You probably didn't notice that.
     The world keeps moving, no matter what we do.
     Back in his room, Ian sits in his favorite highback chair that seems to swallow him. It's a lush velvet red, and his shoes are neatly place near one of the curled rococco feet. At his left hand, one of the thin tables rises, and a lamp dimly lights his space. A finger idly traces the curve of the wood at the table's edge.
     He'd have a drink, but he hasn't decided to call anyone yet. The rest of the room remains shrouded, darkened by the evening as much as the heavy walls and elaborate burgundies. Ian sighs and closes his eyes, letting his head rest in the curve of the chair's tall back.

     It is a dark night, but it is a warm night. Summer heading headlong into a dizzying harvest comes with a combination of heated air and cooling breeze, the sound of evening birds and a thousand chirping insects, the whirring that comes and goes with the wind. Beneath that, in a white-noise layer, there is the sound of the village at the feet of the castle, spilling another festive evening of dinners and conversations, tinkling glasses and the movement of forks upon plates down the slope of Chinon's plateau.
     The fullness of evening, the climax just before evening slides into Night, then Night into approaching Morning, has become His time to emerge. There is a smell -- a mixture of fruit, honey, wine, paint -- followed by a sound -- footsteps, bare feet upon stone -- and then a thud on the air that feels like his tongue against your skin. His energy moves along the walls of Chinon as his mouth would your skin.
     Your husband.
     Guillaume d'Angevin...
     But he is not yet visible. He is moving from the stairwell into the hallway that comprises the private and personal master suites. And those of the Bei Ragazzi.
     Guillaume does not busy the air with conversation. With the fingertapping of thought-held words. Instead, there are images. Tailored trousers, black. The depth and the warmth of bronze-olive skin, the indication of working musculature in what is revealed by the parted shirt. Red. A true red with deep undertones. Not silk, but something easily crushed in the hands, matte. It moves against his skin as he walks...
     ...Into the antechamber of your joined bedroom. The palacial antechamber, a great gathering room formerly a great hall. Joan of Arc's fireplace. William pauses, you hear him, you feel him. He pours himself a drink.

     From your bedroom, your majesty, comes silence. Ah, your lover and husband is about, no doubt, but your rooms are quiet. Perhaps he's reading -- when Ian reads, he's very present and interested. Instead, it is the quiet of absence. When no one is home. Empty and resounding. Everyone's away, it seems, including One who is here.

     The colors of the canvas are revisited in Life. Red. Gold. Skin. Wine. Such ruddy and rich tones. It is red wine that fills the glass, wine from this very valley, this particular region. Only one glass is poured.
     William looks up, what illumination there is finds the turning of his face, his eyes seeming darker for the lack of light, his face beatific. Indigo eyes narrow a little. No young men around. Maybe you are napping. You are close.
     The soft sound of his bare steps louden in his nearness and low light is disturbed by the tall shadow of the Angevin entering his bedroom. William eases in, half in at first, a gaze given to searching, as if half expecting that his Ian-radar is off-kilter. But then he sees you. He lifts the wine to his mouth, he sips at it. "Ah, you are here," the Occitan comes quietly, deeply. "Do you want something?" A warrior-painter's hand tips the glass he holds. It catches just the right amount of the limited illumination and reflects a moment of light.

     "What are you offering?" Ian smiles wanly, his face turning to you. His hand lowers, fingers long against the arm of his seat. The sigh is visible and audible, as he chases gloom away. "If it's that wine," he grins and winks, "I'll pass, laird."
     Shoes are off and his slippers are on. Ian extends a hand to you, eager to touch your skin. "I think it is self-fulfilling prophecy," Ian begins in medias res, "...that We," the vampire sort, "...are doomed to destroy any chance of contentment in our damnation. What little fire there is, we snuff. I - I will admit - am very good at such. And I've learned to realize it. I did not expect it to see it today."
     Ian exhales and adds, "I think I've undermined..." Ian snorts at himself derisively, "...something we enjoy much." A purse of his lips, and Ian shrugs, shaking his head.

