A whistle like a nightingale, soft and easy, lifts above the green. And cool the breeze that moves down and along the stone. Hands pause upon a putter, and the captain grins. With a turn and a glance, eyes make their mark. With a turn and a glance, like they used to do with rapiers and pistols. Sandy hair, grown out a bit from all his traveling, half veils the hazel gaze. And a twinkle in his eyes glints brightly. With a squint... and a grin... Henry makes his last shot...
     Or second to last. It depends on how well it goes, wot?
     The sun is giving up its last gasp. There, just at the horizon, a line of scarlet and violet -- course, the horizon cannot be seen from the bailey and this stretch of green. Only the various hues of indigo. And the first pocking of stars. Soon, the sky will be filled with them. Here, so far from city-life, the sky is littered with the stars and dust of the Milky Way. But only the brightest may be seen just yet. The shoulder of Orion is rising above the tallest tower.
     Hips and wrists, legs and shoulders. All in concert for the shot, and Henry straightens as the ball rolls toward the cup. Putter held relaxed now, and hazel eyes expectant. And that is when he turns to find Paddy. A smile. Warmth. Meaning behind it. Time to go in?

     Standing in an array of beiges, Paddy remains fixed on the shot. Anytime is good to go in...well...just as long as the last shot of the day is alright. In tan slacks and antiqued silk shirt, he's gained a little sense of flair since the trip. But still beige. After the shot falls, the breeze picks up enough to send his shirt a flutter. Finger pushes at the glasses on his nose, and red hair becomes lively. "Nicely done," he applauds, hesitant upon moving...maybe he should make another shot.
     He glances at his watch, still holding his own putter. Nearby, two bags sit propped up...one a little more worn than the other. "Aye, that puts ye 72 percent in regulation, Henry," the formal used. In private, always 'Captain' -- save when he uses one of the other words he's been taught. "Well," he laughs, waving the paper in his free hand, "...as much as we got regs t'day, laddie." Ah, the accountant, always trying to find some numbers for comparison. "Yer up on meh by six though," he sighs, "...I feel a little worn, eh..." Paddy steps up near you, looking down the green, "Nice form," he whispers quietly, as close as he will come to a flirt...in any setting. He blushes a little and offers to take your putter and return it to your bag, hand open.

     But well does beige offset the red. Well does it suit the rest of your complexion. Well does it all... fit. Henry twists as the shot lands. That'll do for the night, and to see the hair in disarray, the clothes blowing and the finger pushing up the glasses. He grins. All that, the whole of you and every little nuance he has been studying for the past ...while... it pleases him. As you near him, he extends his hand. The putter exchanged. Simply. But more than this. Energy is alive between you, is it not? The pull. The draw. I should kiss you now. The look says it. But he doesn't. Not this openly. He merely...hands off...the smile lingering and broadening, hands removing the putting glove. Soft kid. In the hand off, there was a brush of a touch. A slight and subtle press. "I like it," he whispers. And meaning you. "So, I think... better to stop while I'm in the clear?" The Anglo-Irish accent is becoming more and more prominent, gleaning from your own Scottish. "We should...go a full eighteen..." A nod to grass beyond these towers, "...out there... " And then he smiles. He can't help it. Hazel eyes lift. Anyone looking? "But... for now I would...rather go in. Have a quiet drink..." And more.
     But as evening is born, surely... others are prone to walk. To be seen. To stroll about the green. There is the rise of nightly sounds. Of animals stirring. Of evening birds...and other such creatures of the night.

     "For sure," Paddy agrees. He shall cede the night. No use for another round of putts. "A drink, aye, that sounds right," he murmurs, grinning as he turns to walk your putter off. "Mebbe t'morrow," Paddy thinks aloud, "...we can g'out past th'Aonach an' have at least th' back nine," said in all genuine tenor. He slips your putter into your bag, then sighs as he walks and does similarly to his own. "An' I think we got call'd for dinner," Paddy turning about and tossing his head at the kitchen, "...'twonder if 'tis got a chill on 't now?"
     In the glass along Cuirinnein Hall, a few faces look out upon the bailey. Ah yes, the house rumor mill. The two young women stop, one speaks hurriedly to the other as they stare at the golfing partners in the bailey, and then they move off quickly down the ground hall, disappearing into a room somewhere.
     Above, a few hawks fly. Wild these, they appear to simply be curious about things, and soon enough, they depart.

