With every night, our world increases in breadth of time... a little longer. And here in the north, we are blessed with cloudy days and early sunsets. Particularly in November. It rains nearly every day, and your lover -- as he has always done -- sleeps lightly, almost mortal. Rising twice a day, stirring. Only to move and fall into a lull again. Dreams stir him, but it has been years since he has woken with a start and a Norman shout. Still, your Angevin prince sleeps like a soldier. Lightly...
     As it nears the time of your own Awakening -- evening does not truly become Evening until you rise -- there are the sounds, ever-present, of his nearness. The press of William on the air, heavy here. The smell and touch of steam from the gated bath -- he must have showered or sat in the sauna already. The smell and flavor of cinnamon -- a ritual already performed. The sound of breathing, slow and steady and full. And with it the pulse of something old. Primeval. Hunger. But overlying all of this, like a swath of silk over an elephant in degrees, is the soft sound of... a tune? Lightly, haphazard, done merely while other thoughts are underway. Distracted. Preoccupied. And coming from the direction of the studio. Should wakening eyes move toward this... you would note the door is open. And through it? You can see the large knight sprawled on the black velvet sofa, upside-down -- his legs hooked over the back of the sofa, the old guitar in his hands. His eyes are closed.
     It has been several nights now, has it not, since the golf game and the matter that preceded it. Tavish, his mind turned from lust and love of you, preparing to go to university in Edinburgh. And your immortal partner, your lover -- he has made no further treks out into the deep portions of Dunsinane. Preferring to stay in company with you, or... when you tired of him at your heels -- and there are times are there not? -- in his studio... staring at his walls.

     "Do I have time for a bath?" Ian wonders, padding into the room in his robe. He comes without his newspaper or a drink, perhaps already having seen to those things in your absence. He looks up and around as he walks slowly, wondering if there is anything new or something he may not have noticed before. The studio is wonderful for picking up details. A new color here, some drying item there. And in a spot to the side, a small set of watercolors on the floor. Maybe he should finish one of them this month.
     "Actually," and before he can finish, you can smell it: the scent of powder. He has already had a small shower. Arms go up in the confession, his hair mostly dry. A blow dryer put on it. Even in November, a wet head can be very chilly in the keep. A wave and he sighs as he finishes the distance to you, a bit of wonder there. You are sedate. Sleepy? Playing the guitar. "Melancholy baby," Ian grins, recalling the old tune.

     The eyes remained closed, but the expression? Subtle changes, like the world beneath the dawn of day or night. The warmth that eases across him in the spreading of a smile. Becoming a grin at Melancholy Baby... and for a moment, the tune is mimicked. Melancholy? Me? Never. This thought, seconded by the eyes that open. Too bright for dark thoughts. Just thinking. Do you not like your Angevin to be a man of thoughts and ideas? "A little... dream-slow yet," William murmurs, the Gaelic you share now in predominant use -- except for the most private of moments when he drops into Provencal grunts -- coloring his voice, smooth and deep. Thighs brace to the back of the sofa, his form shifts -- you can note in the absense of any sort of shirt, the concert of muscles that shift in his lifting. A twist and the guitar is set aside. And the bronze is fading. The olive is predominant upon fairing skin. It is that time again, when every look to you comes with a dual purpose -- Love and Bloodlust. A swing after of his legs and he moves about.
     He is dressed only in jeans, tattered and faded as they have become with time. Barefoot even in November, and bare chested. But there is no paint upon his skin, no mark of art done. The walls are remarkably similar to what they were yesterday. No changes. Perhaps tomorrow. He is too scattered. Too many thoughts, too many wants. But when you are near, all thoughts and all wants become One Entity, focused upon one individual. You. A hand pats the sofa beside him even as he readjusts into his usual lordly sprawl. Languid, the crooked smile that slants its crooked way across full mouth. "I'm game for one. Something... warm. Warm ...liquid... " William inclines his head and you can see that ... set with him. And oh how it does set. Do come a little closer, darling. Oh boy, it's going to be like that is it?

     "You have already bathed, haven't you?" Ian's robe flutter white as he turns to take a seat next to you, not so worried about giving you much space. Another sigh comes -- nothing of melancholy, but good old fashioned energy release -- and a smile. Robe gathered, Ian's hand comes to rest on your thigh, the remainder of him plopping to the sofa. "I am actually still a bit dreamy myself," Ian confesses, allowing his head to rest against the lip of the sofa. Eyes closing, he inhales deeply, letting the exhale expand slowly around the room. "Anything fascinating occur this evening, laird?"

