There is something about Italy...
There is something, some quality, is it the dome of a basilica, the rise and fall of the landscape, the women, the men, the grapes, the passing of time, what is it, that quality of this land that makes everything seem like something out of a painting, or if not in a painting, something yet to be captured thus...
There is something about Italy...
There is something that it does to your husband, some quality of himself that is not visible anywhere else. A private room, held in secret for years, until one stumbles upon a key and discovers a treasure trove. There is something about Italy that lives in his skin, breathes bronze and gold upon his beautiful pictures, some of which he himself has created. He is the symbol of all its best. Titian. Michelangelo. Leonardo. Raphael. Caravaggio.
His skin holds a luster, his form a grandeur, his face a beauty, his soul a tonal quality that becomes Italy in microcosm. And when he moves on you among silks and velvets, lifts above you with his hands sinking with his own heavy weight into the bedding, he is also Caesar and Pompey, Marcus and Aeneas.
A body for war...
A countenance for art...
This painting moves on you, so in the space of what pleases him, filling the space of you in entirety, those broad shoulders which have shouldered centuries now bearing the full weight of all the dreams and art and history of an entire nation.
Who needs Amadeo...
Who remembers Marco...
The only Italian in the room who matters now is one who is called by a French name...
Guillaume d'Angevin...
Your husband calls to you as his hand slides from the surface of the bed, finding an anchor at your hip, tilting the angle like a proper engineer and changing the scope of the entire universe. (Galileo was Italian, too...)
The bed of so many sumptuous fabrics it should, by rights, belong to you both, such richness beneath skin you and he could barely imagine, you move there, the bed moving with you, the fabrics moving with you like the soft hands of lovers waiting their turn. It appears that they will be waiting a long time. Your bronzed dark-haired incarnation of this peninsula is nowhere near finished with you...
Oh, but you know the signs, don't you...
Your name....
God's name...
Affirmations...
Grunted...
Sighed...
All but sung...
Well, when in Italy...
Fingers hurt.
So, well, I just noticed that.
Instead of pressing them into his back, I'll just close them into fists for a moment.
That's much better.
How long have we been here?
Not that it matters so much. There is little like the feel of my William in italian comfort. The conversation with Victoria does continue to weigh slightly.
But not nearly as much as William, I swear...
The notion brings a smile to Ian's reddened lips. The grin pulls so self-indulgently towards the ceiling. No one will see it.
William. A topic devoutly to be wished. And I have on many occasion. Recently, in fact. I had returned from my talk and there he was with drink in hand and shirt already undone. It was as if he'd read my mind. More than likely, he did.
You may think that I am not paying attention to him. I am, really. You might not believe it, but it's when we are like this, that he has my full attention and I often have the best epiphanies. What is more important than now? I have learned, very little. When we are -- how should I say in polite company -- so thusly together, my mind can be so clear and my body so responsive.
It's much like that now.
I often wonder what he thinks about. Well, that's silly, I know what he thinks about. I can't repeat it right now, but I am sure you can imagine. And it's not that I'm not thinking the same, because I most definitely am, it's a strange quirk of mine that another tape seems to roll in the background. Most of the time, I ignore it, but when I don't, well, that's where those epiphanies sometimes erupt.
Dark hair, the brown within the black only visible in certain lighting -- and certainly not now, when the hair is wetting at the nape, going inky there and at the hairline -- is kept so short, so cleverly mussed that in the thickness there is no lying down, no draping. It is soft, when felt, when near at hand...
Like now...
When the weight cannot even bear itself up and must give itself to its mate, its partner. You. And the bed. Thank god for the bed. It knocks beneath you, knocks against the parqueted and paneled wall as you are swallowed up in the arms, by the moving form of your husband, in the silks, brocades, velvets and richness of a grand bed upon the grand canal.
You feel it...
The pop upon the air...
The expectation of Change...
Like the creation of the universe (we won't call it a big bang, that's too simple)...