     Oh yes. Dinner. "Well... we better make an appearance for that..." A soft whisper. "But... maybe if the others have already eaten," the soft baritone voice trails there, leading, "... perhaps we can take dinner upstairs..." It is not so much that he wants to have his wicked way with you, as much as he desires to just have time with you where he doesn't have to hide so much. Pretend. Seem. Ah, the great English art of Seeming. The English perfected it. And it can be tiresome. Of course, once a scotch has been swallowed and you and he are in private quarters, he may indeed wish a portion of wickedness. You have discovered by now that he's quite spry for 42. "If the weather holds up," Henry counters with a broad smile and a warm clip to his voice. His eyes, full of light, but getting hard to see. He reaches over, hand landing to your shoulder, as he moves to you. "I feel a bit of rain in the air..." Not that that should stop a Scot from playing, says the grin. But then, he's not Scottish...

     "And my left knee is aching," comes the smooth roll of baritone, laced heavily with Provencal -- so much so that the English, if that is English, may as well be a dialect of that more Romantic tongue. And laughter hangs upon it... as if directed elsewhere, and merely lingering to color these newer words. Some remainder of an earlier conversation. He is clothed in a shirt of ivory silk, partially fastened. Moving against him as the wind moves. And the black leather that so fits him, and so softly, that it does not, dares not, creak. Unshaven, his jaw is lined with several night's growth, visible about his mouth. His hair, long on top, is toyed with by the wind. Looking quite Continental. Even dark, as if he has been out in the sun. And he has. A little bit.
     And he is not alone. No indeed. William's meandering through the bailey is paused, waiting upon the one who comes with him. To walk in time to one another. Lords, upon their nightly stroll...

     That gets a quirk of What are you talking about? from Ian. He chuckles as he comes up behind you, noting, "Segues are so difficult," before moving to the side and letting the two younger men get a view of him. "Good evening," he says, English punctuated for clarity. He's been speaking in other languages the last few weeks and wants to make sure he is understood. "Mm, looks as if we might have interrupted something?" Ian proffers, knowing the answer is both yes and no. Eyes look down the green, then to the two men, "Aren't you tired?" from your trip, that is. More playing. He smiles and comes to a halt near you, hand gently coming to rest on your forearm, Ian angled your direction.

     Huh? Paddy's attention was at the man's hand coming to settle on his shoulder and talk of rain and dinner upstairs. God, he hopes you did not hear. Twisting sharply, his green eyes blink, and finger comes to push at his glasses again. If he's fast enough, perhaps his lover's hand has fallen helplessly unseen. "Oh, good 'eve, Sirs," he half-nods. No bows here, but acknowledgment is given. And you, you know them better. Finger moves to push his glasses up again...but they are as far as they can go. Instead, Paddy wraps hands around his putter, it held upright almost like a shield.

     The hand had given a squeeze, but had begun to draw away as the familiar voice was heard. Plantagenet. Lord help us, he's home! Certainly now the hand is gone and Henry's hands find the pockets of his nice trousers. An easy segue, and full of refinement, truly. Learned refinement, let me assure you. It is a broad smile that turns toward the approaching young men. One will forever catch the glimmer in his gaze more than the other. Hands come out of his pockets, and his voice lifts. "No one made mention that you had returned... how was your holiday?" That called out to both Sirs. "And no... not tired... it was a very lovely and restful journey..." Lovely, certainly. But restful? Henry is full of smiles, and glances to Padraig. "I can't tell you...it was... simply the best trip in years..." For more than one reason.

     "Looks like we missed a game," William counters. And half of that was French. He repeats it in English with a smirk and some rise of color that the dark of night thankfully covers. The smile lingers, hinted and half-perched. Though his mouth, full as it is, shows the curves. "A good time, hmm? You will have to tell us about it... I love tales of the sea...Hallo, Padraig..." A greeting to him at last. "And we got in late this morning..." Fingers fish in his shirt's pocket. For his lighter and a cigarette. "And ...it was... beautiful. But..." he exhales and turns to the golden one beside him, "...there is nothing quite like returning home..." Home. Strathfayr is home.

     There's a nod from Ian, "Yes, it's good to be back," he offers, but is rather more intrigued by the other trip. "At least you will not need a rest from your rest," Ian says, looking between the two men. Can he be any closer to William? "Sometimes, a trip can be so...exuberant...that you need a holiday from your holiday," he smiles. Ah, so genuine. "But really, you will have to tell us about it in detail...I have not been on such a ship in...well..." Ian clicks his tongue, "...a while. I hear they have holes..." his brows lift, "...for golfing on the boats now? Entire greens. And many pools. Oh...and food all the time!" A chuckle and he ends his litany, "But it's good you had a good time, that's the important part." Arm slips around William's and Ian leans against him softly.

