It took a night for him to get his legs back after the drunken display during the festival. Falcon de Ventadourn is not a man accustomed to excess, particularly of alcohol -- but that applies to most else. Excess and flagrant excess at that is just not something you'd expect from Ventadourn.
     As his massive headache and hangover the next day attested...
     But two nights later, he's his old self again, doing the things of a typical early evening. This includes cooking dinner for you both -- tonight it is goat cheese and herb crepes with vegetable fritters and a white wine for a change -- reading in preparation for his next article piece, reading in preparation for his next book prospectus, and listening to music as he walks in and out of the sitting room, going from the book to the kitchen at regular intervals.
     Very regular. He's like a human metronome.
     Dark brown curls are cut very close these days and his glasses have been exchanged for contacts. Moving to the country has inspired him to run again -- he is in very fine form these days, no? And... *gasp* ... stylish! Wool crepe trousers, perfect for all seasons, matched with a nice shirt. Still quasi-academic, but with a certain ... flare. An attention to detail that is just so him in every way.

     "Did you write Stephane back about the conference?" The one on astronomy and numerology in Islamic courts. An event for specialists. It's not often that careers cross paths, but when the Middle Ages is the subject, things cross more often than not. "I am late," Laurent murmurs, returning to the living room with his glasses precariously hanging from his nose, "...with my abstract." Damn can almost be heard. He grins and kisses his astronomer's cheek, then looks around the piles of books on tables, floors, and strangely, in the copious built-in bookshelves that line the living room.
     "Thank God I know what I am going to write," Laurent exhales, eyes widening as he finds what he's looking for: the submission form.
     Laurent had more to drink than usual as well. However, someone had to be responsible and so he took that role for himself. Still, it was delightful weekend all-in-all. The other professor twists, both hands now full, and then heads to his corner of the divan to fill out his form.

     "I did," Falcon looks up from the book, looks up at the kiss, smiles to you and turns his head slightly to the side, listening to the sounds from the kitchen. Another few minutes. "I would not miss it," the conference, "... it is not often that I get a chance to discuss my favorite subject," astronomy in the Islamic courts. "I have already pulled my sources. I got excited," he grins, looking at you as if he is looking over spectacles -- a habit he has not yet outgrown.
     "Are you going to give me a sneak peak?" Falcon grins, the kiss is returned, the question quiet in its intimacy, and in its humor. As if you would not. You share everything. "Ah, a moment... I have to turn dinner," he grins, he slips from your hold long enough to jog down the hallway. "But now I am second guessing the subject matter for the book. To discuss the theorems," those recent theorems (including his) on the shape and thickness of the universe, "...peppered with the poetry of Hafiz." He laughs at himself from the kitchen.
     When he returns, he smells of crepes, of herbs and of all things savory. "I do not know. The thought of it. It is like we have come full circle. To discuss how many angels are balancing upon a pin." He smiles to you. "The fritters are nearly done, would you like a glass of wine, ami?" The bottle is slightly chilled and resting nearby. "So! Your topic," he picks up where he left off before.

     Wine. Laurent doesn't wince, but he grimaces slightly. "How about a Campari," his French rolls. He sighs and crosses his legs, notebook on his lap and paperwork on top of that. He reaches for a pen.
     The other professor has to remind himself that you're going to the same conference. "Hafiz?" he grins, shaking his head. A bit too esoteric for him. He'll stick to the sessions around mathematics' origins in astronomy crossing with sacred numbers in mystical texts. The mix of science and religion indistinguishable, as it was then. "My topic," Laurent grins again, "...the usual. Numbers." They do go in a variety of directions, numbers do. "It'd bore you," Laurent teases, winking over the rim of his black frames.

     Always with Falcon it is a combination of astronomy, mathematics and poetry. Sometimes religion intervenes, but not usually. Not for him. He laughs when you wink over your glasses, "You are right. I do not find numbers the least bit interesting." They only describe the fabric of all life.
     Shaking his head, he bends to kiss your head. "I will get the Campari. We are having crepes and fritters. I think you will like it," he says quietly. "It will be ready in a few minutes. We can eat in here for a change, if you like." Falcon straightens, rubbing your shoulder. "The heart is like that," he whispers, "...blessed and ruined once it has known Divine beauty. Then, it becomes a restless sky hunter."
     He leaves you with Hafiz, a massage of his hand, and he moves to the bar.