     Prophecy comes in many shapes and sizes, and unspoken wishes are answered without a second thought. You reach out with your hand, you want his skin, and then it is there, musculature and warmth appearing beneath your fingers, materializing there. Warmth rises from him, as if he had been lying out in the sun all day. You feel the strong stomach and side as he steps up to you, open shirt parting for you as William bends and places a kiss upon your golden crown.
     "It is wine," he says, "I am sorry." He says nothing more on the wine, and it isn't really an apology. William straightens, inclining his head to look to you as you sit. He can see your upset easily. Black eyebrows open outward at it as a hand comes down and rests on your shoulder.
     "Sometimes," his voice is soothing-soft, "... we do not know how to be happy. Or maybe we think that if there is too much, we shall dry up and blow away. We seem to need the struggle, mais oui." He pauses. This is not a hypothetical. The large warrior-artist's hand reaches up, a stroke placed against the blonde.
     "What has happened, amours? That you should think you have undermined our joy?" This man, your husband. Such a man he has become. Even though he seems to be the same man you took from the sands of the Holy Land, he has become far greater. He has you to thank for that. William lifts his hand, wine tasted again.

     "I told Marco..." Ian says lowly, hand at your stomach, "...that he should...watch for his Amadeo. Love who he came with. But I intimated more." Ian free hand pulls at his bottom lip as he stares across the room.
     "Do not trust us." Ian closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against his chair. "I didn't mean to," he whispers, '...it was just...there. It came out. I mostly meant that he should always care for Amadeo. Amadeo needs him more than anything. But...there was something else, Will, some other...thing...beneath that..."

     "He should love Amadeo. Sometimes," William notes softly, "...he forgets." He forgets where he is, he reaches for you, for my golden mate. Like that night when I returned from Scotland. That night he should have seen. He is not as sweet as his lover. Amadeo is the beautiful boy of the Bei Ragazzi.
     "Marco is easily handled," he continues. "I do not think there is any reason to fear for that. He need not even remember that you said it. He may, in fact, already be blaming himself that he upset you. So," he bends again, he places another kiss on your crown, "...do not worry for Marco. But... this something else. It bothered you that you said it? That you felt it? The voice of ... Old Life speaking? Sometimes, when we speak to those who have only lived one part of one lifetime it can seem that we are spouting prophecy like an oracle fountain..."
     He listens, he assures, he does not step away. No, use his skin as a touchstone. His body responds to your touch, an unconscious drawing toward you, the holding of a breath as your fingers move over his stomach.

     "It's not old, I guess," Ian replies, looking up to you now. Seeing you always changes things. "It is...what I am." The Boy takes stock of the Vampire. "Unable to control what rises from within...I did not mean to be...threatening." That's what it was.
     "I threatened him, was ominous. I didn't want to be, but I was, somehow. And I couldn't stop it. In fact..." Ian grins in dismay, "...part of me enjoyed it." Not the part talking to you. "Something ... found happiness in the discomfort given out. That's what I hated..."
     "Maybe, if I took the memory, it wouldn't change things..." That solution you offered, hadn't occurred to him.
     "I wanted to help Amadeo," Ian whispers, "...that's not...how it came out," he laments.

     "I have felt that on occasion," William says, his expression is very even, his face... well, it is the face you have come to know, beautiful in its placidity. When he smiles, startling. Indigo is dark in the low-light, glimmers of blue and violet seen now and again. "When the hand wants to close around the small bird and crush it. It comes and goes. I never used to admit that I liked to cause suffering, but sometimes it happens. Sometimes, I enjoy it."
     He pauses to finish his wine. There is no place to deposit the glass right away, so his hand simply lowers. He will leave it somewhere for Eros later. "If you or I take the memory," whichever you prefer, "I am certain things will be just fine. They may be just fine without doing that, in truth. The bigger question is whether you wish to continue the arrangement with them. Has it become ... problematic? Perhaps Marco seemed or is becoming too attached. I know in the past I said some things to Keith that hurt him... because I felt he was becoming attached. I was ashamed of how I treated him in the past. I do not feel badly for it now."

     Ian's quiet a moment, then says, "No, I meant the observation. I want him to...care for Amadeo. Maybe you're right and I shouldn't worry about it so much. If it means he does give all himself to Amadeo, then it did what I wished. Even if it means that they may leave us." Ian's eyes meet yours and he shrugs again. He would miss them.
     Another exhale. "Maybe we should get out, hmm?" Ian asks. "We...could go walking?"