     Padraig looks a bit nervously between everyone. He cannot rely on Henry now, save seeming too attached. And anything said certainly should come over tripping tongue. "Aye, twas the grandest thing I e'er saw, Mr. Dunross, thank ye, really. A...an...you too, Mr. Fraser. Meh mum is jes' waitin' t' hear too!" he smirks, trying to find something light to insert. "Like I was tellin'...He--err...The Captain here, twas nice of y' all t' let me go. And him, too." Green eyes look between lowered lashes at Henry, then fall to the ground.

     "It was lovely indeed... well," Henry looks to Padraig. Warm reassurance there, before turning to the two... attached lords. "...we should speak on it over a drink... or... perhaps over dinner tomorrow night. I can make certain I've got the photos printed..." Digital cameras make life so much simpler. Aye? "Or... now. We were just up to have a drink. I owe Paddy a pint for all his pointers on my suffering game..." Padraig, if you're attentive and quick, you'll notice the fond look. Chased by a hazeled wink.

     There is no need to hide from mortal convictions here. Nor need to disguise what is obvious to anyone with eyes. Love is taken and is given freely. In subtle, simple touches that speak of intimacy far greater. So the hold of Ian to William. So speaks the lean. And the kiss upon the temple given after. A knightly arm moves in the darkness, unwinding from his lover's to venture to his back. The skim of a touch there. The press of his fingers. And William leans in, the ever-present smile broadening to a grin. Resplendent. In his other hand, a cigarette and a lighter. Paused now, he cannot light with all this talk and with one arm now in the service of another. "You're welcome, Padraig...Henry...I'm just glad you ...had a good time." Indigo turns to Ian then, and William inclines his head. "We weren't off to anywhere were we, amours?" comes the languid murmur, voice deep and quiet and smooth. A raven brow lifts and the expression is openly placid. He is not as innocent as he seems. "That we could not join them in a drink, give toast to Henry's improving game, and hear about the travel?" William looks to the other gents, both brows lifted. "Though dinner tomorrow night, of course. We will be up by supper..." So he says and promises.

     "Absolutely," comes Ian's retort, almost sounding like William himself. Same cheer, same intonation. Practiced. And here he expected to hear more and give the two travellers enough time. But as Henry makes a suggestion for the next night, Ian is not so cruel as to ignore it. "Tomorrow night. I'm eager to hear about your adventures. Six months," he grins, "...on such a boat. And William is right," his own arm coming around your waist, "...we are simply glad that you had a wonderful time." Ah, but your love is mischievous tonight. Maybe you should put that into good use. There's a smile for Paddy, to reassure him that he's alright, but Ian knows that shall not go so far. "You deserved a holiday," he says to no one, but in truth, it is for the accountant and barrister, "...Strathfayr would be so much less," and grey eyes travel between the two men, "...without you both." Ian pats at your waist softly, an indication of let's go.

     Padraig stands firm, the putter still in his gloved hand. "Aye, thank ye...t'morrow then...dinner." A smile forms nervously. Dinner...with them? He's never done it. For a moment, he's not sure whether it's an honor...or maybe he should go practice what silver goes where.

     "Hoi...are y'lads wantin' yer supper?" comes a voice very loudly from the open kitchen door. Mayte, an older lady, looks startled to see the Lords out there. "Ach, Sirs, beggin' y'pardon, please...I meant...t' get th' lads..." and then she coughs, looking the height of crimson. Light spills from the kitchen around her, she goldened to her feet. "Supper's...gettin' cold, boys..." The two that can dine, naturally.

     Henry will give lessons, he is good with silver implements. And having had to learn such courtesy in more stringent times, what better teacher? Besides, in such a way learning might be punctuated with ...more pleasurable pursuits? Smiling, Henry makes a bow. "Tomorrow night then... dinner... I will look forward to it," and he straightens. His look takes in Padraig, and the stiffness and nervousness. Utterly endearing. I really must spirit you to the room immediately. "We will give you a call then?" he offers, voice lifting. "...when supper's about?"

