The bedroom's so still. There are no servants, no Bei Ragazzi about, even just going on with their daily living. For the festival, they were given plenty of time off, to explore Chinon and all the festival had to offer. Who knows, they may have gone to the big party at Richlieu.
And so, in this space, lies one Ian Dunross. The evening has grown into full night, and already reaches around to the darkest before the day. In other parts of the grand castle, rooms stand empty where guests have departed for their homes, or in a few cases, have gone back to the streets to see the visiting throng's shrinking size. A few servants may putter about, but this part of the Logis remains still deep into morning.
Upon the bed lies Ian. A bottle of scotch stands on his nightstand, accompanied by a now-dry glass. His slacks and shirt have been set aside, in case he needs to redress, and shoes are neatly tucked at the edge of the bed. It's a calming rest he's taken, and for the most part, it seems to have worked.
He saw her to bed -- well, insofar as he walked her to her chamber. He said goodnight, a simple farewell after so many words. So many words! What is it about wine, Guillaume, that makes the tongue free itself. You become as loquatious as the Medici, your moving hands gesticulating to points you can't even get to, so many words. Too many notes...
And too much wine...
The door to the private chambers is opened and closed. The shoes are stepped out of, only partially graceful, and barefeet whisper on the stone. There is the sound after of a bottle being set aside. Good riddance! No more wine! And as he crosses the threshold into his chamber he pauses, shirt unbuttoned, the emperor half undressed.
It is you, alone and resting. No Bei Ragazzi, no... that's right... I saw them dancing. Guillaume puts a hand to his head for a moment. You are drunk, sir Sir. And your lover, look at him, your husband. Is he not beautiful? Yes, he is very... handsome, very beautiful. And I love him so much.
Can you hear his hand sliding against the fountain, the water, then the bedpost? It is followed by the sound of the bed moving beneath him. He sits beside you. A hand goes to your hair, your back, the curve of your rear. And his other hand pours a glass of scotch.
He said he was sick of wine. Not alcohol in general...
His hand massages gently, warmly, but possessively. He's drunk, there's no missing that. And then Guillaume bends over, his mouth warm with Life and cool with scotch as it parts at your shoulder.
Ian smiles, but says, "You shouldn't drink that. You know how it makes you, laird." Ian turns over slightly, upon his back. "Have you had your fill yet?" Of whatever. "It's been a long weekend for you," Ian whispers, sitting up on his elbows.
"Mmm...oui, I do know," he whispers back. He sits up and the scotch is finished in a swallow. Indigo -- well, once they were indigo, now they are dark violet with his inebrietion. "I am sick to death of wine," William leans over and sets the glass aside. He doesn't pour another. Your gentle warning abided. "I do not ever want to see a grape again," he laughs softly, he twists out of his shirt. White button-down. A servant will get it. Eventually. "And... how are you? Hmmm? Okay?" Dark eyes look to your own, then your mouth. You see by the lifting of his eyebrows that he means to look at your eyes again, but he is distracted by your mouth. It comes a moment later, that look between lashes.
"It's been a long weekend, so many people, and the drinking, and the dancing..." and his hand waves slowly, and so on. "It has been a long week for both of us. Thank you, my husband," he murmurs, your beautiful distillery, your beautiful wine press, "...for all of your help. You are the best..." A kiss. "...host..." he tacks on.
William straightens a little, taking a moment to look at the rest of you, at the full expanse of the great bed that you have all to yourself. A Plantagenet hand pats against your hip. Move over, amours. I'm coming in. "If you feel better, that is all that is important to me. I am sorry, amours, that I kept you waiting..."
And he kept drinking!
"It's alright," Ian waves off, speaking in French as he has solidly the last week. Between preparations, speaking with extra staff for the week, and finding a language to suit all the guests, the modern, local vernacular seemed the easiest. He blinks and exhales, done with the festivities, even though a few guests remain.
He hasn't moved yet, either.
"I guess I am fine," Ian says absently, mostly to himself. "I hope you...made amends to Victoria. I don't know what happened to me. I..." he shrugs, shaking his head in dismay, "I don't know what that was about."
"It is taken care of," William dismisses it. Do not worry, amours. "She was fine when I left her. She understands, I think. Hmm? Well, as much as she needs to," William seconds that. His mouth twists a smile as he looks to you a moment. You are not moving, amours! Alright, if you do not, I guess I am going to have to crawl over you. Why is it my side of the bed is always on the wrong side...
