There are sounds of Him... stirring about. Something being put away. Something else being removed. A jacket, a nice jacket, a new jacket, is being removed. He has to admit, he half-hoped he'd come home to find you in bed. It was a wish he had somewhere midway between Edinburgh and here, return trip, about two-thirds the way through the first rain-snow mix of the season. It will not stick, it could not stick. It is too wet, too early. But the snow will soon fall. It will be a white December...
     But he digresses...
     William stands near the main seating area, overcoat lain across a chair to dry for now. He'll hang it up in a moment, so he thinks -- but as usual it will be up to a servant to do this. He will get distracted, he will forget, or... as sometimes happen... he will simply disrobe without a care in the world.
     Beneath the black wool-silk blend overcoat is a jacket of the same, and trousers too. Those, made for him. All of it... made for him. Sent in packages that arrived just shortly after you both did. A new wardrobe for a new year. Out with the old, in with the new. The shirt is a button-down, mixed fibre number. It shimmers a gold-yellow, soft of hue but with some vibrance gifted by the fabric itself. There's not a stitch of velvet or leather anywhere near him tonight.
     And his hair is appreciably shorter. There's no obstructing his gaze. No shelter from his attention. And no apology in imperfection granted.

     The young man in the bed went under early this morning. Signs that he tried to wait are evident: the remote on your side of the linens, the book spine bent widely open. The Heart's Last Desire. Maybe he'll move to crime novels one year. Ian is not in the deep sleep that will come with sunrise, but instead, something gentler. Almost natural.
     He does not stir much at your arrival. Somewhere within, he hears you certainly, but it is not enough for him to wake. Instead, hands open and close slightly, a stretch for the fingers.
     At the floor near him rests a stack of newspaper articles. One of the servants more expert in helping Ian with work has been to visit. Ian's slippers sit neatly near the base of his nightstand, waiting for a servant to put them away.

     Layers are removed until there is only shirt and undershirt, and the trousers. Doc Martens, the dressy, fashionable sort not the ass-kicking, steel-toed sort, are removed, peeled off heel-toe at the bedside and the curling of your fingers find him, layers of him.
     The shirt is a kind of silk, but it crumples, dissolving at the touch. And the smell -- it is... what is it, it is some spice of some sort. It is something expected in summer, something... warm. Maybe it is an olfactory hallucination. Didn't sunlight smell so?
     "I am home," comes the voice, that much has not changed, the languid baritone, the language Gaelic but flecked with France. It is Fraser... remember Fraser?... who speaks thus. Fraser... only when he is in this land. He has dropped pretense everywhere else. But he remembers the Christmas you and he picked out the name, in a lull after he made love to you in the replica armor...
     "I love you," the Gaelic sounds again, in a whisper, at the crown of your head, where his mouth leaves behind a pressing kiss. The bed bears the added weight -- and there is much of it. And indigo eyes slide attention from you to the book. William grins at the title and reaches over to take it, very quietly...
     He settles back, back given to the pillows, a hand holding up the book. His other, resting lightly on you.

     "It is good," Ian mumbles, mouth partially filled with pillow. He exhales audibly, a cleansing flow of oxygen. "It is about a young aristocrat, forced to decide if he will marry this girl that his father has arranged, or whether he will run away with a young man in the theatre." Of course. "And the India campaign is beginning, and the aristocrat may need to go..."
     The sheets rustle as Ian turns over finally, blonde hair spilling on his pillow behind him. Eyes open to see you, and he rests his hands on his chest. "How was the City?" he asks. The City, is Edinburgh. "They glad to see the reclusive Lord Fraser of Strathfayr?"

     "War and family, the great impediments to many a fine romance," comes the mull of his voice, warm with humor, held in his chest. William lowers the books and he smiles, the book -- your place dutifully saved -- set aside and he bends over you. No hair veils his eyes, nor is long enough to drape downward. He kisses you, with nothing in the way. And no scratch of a beard. "It was good, and... yes," and now it is all Gaelic, accenting all wrong, but beautifully so, "...they seemed to be, well..." William chuckles, "...the few I actually saw. Jezebel sends her greetings," as always, "...she wonders when she might see us together. I told her, perhaps I could arrange an evening of thrills and excitement in Edinburgh and ...lure you out. But," another kiss, "... my last duty done, I have little desire to leave the keep until winter is done."
     And so all pieces are put into place. This is reflected in how... sharply he is seemingly put together. There are no accidents in the Plantagenet universe.

     It is a look you have. Ian's hand comes to your cheek, feeling the smoothness. Change comes so easily now between us. It all could be lost in an instant, like a beard, and we would go on together. Ian's smile is warm, as if observing some great profundity. He comments not on it verbally, but the contentment can be felt.
     "Maybe I should go there," Ian whispers, hand still on your skin. "But," he shrugs a little, "I don't feel like being bothered with questions about..." his hand waves, as it does when he thinks of Alexandra, "...or having to be so fucking formal," he laments, emphasis on the fucking. "That's all. Not that I would not like to see some of them, for in fact, I would."

     "When you go... if you go... you should simply be ...yourself. No apologies," he shakes his head, smile slanting. "I have at last surrendered the final vestiges of... " eyebrows lift and the look is pleasantly bland, "... giving a shite, as they say. It's unimportant. Those who love you, will love you. Those who don't? Well, who cares what they think anyway? Sod them..." And he'll include Alexandra in that. The flash of a grin is edged with distended vipers.
     He is resplendent. And for the first time in... how many centuries now?... he makes no effort... none at all... to obscure it, disguise it, discount it. William bends, face tilting to your touch, eyes half-closing. "Maybe after the new year, after we get settled in." Maybe then. We'll talk of it again then. Until then, he can easily dismiss it. "Is it not good to be home?" he whispers. "To feel the chill. The promise of snow..."

     "It is," Ian confesses. There is nothing like it. The only place that comes close now is Chinon. "In our own bed," the first bed, "...in our home," the first home shared. "And you..." Ian grins, "...how you are," he finally says aloud. "I had forgotten how you looked." Under all the layers. Fingers stroke softly. "When was the last time you were this way?" As if either of you could recall.

     "1185..." He laughs. And maybe that's true. William shrugs, not knowing himself when the layers were stripped away. Perhaps this is the first time, in truth. Perhaps it does not matter. It Is Now. The laughter turns to something warm, understanding. "I do not know that I have ever been as I am now. Or perhaps I was, and failed to see. I do not know. You like it..." He was not worried. "I am getting used to... not having hair in my face." A large hand lifts, raking through the short black hair.
     "I feel like the Caravaggio must feel, oui?" just a moment of French, when he speaks of something utterly Him. And maybe the Boy with the Basket of Fruit is behind it. But... there is not one thing, not one inspiration, but for all of them altogether.
     "Hmmm... our bed... the first bed," William murmurs, bending in again, mouth pulling on yours, smile forming into the kiss. "It is... and has always been... my favorite. I ... do not think I will want to leave it much..."

Posted by rowan at May 03, 2003 10:04 PM