     He needs no further invitation or urging, and already was William giving a last nod and slant of a grin to Henry and Padraig and turning into your touch, when Mayte's voice rang out. The turn then comes with a grin and something of amusement. Wherever the light touches him, it knows of beauty, blatantly virile. "What's on the table tonight, Mayte," William calls out, voice lifting easily, without so much as a strain, to fill the bailey. That projection. Like your mischief, Dunross, you should put your husband's vocality to work tonight. William is turning, back and shoulders given to the other two Returned Travelers, and he leans against you as he strides slowly to the Keep.

     "Aye!" calls Henry back. "We're just comin in for it... thank you...had to finish off the putt..." And well... you know... Henry looks to Padraig, and with the retreating sirs and in the shadows unaffected by the spilling light, lands a touch upon him. We'll take supper upstairs...

     What's for dinner? Mayte looks stunned for a moment. "Steak an' chips...with summer...squash," she says, he voice lowering as she reaches the end of the menu. He asked. She shakes her head and nods at Henry's rising voice, attention turned there. "Anon, we're wantin' t' clear up..." and close up the main kitchen for the night. With that, the golden light dims as she closes the door.

     Ian smiles, letting you all have the last word. He walks easily with William, arm around him. So each do the touches come, publically now as much as privately. He engages the lean, feet crossing each other as he walks with Lord Fraser, not working so hard to keep his balance. "What do you think?" he whispers in your French, trying to keep from obvious laughter or chuckling. They are terribly...adorable.

     Supper. Saved. Padraig sighs audibly as the lords leave, then looks at you. Warm he's gotten, despite it being a cool night. Turning about he lifts a hand at the already-gone Mayte, and then steps aside to put his own putter into his bag. Finally. He doesn't have much to say, yet the dampness at spots on his silk shirt perhaps tell all. Paddy moves quietly as he zips things closed, putting the scorecard into a small pouch on your bag and preparing to go inside. Okay...I survived. He is unsure of how he feels about the house's looks and questions, but at the same time, feels poorly for his seeming sense of paranoia about his substitute family. "I don' think I'm all that hungry, Henry," he whispers, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. The metal perch is also picked up and folds automatically for him to tote.

     "Let's go upstairs then. I'm...not all that hungry either," comes the whisper. Thinking it discreet. And so Henry gives Padraig a nod and a smile. Let's go. With that, hands are out of pockets once more and he heads toward the kitchen doorway. Looks are constant. And now, thinking himself and yourself alone, there is a look that crosses the small distance. A smile half hid in the shadows of descending night. I do absolutely adore you. He reaches out to take the metal perch. A hand lands upon your shoulder and gives another reassurring -- and more -- squeeze. A lean in and words form near your ear. "It's alright you know..." Sounding British then. And well... as well he should, he is in part. But the smile is fond. "Come on... let's out of the gleam..." Of eyes and ears and mouths. All save for our own...

     "I am bleeding," comes the soft mulling of langue d'oc -- his French -- and once enshrouded in darkness, casts a glance over his shoulders to see the retreating forms. "...from having to bite my tongue..." To keep from laughing and commenting on the same. As you lean in, William leans back, grin wide and warm. His eyes... full of fire with it all. "What do you think?" querying you. "I think the trip was... hmm...lovely but I'm doubting it was very restful..."

     Ah, ha! Ian squeezes you, grinning from ear to ear. He can now, out of their sight. Hand reaches to open the door and he offers, "I thought you were good, not to say much, Will," he teases, not really meaning it with those large grey eyes, blinking furtively at you. A smirk and Ian lets you go first, "But I think you are right," about the lack of rest, "...I thought Henry was going to spit canary feathers..."

     Well, not hungry now. He's bound to be later. Padraig's smile eases when you touch him and tell him it is alright. "Maybe tis just me..." he murmurs, hiking his bag up and heading quicker towards the kitchen. Out of the gleam is good. Maybe in a few weeks' time, he may hold up under the stares and whispers. Never has he been talked about so. But you, you wear it well. Paddy glances at you as he walks along, curious about so many things where you are concerned.

     "Hmmm...you could see them peeking out between every grin. And... he was smiling almost to excess..." That cadence. Noble. Teasing. Devastating. Damnable. Dryly does the deep voice move over the French he speaks, a grin given for your smirk. A knowing wink for the furtive blinking. The stroll is rhythmic, his steps timed with your own. William pauses briefly, as if momentarily lost, before finding his way again. One of the rear doors. "I wonder how many pictures he can actually show us..." A seemingly casual and innocent question. You know better. The grin smoothens across his mouth, claiming it. Lingering in his dark eyes. Dark as the sky above. Your arm is about his waist, his likewise about your own. A spread of fingers and a slight curling of his arm draws you inward. "I feel like a long warm bath and some wine..." And well you know what shall follow all along the way...