The large hands upon your hips, lifting and spreading simultaneously. His breathing at your ear, and soft words that to most -- even perhaps to you -- would be unintelligible. A mixture of languages, a flitting of tongues, some living, some not, all of which combine into the worst sort of words imaginable, like the tongues of Babel...
And a new position that would be right at home in Babylon...
You curled beneath him, a hand taking yours and joining you at the headboard. He so within you that separation no longer exists as a concept. His other holding you right where he wants you, his knees, then his feet in the bedding, a crouch in motion.
Such motion...
You do not have to miss it. This room is full of mirrors at odd angles. Dressing mirrors, ostensibly, but like Galileo's telescope, the image bounces from glass to glass until it may be viewed with clarity. Burning, churning clarity.
And there is grunted laughter. Wicked delight. Gravity. And The Hardness Principle.
Oh. He can tell.
I'm listening, in part, to the tape today. Maybe it's that faint, tiny part of me that isn't careening to what he's doing to me.
Needle in a haystack, but some people are sensitive to needles.
He's so funny sometimes. I do adore everything about him.
(Well, maybe not his penchant for being extreme, but I'm used to that now and that's funny too.)
At least my fingers won't hurt anymore. I can't say much about my...legs. Thighs. That's it.
It's interesting though...I know I won't remember this. Not this part. Not this voice. What I'll remember is the sound of the bed and all of which I should remember. This voice takes place so far away, well, that when it is known, it is such a shocking revelation. And what of Victoria? I'm not sure there's much to say: I'd promised to find out what happened and I did. I feel a little sorry for her, but it's too easy for me to transfer all that to myself and William, and well...let's not do that. And so I find distance. I'm doing that a lot of late, being distant to everyone but William. Not much to say to them. Even to those I like. I should think about that a bit more.
Hear that? That's me, whining. Whispering to him and no one in particular. Just words, air, forced out of my lungs, but propelled by something far deeper. Exposed, as he reaches his hand into my chest and snatches at my very soul. A gleaming orb caught in the closing clutch of his hand. If it weren't my William, I should think there would be hideous laughter at the victory, of the taking my very essence and thrusting it before his eyes to gaze at, like a trophy.
Will is not like that though. Oh, yes, he revels in the shared passion and that of me which belongs to him. He'll even glory when he reaches within me to take that part of myself and demand that it be on display. But, it will be only for him. The color of my skin, the surprised pleasure in my voice. The bend of me that will present my that very soul to him, asking him to take it, to just have it and be done.
When he does, I'll be content. It will be over, and the ache of such torment will be lifted. I'll fall back to the bed beneath him, and he'll be able to watch the orb explode in golden light in the palm of his victorious hand.
And, as he always does, he'll smile and replace the orb very carefully onto its perch, and we'll both smile that another battle has been jointly won.
The laughter gives way to something more martial. Percussion of bed. Snare of breath. The general's command, but here upon this field this general grins. O, and the things he calls you. The praise he heaps upon you, heaping as much as his body's heft...
We come to praise Caesar, not to bury him...
But you know, as you know all things William, all things Guillaume, that there is an end to this, and the end comes in a great roll of even greater flesh, a groaned roll of laughter, held in his gut, reverberating through you in the roll of his hips. It is like one of those spherical worlds, a world of glass and water and fake snow. A world turned up and over, villages smacking into the sky, and so much tossed wonder.
The bed is like that. He is like that as he collapses around you, on you, sudden, unrepentant weight, languorous motion and a salty kiss. You own me, he murmurs there. He smiles at the truth of it, and the twisting forms blend together again beneath silk and brocade and velvet bedding, skin sliding, bodies feeling the first cooling in ... how long as it been?
What is it about Italy...
Something that suits his Italianate mouth, full, a sensuality of the place that is found in the man -- even as his sensuality can be seen to echo over the palaces, cathedrals and sculptures. Unaware of anything at this moment than your continued presence beneath him...
And then his presence beneath the sheets and covers, silk sliding and tugging on slick skin, his mouth widening over you from chest, to stomach to groin.