     The air tightens. This power you have over me, it only increases with time. The air is electric with twice the power filling the space of stone, and the form you touch tightens after. Your touch makes the universe shift. Can you feel the distending of canines? Some subtle soft piercing of the presence around you both that comes when the Ventrue within your Prince makes itself known? When blood seeks to find Itself in You. All culminating in your touch and his reaction.
     Your eyes are closed. You hear the sofa squeak with weight readjusting. A breeze of motion. A sudden weight. The feel of his skin. His arms on either side of you. Fingers find themselves in the gold of your hair. "The evening... has just started. Ask me later, Earl..." William murmurs. You feel the brush of each word upon your own mouth. And the tickle caused by the beard, permanently only third-way grown.
     If you open your eyes, you will find him straddled across you, most of his weight -- thankfully -- lifted and borne by his knees, which bear into the sofa's soft and well-used cushions. His elbows resting on the back of the sofa. And he in all his Plantagenet glory right in front of you, and damn near upon you altogether. And where lips are parted, the edges of vipers can be seen. The picture of Ventrue hunger, power and seduction. You woke the beast, now what will you do with him? Blood has not passed my lips since that night... I need you...

     It was a quick enough move as to not yield protest. Just a smile. Now this is a twist of fate. Ian's pale brows arch and he chuckles softly. Only when you settle do his eyes open, he listening to what goes unsaid. "I see you have plans," Ian softly responds, a hand relaxing on each broad Plantagenet thigh. "What if my plans," his head lifts from the soft, now parallel to the floor, "...do not appear to coincide with your plans, hmm?" Ian's head tilting now. "I mean, I take this..." fingers tap softly, "...as a hint..." smile returning.

     What do you mean, if your plans don't coincide with mine? That catches him and makes dark eyebrows lift. Of course the Angevin mind had not quite wrapped around that possibility. I mean, here he is, as he is -- you would deny him? But as his mind slowly -- and it does slowly -- catch up with his form and energy, William chuckles. Indigo sparkles with it. From this proximity to him you can see the small explosions -- called the 'flowers' of the iris -- of violet and blue that make up the indigo.
     "You've a full schedule then? I had no idea," comes the Gaelic roll of his voice, languid and flecked, in places, with a fiery edge. "I did... have plans that rather does require your..." the smile spreads broad and warm, "... active participation, Earl Dunross..." Your childe, lord, has grown rather full of himself hasn't he? But there is something...primal that Strathfayr wakens in him. Some element of Himself that may only be known in its entirety within these walls. Here... there is the interplay of Childe-Sire... as much as there is spouse-spouse and Ventrue Prince to Ventrue Prince. Some part of him that begs upon some layer of blood for you to show him the way...
     As you did when you taught him how to hunt. Watched him spill blood for the first time. Taught him how to love and pleasure a man -- he was your clean slate in that regard. Do you remember all of that? That happened, just in the next room...
     And now, there is you... and he again. A room away from where it all began. And he is hungry. And you are his target. The toying back and forth only stokes the fire. The tapping upon his thighs only tightens him to that desire. To see you smile. It has not been thus since before the entrance of Tavish into your joined world but the last month. "Tell me," William says, a soft laugh echoing that, "... have you other plans, amours?" Dropping the formal for the very familiar.

      "I sincerely do, Prince William," Ian says firmly, nose tipping upwards. None can play the role of the snooty diffident as he can. "I have not seen my daily paper yet, I had plans to review things with Stephen, and then I thought I might go out for a ride or walk near the moors," his haughty voice comes. "You could join me," Ian offers, the smile returning. He cannot hide his amusement and faux-indifference, "...unless you're that starved for attention." And knowing you, you well might be.
     "You should have Stephen scribble you into my schedule," Ian notes for future reference, nodding sagely, seriously. "Time...is so hard to come by..." Earl Dunross. That did amuse him, but he continues to try and hide the humor. "Tempus fugit and all..."

     Playing hard to get. You can see that glint in indigo. You know I adore a good chase. Very well. Slowly, and it is slowly done for size as well as in care, the Norman lifts from his press on you. Lust recoiling physically -- but no farther than his motion off of your lap, lord. "I will join you then..." he murmurs, easily -- as if all of that bloodlust could be... simply set aside like the evening paper and scotch -- as he starts to settle beside you. A hand to your thigh now, a slight squeezing curl of his fingers. Mine. William leans in as the sofa bears the whole of his weight now, mouth at your ear. "But before this night is through... I will want you to myself..." He is only delaying his plans, you see. It isn't a surrender.
     William inhales, a steadying breath, and then he looks to you again. "I suppose you'd like to have some ...conversation, enjoying of one another's company," he moves his hand, gesticulating -- and so on, "...before I try to press you into the bedding. Fair enough, sir." A chuckle is held in that broad chest, rumbling as he starts to rise. How do you put up with me?
     Do you ever tire of being his ...sole item on the dinner plate?
     "In truth," he continues with a stretch as he stands, "...the cold air might do me good...but if we ride, let's share a horse..." Oh, you know where that'd end up. You really want him behind you right now?