     "No...no..." Henry murmurs. "Don't worry about it. It's... all a bit new..." The talking that is. But yes, he can deal with it. Partly because he doesn't live here -- partly because he doesn't care what others think. It comes with time. But even so... to have Ian and William looking at him in such a way, all the eyes and mouths of Strathfayr on about it... he does wish to make certain the impressions he is leaving are the ones he wishes to leave. Your glance is met by hazel -- Henry's attention. Glances constant. "It does get better, you know..." A soft chuckle. And in the darkness, another touch. It will be a long, platonic walk upstairs to the chambers. And because it will be platonic... it will seem all the longer...

     The other two are quickly forgotten. Ian wends into the greenhouse, letting the door close behind. "That sounds...acceptable," Ian smirks, sighing as he wraps himself around you again. The door forced him too far away. Arms snake at your waist, his feet taking up their languid crossing towards the central staircase in the keep. A joined saunter this -- there is no rush. "But...did we not just rise...only to have a seat once more in the bath?" Do we ever do anything? Ian laughs a little, holding onto you tighter. "How about this..." he grins, grey eyes bright as he lifts his face to you for this grand idea, "...a warm bath...and something inhaled and Turkish?" Opium. Now that will heat the waters...

     Laughter. Rich and living. Warmed by a pulse, inspired by magic though it may be. Do nothing, indeed. We do plenty, albeit it's usually just plenty of one thing. Lips hold the shared humor -- it does not even need to be uttered, you know his thoughts. You can feel them in the rush of fire. Of the electricity that hums the air between you. And then there is no air between you, space is closed. How long has it been since he has tasted opium. Gods... could it be nearing a year? Certainly not. Time could not have flown that quick. William inclines his head, consideration conquering his expression. And then such consideration ends in decision, coupled with a slow pulling smile. "Warm water... warm skin...and a little...incense to go along with it." William leans in, head bending, mouth capturing your own... giving it a tug with the word murmured, "Perfect." And then the grin. Distended canines catch the light. Just the thought of it. Just the simple touches. It is that inspiring.

     Fingers unwind from you, lifting just then to unfasten the remaining buttons. Spirit-like... the ivory silk catches the air with his motion and lingers upon it, weightless and pendulous for a half second, before falling. A rhythmic sigh of fabric to his skin. You can hear the leather adjusting to his form in his motion. You may smell the cinnamon and think of rituals. Beneath the cinnamon something that is just....William.

     A catch. Ian unfolds and deftly hooks your shirt onto a finger before it hits the greenhouse floor. "You do..." his French still on, "...want us to get to the bath, do you not?" His lips slant, and he picks up his pace, making sure he is ahead of you when he reaches the ante-chamber door. "And to think," he suddenly stops and spins on a dime at the door to face you, "...you would have left this here," shirt is lifted at his shoulder, arm crooked, "...to get dirty. Tsk."

     "I do want to get to the bath...yes..." his voice as languid as his stride. His hands do not move to free him of the leather. They shall soon. They shall need to. The promise of it, you may see, has him tight as a bow string. William is at the door in the next moment, folding time and space to do so. Any others would have seen him disappear and reappear again. Before you. The grin slants and dark eyes slide in slow discovery along the length of you. "I knew you would catch it..." And indigo flickers in a wink. Shall we linger here? You shall be pressed to the door, you realize. And then it shall shake -- yes, even the oak would shake. The air between you, what there is of it, tightens. Desire. But controlled. William bends, mouth seeking yours. Half expecting you to open the door and duck to safety.

     He leans expectantly for the kiss, but as you expect, it is not so easy. Well, it is easy, William, he is only drawing it out. The door falls backwards, letting Ian tumble with it, and as soon as he is in the antechamber, he is already dashing across the great room towards the stairs. Behind him, a fluttering white shirt flag of surrender....

     He is backing up the staircase, the grey-eyed young man, your shirt dangling ahead of him now, a cape to temp any bull fit for the ring. Golden brows rise and fall, and a wicked smirk rests perched at his parted lips. "You still move quickly," Ian murmurs, knowing the stairs like his own hand. As they curve, so does he, shadow of himself flickering upon the smooth walls.