The bed creaks and sways with two-hundred-plus-pounds of Norman in motion, over you, pressing against you and then rolling over to land on the other side of the bed. He lands on his back with a grunt and then turns his head against his pillow to look at you. "She is okay. I think... we need to not feel so responsible for her. We're not her fathers, mais oui. Or her brothers." He is speaking to himself as much. "I told her it is only because we want her to succeed. But she has to make the decisions."
His hands fumble to unfasten his pants. Narrowing violet eyes have to lift to it, stomach crunching as he half lifts to figure out where the hell the clasp is. Ah. There. And Guillaume lies back down with a quiet exhalation as the trousers are unzipped. But that's all. Hands rest on his stomach as he lays there.
"I know what I want," he murmurs. He turns his head to look back to you. "I want only to be your man, taking care of things, taking care of you. That is... when I am at my best." He smiles a little. He looks to the ceiling a moment. "It is what I enjoy. To be your homme..."
Guillaume rolls over to lie upon his side, the first motion of trousers coming off. He'll be out of them eventually -- though you may have to help. A hand moves to your face. "To help whenever I am needed. To be there to support you, yes? That is what I like to do. That is what I have decided I am going to do. So... you are alright," he says softly.
Ian's head turns towards the bed's center. "I know, you've said so," Ian grins. "But," his gaze drops, "...you only need to do that...part-time, laird. I want you to...go out more. Do projects. A little more," Ian says softly.
"I think it's best," Ian whispers, gaze returning to the ceiling.
"I need you, William. Too much now. Before, it was wanted you too much. Now...it's something else. I can see it."
"Being...a husband does not mean being a nurse..." And that's what's happened.
"And," Ian smiles, laying down again, "...even as I say it, I don't think I'm ready to have you not be...with me all the time."
He is quiet for a time, he looks at you. You might think that it is for the drunkenness, but no... he heard you. He is thinking. Moreso, he is feeling. That need, you see, it goes both ways. Since the torpor, has he been out of your sight? Have you been out of his?
"There is... no shortage of work..." he leads in softly. But it would mean being in a different country, amours. He looks from you to empty space to you again. I would rather you went with me. You can see that in his eyes. But then he exhales. "Maybe ... we should try... we may not be ready." A pause, brows lift in askance, "...but we will not know until then."
But it makes him ache. It makes him turn to lie upon his back and look up at the canopy. It pushes against every uncertainty that remains, that prevents him from entering the ranks of the truly dead, truly immortal or truly saved -- his fear, his longing... these are so very mortal.
"I don't know," he exhales, already second guessing as he hits his own resistance to the very thought of not being with you. But he leaves it at that. "You don't need a nurse," he finally murmurs, turning his head to look at you again. "I don't want to be your nurse, I would look bad in a dress," he smirks. "And I would kill myself on those heels, amours..."
Ian only smiles. He left that there and he should know better. But the smile is there only for so long. "That's the...irony. The minute I think of it, the minute I want to hold onto you longer."
"Oui," your Guillaume says with another breath given to the air, "...that is very true. To think of it... you being somewhere else, me being...wherever the work calls me. Italy," he says, because they are the ones most clamoring for him. Frescoes, William... the frescoes need you. No one but you, he can hear Girault, no one but you, Guillaume. You must come.
If he had been drinking brandy or scotch he would be combatitive by now, and if scotch combatitive to the point of weeping. But it has been wine, the cabernet of his native land. Le comte du Poitou is therefore much more meditative. Emotional, yes... but prone to thought or...
Yes... the other thing... touch...
He extends a knightly arm, opening himself up for you to come to him. You know he will swallow you up in those arms if you let him. "I will tell you, amours, that I cannot imagine my heart growing any fonder," you know what they say about absence. "I think... because we feel the way we do... knowing what we know," he murmurs. "... feeling the irony as deeply as we feel it... that... it is the right thing to do. It would not be so... scary... if it were not..."
Ian chortles softly, "You're more confident than I am. I'm not sure it's the right or best thing to do. Well, in my head, on paper, sure. But, in truth?" Ian's chin sticks out and he shakes his head negatively. "I don't know."
The knightly embrace is left empty for the moment. Ian continues to look at the canopy above. "I don't...I can't see...what's for us anymore, Will. I used to," Ian's eyes close, his fingers twined at his stomach, "I used to see...so much. So far ahead..."
There's a smirk for confidence. He does tend to err on the side of overconfidence. But... nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. "We will not know its value until we try it," he murmurs. "We are making the way for us... as we go now and maybe that is for the best," he wonders, he looks to you, his offer still open though you have not taken it yet -- it allows him to spread out, and this is never a bad thing as far as he's concerned. "That we do not see too far ahead, that we do not plan ourselves too far ahead. Maybe it is not a bad thing, Ian..."
