a slow enough stroll before that...
     What is the matter? The pressing of Plantagenet against your blood is immediate, upon the edge of the falling of the first tear. The words, the thoughts, manifest themselves intimately, as intimately as if he whispered them, sitting beside you.
     As his appearance may be anticipated, you hear the nearness of his steps, the activation of the panel that leads to the underground passage and the lab hidden within.
     Ian...
     You felt it, and then you hear it...
     "Amours..." his voice, and upon it the soft question echoed.
     What is it?

     When you see him, Ian leans forward from his seat on the bed, hands wiping across his face and back to his hair. A hand comes to rest on his chest.
     "I don't know," Ian murmurs, he looking confused. A glance in each direction is followed by his look to you. "I don't know what's wrong with me..."
     Eyes look to where the adjoining suites should be. "I think I upset them," he whispers.

     The bed shifts silently with his added weight. You have not had a chance to focus on him, he is quite the sight, all clothed in white. "I will worry about them later," William twists, tossing the rag that he used to clean his hands along the way to the side, and he turns back to you. "I am more interested in what is upsetting you. Did something happen?"
     He does not ask you if you want a drink, he does not press with a barrage of questions. William merely asks. Strong thighs rest easily outward, one hand resting upon a thigh. The one closest to you is lain across your shoulder, his hand touching your hair.

     "No," Ian murmurs, wiping his hands on his thighs. "I don't know," he whispers. The image sits in his mind I was talking. Warning. Beware me...beware us. And poor Amadeo... but he doesn't seem able to communicate it.
     "I don't know," Ian mumbles, wiping at his tearing eyes. Something is wrong with me, still wrong with me, it won't go away.

     Ah. William inclines his head. Vampires and mortals. Sometimes, it is oil and water. "What do you feel is wrong? I cannot help you, amours, if I do not understand. You are upset, oui. Surely there must be a cause... a reason. Even if it does not seem to make sense."
     Indigo eyes settle on you, your face in profile, your golden hair. "You are empathetic. A vampire speaking to mortal... companions. Sometimes, it is a difficult translation." Is that it? Am I even close?
     "What were you speaking to Amadeo about?" Amadeo, you said. Not Marco. William shifts his attention only briefly, to look to the partially opened door that separates the master chambers from the apartments of the Favorites, the Bei Ragazzi.

     "I just want to lie down," Ian murmurs. Perhaps he is too empathetic, including his own overstimulation from his own emotion. "Not Amadeo, Marco...we talked." Never talk to your food, your pleasure principle.
     Ian kicks off his shoes as he turns to crawl to the top of the bed. Hands reach up weakly to pull at the covers, drawing them down. Ian continues to sniffle, taking breaths in between.

     If you weren't crying, William would laugh. As it is, the corners of his mouth twitch. "I did not know Marco could talk. I thought he was a mute. All I ever hear him do with you is groan." Short of laughter still, his eyebrows lift.
     A Plantagenet paw lands squarely on your back, he gives a rub and then he stands. "Very well, we will not talk about it. Get comfortable, I will lie down with you for a while. I could do with shutting my eyes for a bit."
     I am sorry, amours. You know... what it does to me when you are crying... You do not need to be empathetic to know that. Tears make him suddenly gallant, horribly doting, and if you were to ask for any thing on the planet, it would be given to you without hesitation and most immediately. Already barefooted and his clothing as casual as sleepwear, William simply makes his way between his own sheets.

     He's not sure you see the point. You have humor about you. Ian continues to weep, but this time on his side, with heavy bedding pulled up to his chin. "I think I upset them," he whispers again.

     No, he fails to see it. "Well..." he says upon an exhale, raking a hand through black hair for a moment, massaging his scalp after a long four hours of painstaking work. "... what were you talking about? What makes you think that you upset him? Did you argue?" A pause and then the air crackles. "Did he say something to make you weep?" I'll kill him.
     The bed sounds as your large husband rolls over to lie on his side and surround you. "Even if you upset Marco, it is nothing that cannot be mended. Or removed altogether."

     "I had to warn him," Ian says softly. "About...us..." Ian looks to you, as if you should understand. A sigh and he looks to the sheets near him. "I told him, he should take care of Amadeo. And then, he left to see him," a nod following. That was the right thing to do.
     "Here," Ian whispers, "closer..."

     Here. Closer. When the two words dissipate in the air, William materializes... here... closer. A strong arm wraps around you. His other is used to prop up his head so that he may look at you, his elbow burrowing into a down pillow.
     "It is right, he should look after Amadeo first. He should be reminded of that from time to time. He has become rather... attached to you. He wants you to himself, I think. It is alright. Do not worry, Ian." William leans in, flush against you as he places a kiss to your golden hair. "There will be no problem, hmm?" he whispers at your ear.
     After a moment of quiet, his head resting against your head, William lifts slightly. "Do you want to... keep some distance for a time? Is it time we bid farewell to our Bei Ragazzi?"

     "I don't know," Ian murmurs, closing his eyes. "I don't know..."

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2003 10:07 PM