     Now, how many times have the servants seen this chase? Thousands. And their mothers. And their mothers mothers. And for generations. They all know what it means. Quiet, though in running, he gives quick chase, rounding into the turret after you. Eyes already tending upward. To see where you are heading. Well, he knows where, but...you are full of tricks as ever you were. Knowing them as well... how often has he traversed them?... William follows you. Slower now. His eyes fastened to yours. To the ...cape. He would make a comment about 'horns'... but what is the need, truly? You know the joke before it would lilt from his tongue. "When I want," he murmurs. "I thought, however, that you preferred it slow and long...?" A raven brow lifts, cocking upward. And the grin? Damnable Plantagenet.

     Oh really? Ian's brows arch in respectful humor. Feet...still rise up and around the staircase, knowing each distance. "It depends," his French bouncing sing-song, "...what..." he cocks his head, "...are you offering? Let me know my options and I shall tell you what...I prefer..." Suddenly, there's a flutter of white in your direction, your shirt tossed at you. Behind that, nothing...

     The shirt had been caught with a flourish, and trails after him as he runs after you. The door to the turret closing loudly. Likewise the door between hallway and sitting room. Several steps behind you -- but as much to make sure he knows where you are heading. And to readjust, if need be. He runs not so quietly here. Here, feet fall as they may without any thought to stealth. The walls are thick. Those who are sleeping shall continue to. William pauses in his steps to mark where you are... or have gone before him...

     Already, he has come behind a chair, keeping it between you both. His own shirt is partially undone now, but he appears in no rush to complete it's removal. Somehow, might you have the impression that that shall be left to you. "Oh, there you are," Ian chimes, hands on the back of a seat. Blonde hair falls at his face and cheeks as he looks to you, grey eyes thoroughly appreciative. Top to feet. And his face grows a bit darker in the appraisal. Such young men have seen this look in the hallowed halls of the Satyricon. "Your list of the offerings," Ian demands, eyes trailing somewhere between your chest and knee.

     Offerings. He hasn't mistakenly run into the church has he? The broad grins have been replaced by the curve of a smile, just at the corners of that mouth of his. Surrounded and accentuated by the dark hair. Lingering, the smile... just a hint. The shirt is tossed to rest upon one of the chairs, even as he, languid once more, moves toward you. And the chair you have placed between you. As if that shall be any sort of barrier. "All that I am in flesh and blood you will have..." Fingers tug at the ties of leather, until they loosen. "... on every surface ..." And again, until ties loosen more so and leather begins to slacken. "...in any manner you so will..." The leather parts to reveal a part of what lies beneath, even as he rounds the chair. "... with a bowl of opium between us...one pipe, two mouths..." William pauses, eyes lowering to fix upon your mouth. Dark hair draping forward to lie against his cheekbones. To half-veil his eyes. "...How's that..." If your eyes are yet upon him, somewhere between his chest and his knees, you find the usual eyeful. The waves of muscles at his torso, the fine golden hair turning to black, the thickening power of blood.

     Curiouser and curiouser. Ian's eyes do not depart the display, fixated upon the surging magical influence that is making itself known. But he looks skeptical, head falling to his shoulder so that golden hair trickles across his face. He sways side to side, as if assessing. "The part about 'on every surface' is new," considering he suggested the rest, "...and you do bring...something interesting," eyes looking unabashedly at your loins, "...to the table." Fingers toy with the buttons on his shirt, soon letting the panels ripple open. He is quiet a moment, twisting boyishly opposite you. "I think," brow arching sharply at the sight ahead, "...it sounds like a decent addition." To his plan. He squirms from the shirt, shoulder left, then shoulder right. Sleeves slip from Ian as he lets the linen tumble to the floor. "So..." he whispers, "...who is going to make this bathwater?" and then he chuckles at you. The practicals.

     Call one of the boys. You can see that glimmer in those dark eyes. Held for a moment, half considering it. Even as he moves to you. Practicals. He is quite nearly beyond those now. Nearly. As your shirt tumbles to the floor, he is in motion again. Slow, but never ceasing. On edge -- so readily apparent to the gaze that moves over him. In muscles that are rigid and where folds of leather part. Parting now, at another insistence. Softly, then curling against you. Fingers begin to make their presence known. "I think we should," his mouth captures your ear, where a soft chuckle thereafter lands, "... call one of the young men to us... we can... ready the opium. And one another." And even as he speaks it, William straightens. His mouth finding its way, brushing a touch across your forehead. Touch is warm. And touching you sends a shock through him. He will not have the presence of mind to tend the bath as well. See what you do to him?