     Not so fast. Laurent's hand reaches out, grasping the departing one. He pulls with his left while tossing his papers aside with the right.

     Falcon is tugged and returns easily, following the momentum of your grasp and of your pull. He knows how fast he is moving. He can calculate in his head the formula of the motion. Him returning to you.

     "You speak like that," Laurent smiles, guiding towards his lap, "...and now I have to kiss you," he confesses. "Hafiz wished he had your power," Laurent rhapsodizes, arms eager to hold their other.

     He follows the momentum there as effortlessly as following gravity there. It a combination of Laws, his sitting on your lap. And an expression of Inevitability. An arm lies behind your shoulders and Falcon leans in for a kiss.
     "This union you want with the earth and sky," he whispers more poetry to you, smiling, "...this union we all need with love, a golden wing from God's heart just touched the ground."
     And then he kisses you. Can this be the same musician who would blush and stammer over every other word? The same astronomer who could only speak his emotions through his violin? Now you share a house in the country, he sits on your lap and speaks Hafiz to you...

     His mouth parts urgently, immediately. It wasn't so long ago that he stared at you, not knowing what to say. And now, Laurent affirms his intents with ease and confidence. Time does that, as well as peppering Laurent's hair whiter and bunching the small wrinkles around his closed eyes. These are the moments he remembers best, when you are close, but not as close as you can be. Anticipation of more. His arms tighten and Laurent inhales, content to let the breath go only when the kiss ends.

     It's a sweet thing really. A simple clasp, the combination of two galaxies, the feeling of southern French countryside, cool nights and stars. Somehow, that always comes through, followed by the solidity of his form, the geometry that the two of you make. The wonder at the kiss that is always the furthest thing from mathematics. Sweet. Soft. Eager.
     Always that.
     The kiss ends as he can smell dinner. Smelling is the first step to burning. He smiles at you, closely -- he likes to be close and he likes to take up a chair with you. He hates to burn dinner. "I should go get that before we have to go out for our dinner, yes?" Another kiss, the closing of his eyes, faint lines at their corners. Another kiss, and he smiles. I better go. "I will come back and sit here," on your lap. "And we will eat. Ah, yes... and the Campari..." Falcon starts to rise.

     "Ah, the Campari," Laurent wails softly, not in a rush to let go. After another moment's look, he releases his hold, allowing a choice. The exhale comes as a sigh, he seeming a little melancholy tonight. Just a touch.
     "Thank you for dinner," Laurent says politely, running a hand over his head. "I would starve without you. Or, maybe not starve, but be impoverished, eating only at the Voltaire's fine establishments." L'Orangerie and Trentes Annee.

     "I like to do it. It is like meditation," quiet time for the mind. Another kiss. He smiles, he pulls away, rising. "I will be right back." Falcon takes a moment to stare. Openly.
     He remembers the first night you came into his room. He was playing the violin. The two of you could barely speak to one another about what you wanted. Dressed in pajamas and sweats, the two of you made a pile in his small bed in his small and cluttered room.
     And now he is staring at you without hesitation, without reservation, without shame or nervousness. And Falcon smiles. "You are welcome, ami. I could not bear to see you starve!" He grins then and moves to the kitchen.
     A part of him remains. Some warmth in the air. The taste of him. The sounds of him from the kitchen. And he hums! Lord, he hums. Some tune played earlier. Or maybe to be played later, if you wish.
     When he returns, he is surrounded by the flavors of crepes, goat cheese, rosemary. He places the two small plates upon the table next to you and turns for the bar and the Campari. He looks at you as he starts to pour. That look. That blush. That smile. "I tried something new tonight. Hopefully it will be good. Or, we may have to go to the Orangerie," he chuckles.

Posted by rowan at November 11, 2003 01:23 PM