     "I think a walk will suffice." Ian smirks, also wondering how he deals with you. "We should walk more often. You should get out more." In more ways than one. Ian pushes up and off the sofa, the robe falling like a cleric's robe around him, flaring at his feet. "What will you do..." Ian posits, turning around to see you, "...when the night comes and you find that I have..." his arms fling out, "...long left you and run off to become Sabbat?" Tsk. A spin and he heads out towards the bedroom, shaking his head as if he just doesn't know what to think....

     Dark eyebrows lift slightly, in thought to that. What do you mean? You're kidding. Of course you are. The smile slants across that mouth of his, sensuality born in the curve of it, warmth of it spreading across the rest of his features. "If the night comes, my love, and you turn to Sabbat, do not worry but that you ...shall see me at least one more time..." A chuckle and William shakes his head. You're a riot, you are, Dunross. "Run off and join the Sabbat... it's not like the circus, love..." Bah. Indeed. "What is it?" he quips after, following you into the bedroom. "You planning to go somewhere sometime soon..." Said as if you are joking and he is joking with you. But beneath that is a level of seriousness. "And I get out plenty..." softly answered as he moves toward his bureau... new clothes on the horizon. Oh, sure you do, Plantagenet. You go out to the studio. Sometimes...you even go so far as the grand hall! You wanderlust you...

     "It is exactly like the circus," Ian says, showing his Rebecca enthusiasm. "There are clowns and ringmasters and all sorts of death-defying acts." A smirk and he moves towards his own closet, deciding to toss something on this evening. It is quiet for a moment before he shouts, "And you do not get out, Will," a snicker coming with it. "You have become a homebody. But, you know," chiding himself with a chuckle, "...be careful of what you wish for...." Soon, the sound of a drawer comes forth from his closet. "I guess it's my own fault, really," Ian adds more dryly now, more than likely intent upon rooting around to find something to wear.

     Indigo eyes flicker as his gaze lifts to you, and William straightens, leathers and a shirt taken out. No sweater, he'll wear a jacket. Fashion calculations happen simultaneously, in another corner of his mind. "Well... evil clowns..." A pause. "What am I saying... all clowns are evil. You know what I mean..." he rattles off. He smirks at the notion of him...a homebody. I suppose I am. "So... I am underfoot then, am I?" comes the warm, Plantagenet quip. Humor and gruffness intertwined. He can match your shout with very little effort on his part. A commander's projection, shall we say. "Well..." Brows lift. Are you serious, love? That crackles on the air and the blood between you. It is followed by a denim thud. The jeans are gone, and for the moment there is nothing to replace them. Leathers held before him, in hand and in preparation. Soft and supple, they do fit him like a glove. As well you soon shall see. "I'm not sure where I would go." A laugh and indigo eyes widen slightly. "Beauly?" William laughs quietly. It's not exactly London.

     Evil clowns. "Hmm. Maybe one doesn't need to be in the Sabbat to see those," he mumbles disdainfully. He could name a few in the Sect, but refrains from name-calling. If you decide to pass on a sweater, he decides not. A ruddy sweater rises from a shelf and Ian inspects it. A sigh and he lays the sweater aside to find a pair of pants. "And what's wrong with Beauly?" he inquires amiably enough, chit-chatting through the ennui of clothes-finding. "There are nice mortals in Beauly. Or Strathpeffer." Yes. Do not mock my people. Turning to face a line of hanging slacks, Ian pushes pair after pair aside before deciding on something woolen and black. "It is not that you are underfoot, laird, I simply want you to know more of everything here that is available to you...as...it is our home..." you know.