     Moments later, you may hear soft steps approaching down the hallway. One of the boys. Called by William. Shoes are peeled off, slowly one by one...his stance shifting, readjusting. And hands move to free you from your trousers. And eventually send his leather spilling downward to his knees.

     "You," Ian grins, the pretenses dropped for a genuine smile, "...seem to need little...readying." He chuckles, hands lifting innocently upwards. It causes his body to lengthen, and his trousers are easy to send spilling. Grey eyes look to you, marvelling in wild brilliance. He has to know. "Tell me, William Plantagenet," his Gaelic returned, "...what is it...that makes you so?" Has he ever asked. Knees bend gently to encourage his trousers to the floor, but Ian's face remains upon yours now, waiting expectantly for an answer. Can you answer it. "Tell me," he asks forcefully, "...tell me..." eyes narrowing, "...why I cannot help but want to give myself to you?" Answer it. You must know. Why have any of us done what we have...and claimed your name as the reason why? There comes a sigh. Suddenly serious. Maybe you do not know. Maybe it is all in his mind, the need he has for you -- has had for you. Ian seems disoriented as the past comes suddenly into the present, and he closes his eyes to brace against it. The Bond shimmers with the sudden emotion and something from Long Ago made manifest. He should have asked Then. "Why..." his closed eyes tightening, "...I want only to feel you within me, around me, repeatedly and over and over..." Ian's hands clenching now, the grey shining again in opening. "Why..." he whispers, "...I must..." a sick laugh wishing to begin, "...must....know...that you love me..." Grey orbs lift, still waiting for a response, something told over the rushing sounds of water. Tell me.

     Because I am my mother's son. It is the only answer he has. Was the same not done for her? Was law and rule and crown and kings and France and England and Jerusalem not given, bent, used for her cause? To gain her? You ask why. He has no other answer. Because I am my mother's son. The same question left Louis' lips more than once. Even Raymond of Jerusalem, her own uncle. Bernard de Ventadorn, the poet who burned with love for her, wrote songs for her, until he died with her name on his lips. From Angevin lords to Aquitaine vassals. Through the ages, fascination with her has only grown. Why is that? Why is this. William does not shrink from your look, from your demand, from your question. But he holds you more gently as the questions come in. As past envelopes the present, that the future might be understood. Like a wave overlapping the shore. Because I am my mother's son. It answers upon the Bond first, covering, soothing. The thought transformed to knowing and to feeling, conveyed upon rivers of blood. Echoed lastly upon his lips. "I am my mother's son," comes the Provencal in a baritone hush. And William closes his eyes and leans in. A kiss left upon your forehead. "Know ...that I love you..." he echoes it with this. "Know it." A hand reaches up, the hand bearing the gold of his ring -- the ring that is the symbol between you. "It is the only answer... I have..." he murmurs.
     To the former that is. On Love... ah, you have heard him speak of this before. In volumes. He shall again. He wants to give you satisfactory answer. And he wonders... if that answer is enough. Indigo eyes hold you, study you, fasten upon you.

     Maybe the question is as much about himself as it is about you. It always has been. Ian smiles and drops his hands, admitting defeat. And yet, he seeks not to query his own need. "I know you do," Ian murmurs, "...as I..." he sighs, grinning in awareness shared, "...am for no other, but you, Guillaume. That...I know too." He was created for you, long before any of your famous ancestry existed. He was to wander and wait, to use and be used. Until you would come. It was a empty existence, your mate still ether in a family line. A deep sigh comes, louder than the rushing water from the next room. Ian's eyes close and he allows himself to bend backwards over the chair, giving himself a long breath and stretch. "No revelation still," Ian smiles wistfully, "...no final explanations. Maybe we are not meant to understand, ever. Just...that I should be grateful for now." A gymnast you appear to have, William, strong of form and flexible. His body is bared before you, golden hair upon the chair's cushions. "I should be grateful for water, something to heighten the senses," and Ian smirks, "...and the most beautiful man in all of history..."