"I would rather you see...that we see ... things as they are happening, when they happen, together in the same moment, then to be too far ahead. If that makes sense. And he's not sure of that himself. William sighs. And for a few moments there is nothing said. He just lies there, feeling you feeling, and feeling you nearby.
"How would we make it work, amours? If we are going to talk about it, we should just talk about it. We should look at it, hmm? How would it work if I were to take, for instance, a fresco project in Venice -- of which there are a great many, I can assure you. The project may take a couple of years to complete. How would we make it work, amours?"
"I don't know," Ian says again. "I guess...just like others do. We talk about it as if it's strange and foreign. Something that never happens." He laughs softly, "I guess, you go as you need and...we visit when we want."
"It's not the how that's complicated," Ian rethinks. "It's...how we feel about it."
"It's not as if we need to be parted. We don't wish it," Ian adds. "We do not need the money. So...why would we do something that's...undesired?"
"Why did I bring this up?" Ian smiles.
William laughs now, softly, eyes turned to you. "I don't know," he rolls out with largesse, but then the smile is truer than the tone. We know why you brought it up. "It isn't the first time we've talked about it. I suppose... we should stop talking about it and... just let life take its course, amours. Next summer when I have to return to Chinon to finish the Caravaggio," did you know it was another Caravaggio? "You should stay in Scotland. See summer come in, laird. And... we will see how it goes, mais oui? Until then... why are you so far away," he finally protests. "When I am lying here, reaching out for you. Are you trying to get a head start? Hmm?" He grins, he teases, he jests with his own uncertainty.
He is mindful of the past, you see, for all the weight of it he has rightfully had to bear. Whenever the two of you were parted, trouble was never far behind. But... can it not be different? Would it not be different now?
Ian looks over, brows arching. "You can come here instead," Ian smirks, unlacing his fingers to reveal a sheet with him thinly outlined beneath it. He's finished discussing this topic. "Maybe I should have a scotch."
"Hmmm... better you than me, yes? Are you sure you do not want wine?" He does not move yet, but you can see that he is plotting. Calculations are being performed, angles studied. Pity -- you are not wrapped up in the sheet enough for him to tug it and roll you over to him.
The bed sounds as he resettles not merely next to you but rolling on to you, his hand reaching out and pouring a glass. For you. A half roll brings him to his side beside you -- he is generous when drunk on cabernet -- and then he pauses, looking down his body...
And realizing he still has his drawers on...
"I always give in," he murmurs that teasing lie, he grins it as he says it, his face nearly straight. He hides a chuckle in the grunt he makes while trying to remove his pants while still lying in them. This is going to take a while.
Unless he gets frustrated and rips them off, which, on occasion, he has done...
"Ah, thanks," Ian whispers, sitting up on an elbow as he accepts the glass. Apparently, this scotch is not for long-term enjoyment, since he drinks as he watches the watcher watching his underwear.
"God hates liars," Ian observes, recalling an old saying. He smiles and twists to set this glass back on the nightstand. An exhale. Scotch always makes things better.
"Then I'm right fucked," comes the sudden English, clapping as English is wont to do after so much French. William rolls to lie on his back, bearing down on his shoulders and he squirms out of trousers and drawers. Beautifully, if not gracefully.
And just like the night of the sacrifice, his pants are launched to catch the air, narrowly miss the fountain -- he winced -- and land somewhere on one of the antique chairs.
He pulls the sheet around himself as he settles in beside you, throwing a heavy thigh across you. Possession, again. Seconded by his hands beneath the cover of the linens. "I love you," he says it, "...and that is no lie, hmm? Yes?" He smiles. You know this. But he says it anyway. He says it every night. "Just think, amours... how it will be, hmm? We have been parted for say... just a few weeks even," William whispers. "And I come to see you, I have Henry fly me in, and I find you in the bed. Can you imagine how it would be? Or maybe... you come to see me in Venice... led to me on a gondola, straight to the Palazzo I would have to rent. Young boys would bathe you in orange water while I get cleaned up from all the dust and paint...It's like one of your books you like to read..."
William grins as his hands meet warm skin made warmer by being beneath the sheet. "Maybe we can make it pleasurable." That's your William. He can turn anything into foreplay.
"You have been reading again, hmm?" Ian asks. "I must have left that book here somewhere," he smiles, looking left and right as if it must be nearby.
"Non, you know how I am about reading," William rolls out the red carpet of humored lies. He reads a great deal, just not pulp fiction. "It will be alright," he assures quietly. And then, head on your pillow, he closes his eyes.
"I know," Ian murmurs, closing his eyes again. "I know."
Posted by rowan at November 09, 2003 06:25 PM