     Okay, now you have me. "There's nothing wrong with Beauly. It's nice..." His voice is soft, and you can hear the peripheral sounds of leather to skin. The tugging. Something is different. You really are serious. Nice mortals? As William ... arranges and adjusts himself for comfort -- that alone takes several minutes in the event that is him getting into those leathers -- his eyes are on you. Serious now. Though there is a lingering warmth of the last smile. The corners of his mouth are even yet upturned. It
creates a quizzical expression -- the echo of humor and the thud of seriousness. "Available to me...?" The Provence makes itself known upon his accent again as he drops into his native tongue -- for total comprehension. Tell me in my tongue. I do not want to misunderstand.
     "Are you saying, Ian... that you want me to go out to eat?" To use the modern vernacular in an ancient language. The bed sounds with the sudden Angevin weight, and his gaze is yet on you, fastened violet and blue, as fingers roll up the ends of his shirt, preparing to pull it over. "I'm happy, you know..." he murmurs. "...with things as they are... I have not hunted in... two years nearly..." I don't need to. You don't have to give up anything you don't want to give up. That isn't said. But you feel it.

     There comes a sigh, this one laced with frustration at himself. "Well, I'm saying," he frowns, then decides to flip through the line of slacks again, "...that...well...anything can happen. I just want you to know the area and all of your options, Will, that's all. I don't want something...you know...to happen...and then you don't know every nook and cranny up here. I want you to...take care of yourself, is all." Ian stops and looks your direction, picking up the pants he'd already chosen. They will do; nothing is striking him presently. "So...maybe sometimes you could go and explore. That is all." He sighs, "No different than how you know the Aquitaine..."

     Yes, sir. The thought makes him smile. Taking care of me again, love. It's what you have always done best. Show me the way. "Alright," he says in English, for the effect of his accent upon it. He sounds like the Fraser he calls himself. Softly, for you. Echoes of sire-childe play against the stones here. But it no longer frightens him. It no longer makes him feel weak or submissive. It makes him feel loved. Loved twice over.
     "I will, I promise... starting tomorrow night..." A pause. "But... you know... what is good for one, amours, is good for both..." That means you too. No locking yourself in. He'll not stand for that. His voice is muffled briefly as he pulls on his shirt. It both clings and drapes, fitting to contours, draping at his sides. Thoroughly modern, and in the darkness... beautiful. He wears black like no other man on this earth. William tugs on boots, round toed and sturdy for walking outside, and then rises. "I will introduce myself about the villages, like a proper lord then..." He goes to his own closet, pulling out a full length coat of leather, this one is sturdy, meant for winter, lined with red ermine. From it, he takes leather gloves.
     Explore. But shall you tell me, love, where the boundaries are for these excursions? He wonders. His eyes hold that wonder in violets, love in blues. "That will look nice," he murmurs, nodding to you, your selection, and motioning toward you with his gloves.

     He does not hear you as much as feel you. In that, Ian will remain silent for a bit. Smarter so. How funny it is that when one is less-familiar with his emotions, he makes emotional decisions. When he is more comfortable with them, he does the opposite. If you had told him such four years ago, he could have argued you into the ground. The dispassionate man is the better, and counted himself as one of them. How untrue it was. Unfamiliarity and quashing does not a dispassionate man make. The dispassionate man is one quite aware of his feelings, and thus is free to make choices that may deny them.
     "You think?" Ian responds to your last comment finally, having stepped into the slacks and now evaluating. He nods in agreement, twisting to pick up his sweater. He knows it should work both ways. He may not speak it, but he does understand what his words mean for himself as well. Pulling sweater over his head, Ian's hair comes amussed for a moment before his fingers and settle the blonde strands.

     Things are quite changed from four years ago. Things are quite changed from last week, if one is counting. "We need to talk about what it means..." William murmurs, again in soft southern French. Ancient, even as he is. Speaking from the essence of Him. To you. "As you know.... historically speaking... I've been rather wretched at guessing..." A smile at himself. A jab to his history. And it was true. His assumptions. His guesses. One should not guess with the heart.
     The long coat is pulled on, shrugged in place. How like your prince, your duke he looks in it. Even in the height of modern cuts -- this is new, from Italy -- in the latest fashions, how he can look and seem 12th century. The lord you know and love. His hands fiddle with the gloves as he sits upon the bed again. He will watch you dress -- his eyes are fastened upon you for that purpose. His expression is placid, thoughtful, warm and he wears a demeanor of power in casual ease. The only indication that he is having any trouble at all is in the constant movement of his hands. A nervous habit. His father had that. He could barely sit still, he fiddled with his clothing in court. It's a Henry mannerism. One of the pieces of Henry that yet lives on to this day. Unlike you, William is not dispassionate. He wants to be. But he remembers last week a little too sharply. What if you meet another you wish to be around...alone with... for a while... like the lovers you used to have in my absence. I know my place, you shall always return to me because you love me, and I know you love me. But what of those intervening moments... or months... or what if they become years...
     His hands stop, fingers stop, and he stops that thread of thought in his mind. It is the voice of the fear you felt that night. That he looked at you and Tavish and saw you leaving him for a while. He was not ready for that. He's not ready for that. "Yes," William murmurs, head inclining, his mouth pulling into a smile, "... yes... I do think it will look nice on you... you... are beautiful no matter what you're in... " A pause. "I do like you in reds," he murmurs.