Champagne silk... white and ivory, cream and gold... lifts and lowers, the billows of a decadent sea in the lifting and lowering of his mouth around you. He is washed over with a golden glow... maybe it is just the reflection from the sheets... flesh peeking from the covers before disappearing beneath them again.
There is something about Italy...
Something that gets beneath his skin...
Generosity is endless...
Particularly here...
"Non, Guillaume," Ian purrs, pushing at the shoulders below. He laughs and squirms, too tired to put up much of a fuss. Ian twists as if to wriggle away, though he's not going so far. His body could not stand more attention from you, and certainly not from that mouth.
"N'etes-vous pas fatigue?" Ian certainly is. Drenched in a combination of you both, Ian sighs as he closes his eyes again and pushes his hair from his forehead and eyes. It falls back helplessly, heavy from its dampness. He bites his bottom lip, still well feeling motion upon him. From his head, Ian's hand slides down slowly across his face, to his chest and stomach. Only then do his eyes open and he grins wickedly.
When was it like that last?
Languidly, Ian half-twists, the sheet sticking at his skin. He looks to the nightstand for the last of his scotch, though he consumed it earlier.
"Non? J'entends un oui dans votre voix..." comes the languid roll of elongated French, disembodied, issuing between the sheets as he lifts up his head. His mouth frees your length and the head lifts up high enough that the sheets become curtains to his theater, his smile pulling beautiful framed there and blushed with you. He grins, lord that grin, framed by such coverlets it is iconic and radiant.
And could not possibly be more ... William...
"Vous souhaitez la pitie, je devriez etre compatissant. Mais vous etes ainsi... ainsi..." Indigo drifts downward to the vision of you beneath him. The head lowers, the blankets of silk, brocade and velvet billowing again and his mouth parts at your stomach. "Je ne peux pas la tenir. Je veux vous manger," comes the disembodied, low roll of that voice, baritone softness echoing over your skin as his mouth cannot help itself, or stop itself.
And then he laughs again, rich, warm, living and intimate, such laughter as you alone on all this planet have heard. "Leche le gout de vous de mon regard de bouts du doigt," William chuckles against your skin and with an exhale, he lifts, standing over you on all fours, the view of him unobstructed from the sheets, he makes a canopy for you both.
You see him there, thickening again and he looks down at it, soft amazement sounding, as if he is surprised. "...Deja..." Looking back to you, William murmurs in sudden Gaelic, a helpless expression (ha) upon his face. "What am I to do but love you?" Grinning, rolls forward, covering you again, but only to lie on you, mouth at your neck, his arms surrounding you. "Can you see I cannot help it..."
Ian's frown at the scotch is quickly replaced with a smile and shift of his hips as he rolls back onto the bed and pillow. The air is cooler with you lifted, but he knows that will not go on. So he takes a moment, stretches his legs and hips, then his arms above his head.
"Alright, you cannot help it," Ian replies in Gaelic, finishing his stretch. His hands come to rest outstretched upon the mussed bedding. He laughs and bends his knee, allowing it to fall open to the right. The current separation of you both will not stay that way for long.
Ian looks down himself, then up to the rampant stallion above him. "I am glad you can hear a yes in my voice," he admits, realizing it may be the truth. "It's cold," Ian adds.
"Cold?" he murmurs, head lifting again, showing that smile on that mouth you know so well, the mouth that claims your skin for the only kingdom worth having, the one that barks out commands, bellows his affection, whispers his adoration and moans his pleasure. Tasting of you, he leaves a kiss behind.
He settles on top of you, his weight causing you to give more of your weight to the bed, the bedding sinking beneath you both. "I am glad," he murmurs, mouth pulling at your mouth, one arm shifting beneath the covers, his hand landing on your hip again, "...you understand my condition," he chuckles. His body is warm as it is heavy.
"It seems to have worsened as time has gone on," you can hear tightness in the voice. No, it will not be long, the separation. "What can I do..." he whispers that, serious. "But love you."
There is a moment of silence, the silence of William thinking. That, too, does not last long...