     "Ah, mais oui. I know what you were trying to do, yes? But we do not need to lose them if we do not want to. It is in our power," he smiles suddenly and what that does. The room may lack for light, but it does not now lack for illumination. "He cares for Amadeo. Perhaps now, however, he also understands that you are not above Amadeo. He should love Amadeo more."
     William stops suddenly at your suggestion. "It is a lovely evening. Clear night, light breeze to cool the warmth. Would you like to go down to the orchards? Or we can go all the way to the Vienne. Even walk the narrow streets of the old city..." He steps away from the chair and holds out his hand. "If we are going into the city, I will need to put on my shoes," he notes.
     "They will not leave us," William whispers. He grins. "How could they, hmm? Look at you. Why would anyone ever want to leave you? Me, I understand. But you?" There is an incredulous look, coupled with a warm and loving smile. "Never."

     "Men and women sell their souls for you," Ian grins, knowing better. He stands. "Just in case you have forgotten. A walk in the old city would be nice, then to the river..."

     The smile is simple. He accepts what you say without argument or rebuttal. William leans in, a kiss stolen -- a forte of his -- and then he turns, setting down the glass and looking for his shoes. "Just the way I would want to pass an evening. It has been a while, yes? And what better time than summer to move through the ville..." Except perhaps for autumn. Or spring. And sometimes winter.
     "And if you see something you want along the way..." He turns his head to look at you, smile slanting as he sits upon the bed to put on his shoes, the bed squeaks with his weight. "We will have dinner..."

     "That's it," Ian murmurs, "...maybe I have should have more to eat..." That may explain it all.
     "I do not think we have done this in...a while?"

     He nods, shoes on, hands on his thighs a moment from standing. "Oui... should definitely eat more. Always. When you are feeling down, there is no better way to feel right. I do not think we eat enough, you and I. When did we become so priestly with our meals?" William grins as he rises. "Such temperance cannot be healthy, amours."
     Maybe that is it...
     "We have not walked a ville with regularity since..." Indigo eyes blink. Good lord. "Newport. We have been staying in so much." He tsks. "More walking, more riding, more eating and drinking, more fucking," a lordly nod, "...this is what we need."
     So sayeth the Angevin sage, in the way only an Angevin can.

     "We don't have time for more," Ian notes. "How many times in a night can you...do all of those things?" He grins, sliding into his own shoes. "But," pale brows arch, "...you are right. We have become ... very ... diet-conscious. I wonder when that happened?"

     "We don't have time for that? If we do not, amours, then who does." William chuckles at the notion of not having enough time. What else is there? He gives a slight wink then thinks, seriously. "Hmmm... we were in Newport. I was going to all of the wrong sorts of places to drink. It was something we decided to do, as a part of ... showing one another our devotion, mais oui."
     Can you believe we once needed that?
     "I think it may be time to rethink that. Our devotion is confirmed," he smiles. "And you know I am going nowhere but to your bed. There is no other place I want to be. If I could paint in bed, I would." He laughs at himself. It is so true. Paint a little, roll over and make love, paint a little more. Have servants bring me food. Ah, now that is the life. But... it is a life only possible in sordid dreams. Life is so much more practical.
     "I see no harm in it, do you, amours? Eating what we like, when we like. As often as we like, more often than we do now..."

     Ian looks up, satisfied with his shoes. "I know," he answers, though it's said softly and with some trepidation. "I'd forgotten.' But the idea of free-reign makes him nervous. How will it be to see you drink deeply of someone else? What will happen to his heart and emotions?
     Ian touches his chest gently, absently, where the cross you gave him rests.
     This time, he inhales sharply. "I guess, we should...think about it."

     "We can think about it," William finishes. He knows the trepidation. He feels it for himself. He feels it for you. How apt he is to erupt in jealousy. He once belittled the now dead Toreador for feeling that way. "We do not have to decide to do anything. That is the glory of being Us." We do as much or as little as we like.
     He waits for you. He holds out his hand. His dark eyes are already touching you. His mouth already loving you. The smile that follows, slight, is a brush of his hand to your skin. A touch you can feel.
     "It is why we have Favorites," he murmurs. "That we can enjoy. That can be our sustenance as much as lovers. I know who you are clasping in the darkness, and I still get jealous." A pause. "Occasionally. Hmm... but maybe it is just fear." William smiles, preparing to lead you out of the bedroom. Unbelievably. "Does it bother you when you see me drink from Amadeo?"