     Sweater on, Ian too reaches for a pair of gloves. You seem to have his mind in wearing your own red ermine. He is quiet as you speak of guessing, lips pursing. Where do you want to go with this. No, no, do not think like that, Dunross. Do not be defensive. "What do you mean, talk about what it means?" he opens the conversation. Yes, that is how Oprah says to do it. Solicit commentary. Reading those books on communication seem to be helping. "I...did not explain it well?" he queries, moving forward to the head of his closet for a coat, grey eyes looking out to see you at the bed. Bah. That did seem like offensive parrying. Sucking his tongue in dismay, Ian's gaze lowers and he sighs over twisted lips. "Just...I know it is better if we both...feed generally. It is...What We Are. I am aware of it. And in the last two years, I am very much so aware. I cannot deny you the feelings that come..." his brows lift in admission, "...when we are doing what we do Best."
      "In fact," Ian offers, "I want you to be the best of what We are, to enjoy what we are. Those things, even I do not have the power to abate. I know this," now. Unsaid. "We should enjoy those things." Hands reach for his leather coat and stop at the hanger. "I don't want to belabor this much, Will...I think we have done that too much sometimes."

     Red and black, two of his favorite colors -- the colors he wears so well with his own complexion and coloring. He was always best in shades of wine, in blacks, in blues. When he moves, the red ermine catches the light. It is deep red, like blood, shimmering between folds of leather. A breath is taken, held, and with the exhale comes the expulsion of energy. Let it be, Plantagenet. He is right. Even if you are afraid, you know it is right. Standing, William stops fiddling with the gloves -- by putting them on, it's the surest way. "No... you... explained it well. I just... I want to be absolutely clear what we are talking about," now he speaks in that hybrid tongue, the one you use when it is just you and him. His eyes are now at his hands. "I'm... rusty..." A broad shoulder rolls in a half shrug. And he leaves it at that. And in part, perhaps, the nervousness may be attributed to that feeling of rustiness. It has been two years for him, more or less. For you, much less. And with him, there is so much...history. History, again. That word. Sometimes, a poor memory seems to him like a blessing.
     Another breath is taken and William slowly moves toward the door, languid stride. It echoes his power, strength, sensuality -- all the parts of his Being. He stops at the door, a gloved hand to the knob...but he does not open it yet. His back to the stone he looks to you. "Just one thing, Ian..." he murmurs. "... I want you to know...something I want you to hear and swallow in your soul for safe-keeping. Blood... is all," William whispers. It is all I shall take. Nothing more.

     "I know," Ian smiles, tugging his leather coat from the rack. His grin attempts reassurance, though in truth, what he feels and what he knows grates. "But suffice to say...rustiness..." he frowns, "...is not good, William. What happens to the toothless wolf, Will?" You know. And no love is worth that sort of loss of self-preservation. Inhaling and swinging the coat around, Ian grins brighter. "Put it this way. We..." both of you as hunters, "...just won't tell each other all about it in dirty detail." He laughs and
steps out of the closet. "How about that? Don't ask...don't tell?" As a policy. And he chuckles, shoving gloves into a large side pocket.

     I know. Eyes go to heaven with all he knows. He knows you are right. He knows he must hunt. You know it by the exhalation, the sigh. The groan of the toothless old wolf. The indigo gaze lowers from the ceiling to you, to your laughter. Don't ask, don't tell? The smile that follows is one of many layers. "I ... will learn... eventually... not to wonder," he murmurs. But it will be difficult. Does this surprise you, love? That it will be hard for me to think of you out, knowing you are out, when we are in the same half of the world? And why does it even sit so particular with you, Plantagenet?
     William shakes his head and smiles a little. Don't pay any attention to the old fool, Earl. "I think it is a good policy," William murmurs after. And with a slight motion of his hand is the heavy door opened. Your knight, one of the last truly gallant men on this earth. The door is held open for you, and he waits for you to join him. "But you know... on occasion..." You will be mine, you know.

     "Oh, I know," Ian grins, passing you by at the door. "I know."

Posted by rowan at May 28, 2000 02:52 PM