"I think you should turn over," he grins that out, lifting his head to look at you again. "We are going to make our last couple of nights in Italy very... very... memorable, amours..." His hand pats you on your hip and he begins to lift again, this time, sitting up on his knees.
Rampant lion of France and England that he is...
Indigo eyes take a moment to look at the room around you both, dimmed but not darkened. It is hard to tell what the hour is. But your glass of scotch is empty. One may tell the hour by that, if nothing else. Time for the two of you may be counted in glasses half empty or full....
There's silence from Ian as, once free, he turns himself over -- arm, hip, shoulder -- onto his stomach. He rests his cheek on the pillow, hands sliding up the sheets to disappear beneath the down. Gentle musculature shapes his back and rear, his feet pointing to the end of the venetian bed.
Then, slowly, Ian's knee bends outward, his figure more towards a comfortable sleep.
"It's still cold," Ian notes, closing his eyes as if to slumber.
He settles behind and over you, your husband, mouth at your shoulder and just behind your ear. "Ian, is everything alright?" English sounds so strange. William isn't sure why he spoke it in English. He peers at himself. Habit, perhaps. So many tongues have had their utterance here, English not excluded.
You fit together as two things this long together should fit, better than most theorems, better than most things in nature. His right hand brushes along your golden hair. He doesn't lift now, that is to say, only briefly to pull up the many covers and enclose you both in the warmth of the last several hours, the covers pulled up even over your head and his own, creating a cocoon of silk and velvet and brocade.
His mouth is the only thing to move. Slowly brushing over shoulder and nape and neck and finally settling in the crook of the neck, his breathing sounding at your ear. William may well sleep here, like this.
Ah, his eyebrow lifts, who am I kidding. I cannot sleep when he is like this. But hands are slow, fingers moving in your hair, his other landing at your hip. The touches are haphazard, without thought, without an end purpose, only touching for the very sake of touching. He even slides off a little, readjusting so that a portion of his weight is given to the bed to bear...
When he is quiet like this, I feel that I may look over his skin, through it, past his skin, past the sinews and cells and straight into his soul, golden and lingering with me. Do I make him linger when he would rather not? I hope it is not so. He brings me such joy. I do not ever wish to let him go...
But it is not natural...
We are out of nature's course so far as to no longer be anything but these selves we have created. We are in our own universe now. One that he and I are making, the one incorporating the other.
I tell him that I love him, I kiss him, I ravish him, but it is not enough simply to do this. Or to paint him. Or to put him in the paintings of others as a spirit of a boy lost. There are a thousand actions in every night and they only perhaps tell half the story...
Ian's eyes open quickly and he smiles, nodding his head in the brush of his cheek against the silk pillow. "I'm fine," he whispers, smile turning into more of a grin.
There is no need to worry.
His eyes close again, and Ian's hand reaches down to his hip to join yours there. It is an encouraging motion, emphasized by the turn of his face forward to the headboard, and the slip of joined hands to the downward slope of his parting cheeks.
Ah... there is something about Italy...
The thought of warm sun upon Tuscan orchards, copper domes of great basilicas, the drying of the earth, of laundry, of skin, of grapes on the vine.
It is, in short, life...
And it lives in the smile against your skin, in words murmured behind your ear, in fingers disappearing in you. Even in the distending of canine teeth that only occasionally make themselves known to you, as they do now, in the scrape, unliving, against the nape of your neck.
Life is there despite the presence of Death...
Quickly, the two of you dissolve once more into the landscape of Italy, into the portrait backdrop of this chamber and this bed. Both of you too perfect for a life outside of paintings and sculptures, basilicas and palaces. You spreading beneath his hand, languages spilling from his tongue as he feels you there.
It is life...
In all its twitch and passion, its stillness, its laughter, its beauty and grandeur, its heat and its insistence...
That is exactly what it is...
Ian dissolves into the bed, exhaling a breath into the space before him. He blinks slowly, the curtain of the world closing and opening in slow revelation. The words spoken to him he hears, but his responses are little more than groans that linger at the back of his throat before falling helplessly upon the pillow. An ornate headboard serves as his only view, and Ian's eyes fix upon the carved figures there, before drawing once more into a languid close.