     "A little," Ian says, but quickly follows with, "...but it goes away immediately, when you leave him slack and turn to me." That is important. Ian takes your hand, coming in close. He needs that moment, and the one after, when the two are sleeping and you make love again, outlasting it all.
     "Maybe...we should find another topic, hmm? Do we need coats tonight? Is it cool?"

     I need it, too. And this. He takes your hand, he squeezes it. He smiles a little to think how similarly you feel. "Non, it is very warm. It is a wonder I am going out with clothes on, mais oui. The breeze is cool. You will be thankful for it. It has not cooled off much, Eros said, from how hot it was today."
     The two of you pass out of the bedroom and into the enormous living room of the master suites. Fruit and honey, wine and the scent of young serving men. From the windows, the smell of the orchards, the hum of the ville moving just past dinner and into the smoking and drinking time of night.
     "How is business?" he wonders softly. "Things are going okay, even though you are away?" New topic.

     "Good, we will meet projections," Ian says, energy already turned. He walks easily with you, his hand in yours. "I hear rumors that...we may be approached about...all this business." The businesses. Alexandra. The debt. "I don't know and have not heard, just that Robert said he'd been at a party and overheard something." Good egg, that Robert LeGrasse.
     "He's been spending more time on the continent. I think he's seeing someone..." Ian grins at the idea.

     That gets a double-take, a cock-up of eyebrows and a curious grin. "Robert? Seeing someone? LeGrasse?" That's almost as big a newsflash as Alire. Hmph. "We are always the last to know these days. I suppose that's what being retired does." He keeps saying that word. Maybe he is trying to convince himself.
     "That is good news," he nods as the two of you leave the master suites for the hallway, heading for the stairs. It is a leisurely hand-in-hand stroll. His fingers move against your hand, thumb circling the center of your palm.
     And then he goes strangely quiet. Non, not strangely. He knows what all this business entails. The recompense you took for your cause. His. His is still outstanding. Unpaid. His eyes stare ahead at the air in the hallway, his jaw sets a little. You know that he can feel it, and he knows you can see it. He clears the tension away with an exhale.
     "I hope they are ready to hear the answers to their questions. For their sake. Because if I am asked, I will give the unabridged truth, may god have mercy on all of them." So quietly spoken. It belies the great depth of his feeling on the matter. Oceanic, those feelings.

     "I know," Ian grins, alright with it. Your feelings are yours and he is not responsible for them. "I don't even know, laird, if it's all true. Just a scant note from someone who overheard something. But, I know your mind, if there is a reconsideration of...whatever," Ian's hand waves off.
     But there is another topic shift. "Tell me ... what shall we have tonight, my duke?" Hands swing. "Any preferences? Shall we share? Something easy, or something more complicated? Are we enjoying or..." hunting?

     A wronged duke at that. And one with a long, long memory. He remembers the names of those who have wronged him from the age of fifteen. He should really learn to let it go, as they say. But it is just not in William's nature. The tension returns briefly and fire strikes in his eyes. "They have not yet heard from me. I have been remarkably quiet. But there will come a time when I will speak my mind to those who need to hear it."
     You change the subject. You know just when to do it after so long. He looks to you as the two of you begin to walk down the stairs, from second floor to main floor. From there, out of Logis Royeaux. The ville is nearby.
     "I am easy to please," a slight shrug, he smiles again, though not yet as brilliantly or as widely as before. It will come. He considers it for another moment. "Perhaps we should do whatever first strikes us once we are in the city. The main street, there is a cafe there. Young men converging for nightlife, such as it is in Chinon," William chuckles. "Tours it is not."
     "Or Richlieu," he grins after a momentary pause.

     Richelieu!
     The lights! The sounds! The scents. The sweat.
     The men.
     Well.
     Ian perks, stopping the walk. He twists to see you, lips puckering.
     "Get the car."

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2003 10:45 PM