     Ah, do you not see? You are the most beautiful man in all history. Eyes widen slightly at the bend -- well does he know your flexibility, but not so often is it displayed such as this. Usually, he sees it from an altogether different vantage, and usually...as he is...connected to and with you. His hand reaches out, fingers splaying against your skin, your chest, trailing downward. Golden Eros. You wonder why you look and you love? His skin is so much the darker in comparison to yours. And then his hand is held in offering. Come with me. You can see the subtle turning of his form, toward the bedroom door. To ready the opium. No... and as you may see... he needs little in the way of inspiration and readiness. The first look, the first touch from you -- these ensured the magical reply, there, pressing outward from leather. William smiles, a slow curving upward and spreading. "We will let them tend to the water for the now..." The door begins to open. "... we should tend to the...sensory matters...while water is being warmed..."
     The door opens, and it is Stephen who moves through it. William turns his head, a look cast over a broad shoulder. "A bath, Stephen... if you please... and something to wet the tongue..." And then his attention returns to you, even as Stephen moves ahead... to bedroom...to bathroom...to task...

     Follow. And why not. Ian comes upright quickly, letting the need for malaise fall away. Hand reaches for yours, clasping tightly. He steps from the pile of his trousers, glad to soon feel the entanglement of you and eastern chemistry. "Did we ever decide..." he wonders, naked to the world as you are, "...long and slow...or..." otherwise. Ian chuckles, catching up to walk beside you.

     "I think... long...is a given..." he murmurs, leaning in toward you as he moves with you through the doorway to the bedroom. ".. slow...? Let us let the opium decide..." A chuckle, and his hand lifts yours to his mouth. Warmth moves against your skin, from fingers to the center of your palm, to the belly of your wrist before it is released. Thus he passes the way until he reaches his side of the bed. The small desk and table beside it....
     Water is running and the scent of honey lifts. The soap contained therein, the candles being lit by Stephen as water heats even as it fills the wide tub. You can see Stephen through the iron gate leading to the bath. And the rise of steam. Your fingers are loosed, his hands freed to find the pipes and bags of the intoxicant. But you are not freed from his grasp -- for his mouth slowly claims your own. A pull. A taste. A tug. A kiss, ever widening, but ever savoring. Such a night this shall be. It shall feel unending. As immortal as you and your lover. Hands search by rote and remove the bowl, the spoon and the pipe.

     You do this so well. He certainly understands the preparation, but you...it seems such an extension of the pleasure planned for the night. The kiss brings a smile, both of Ian's hands coming to rest on your cheeks. Once done, he chuckles and falls backwards upon the bed, across the deep thicket of bedding. Foot comes up and Ian squirms deeper within. Come to bed. Arms sink into the bedding, and Ian props himself up to see you begin this part of the ritual. "There are such more efficient methods," Ian whispers to the drapery above, "...I wonder why we keep with this one..." Pharmaceutical company be damned.

     A leg presses between your own, then knee. And as you scoot backwards, further within the grasp of the bed, the bed sounds with his full, added weight. "I like the electric taste of it... the physical act of smoking... inhaling it, lips wrapped around the pipe..." William's voice trails off and a brow lifts. And the grin erupts. Resplendent and sudden, like immediate dawn. It warms him. Lights him. "It reminds me of our time in the East..." Oh, there are faster ways, more economic ways, but... opium shall never be replaced by them. William settles beside you, sitting. Naked as you, and he leans over, his mouth finding your stomach. The swirl of his tongue leaves moisture behind. Opium is spooned out upon it -- you shall serve as his "cutting" board. With that same tiny spoon, he measures the drug until the bowl is full. He is quite skilled at this preparation. His hands may work independently of his gaze. And as all the powder is lifted from your skin -- bit by bit -- he packs it into the pipe. Dark hair drapes forward, silken. As hands affix the bowl to the pipe, his mouth brushes along the length of you, and then the inside of a thigh, before he raises with a smile and shifts to find a lighter. Wretch.

     He agrees, eyes watching you scoop and measure. When he is made participant, Ian manages not to laugh, save his roiling stomach cause difficulty. But hands fold behind his head, and he keeps still -- until your mouth causes him to tumble. "Now you are taking too long," Ian chides with a grin, doing a half situp to watch you light the pipe. One hand reaches down to settle himself into place once more. "God," Ian blinks, hearing the water, "...Stephen must hate us," he chuckles, remembering he was around. A sigh, he knowing otherwise. He is the head of the bedchamber now, a raise in status. It is a role that Ian would entrust only to him first.

Posted by rowan at May 13, 2000 10:07 AM