What was I saying? Oh, yes. He knows me in ways that I had not imagined in my centuries of wishing. That is what I did not expect...that he should fulfill the need I had created in myself, and in living it, give me even more. I never thought it would happen. Never. I tortured myself in the futility of my actions, the despair of dead hope. For a while, it was all I had.
I try not to think about it anymore--how I felt for so long. Abandoned and desperate. That's the only way I know how to describe it. Discarded in favor of...well, I wasn't sure what. And that I didn't know, I didn't know what to fight. More money? More prestige? More gifts? More demonstrations, I thought, of a devotion unparalleled. How do I win? How do I end this stake driven into the very core of me.
See? It's too easy. Too easy to fall there. I hate thinking about it.
So I'll stop.
Grey eyes open as Ian heaves forward from breath and thrust. They water as his head lists to the the side, and his mouth pants softly in open rapture.
Sometimes it's Saracen... opening blossoms of a desert language learned only to confuse the enemy or illicit favors from whores, yet from his mouth, what he knows of it is poetry, poetry of the carnal, that dissolves easily into Langue d'Oc, his native tongue of Occitan, where all his innermost secrets and desires are voiced and held. It is a smattering of both tongue, heated air hissing between the syllables of both languages, catching fire and smoldering, as his fingers thrust and delve.
And then you feel his weight again, the substantial warmth of it, the press of him replacing his fingers. The soft exhalation, a groan easing into a hushed chuckle, the worst sort of Occitan imaginable as he rubs the crown of himself there and starts all over again.
It is like audible resin, burning fragrant on some brazier's charcoal, winding upward from his mouth to your ears. The bed creaks again as he begins to lower, his body filling your own in motions that begin at his fingers and toes until he may lie flush against you once more. It is languorous, writhing, slow, wallowing...
His chest at your back, his arms surrounding you, his mouth at your ear. There is nothing on his mind now but the feel of you against and beneath him. He speaks to himself as much as you do...
In Italian...
In Occitan...
How he wants to do this until there is nothing left...
Things to you, things to himself as if you were not there. Does he know how much I love him, the knight asks as he is mid stroke and grind. Can he ever know? If I took my heart out and showed it to him, would he see the name that is scrawled there for all time?
Could he possibly be more handsome?
Could I want to fuck him more than in this moment?
The rest are grunts, unintelligible sounds of complete and utter delight. Delight. Completion. Greed. Need...
Love...
Adoration...
Should this be painted? Ruddied skin and open mouth so familiar to Caravaggio. A body in tension, muscled form visible along outstretched arms. Leonardo would know of this. Golden-white locks tumbling along shoulders. Rossini was good for such. Could you capture it all in your gifted hand, and show it upon canvas as you know him under you?
Ian ravishes the sheets as the same is done him. Where you speak your mind and desire, Ian drowns in his and beneath yours. Quickly enough, there's nothing from him but grunts that time the motions in the bed, but those are the natural cadences from a force meeting an object.
I don't think I'll remember this at all, this voice. All I know is him inside me, behind me, telling me something. Talking. This is how he speaks to me. I do not know if I speak back to him, or if I do, what do I say? What does he hear?
But for now, all I can do listen. He thinks it's in his words, but it's not truly there. I listen to the the crown of him, his length. The droplets that slide on his skin. The changing scent of him. How he bites his lip. How my very mention makes him like steel -- that is what I hear. It's when he's quiet do I hear William honest -- not in bombast and protestations or words or action. But in how he fulfills what I need.
When I listen to him close, truly close, I hear him say --
"...that's it, my desire. Give it to me, for I have to have it, to give it back to you..."
His fingertips barely touch the headboard ahead of him. His fingers quiver, upright in the plane of the wood. He'll not touch it, though. Ian's hand wavers there, outstretched, extended to touch the end of the universe.
Posted by rowan at March 24, 2004 07:21 PM
