His mind has been particularly still tonight...
The quiet of sanctuary, of seclusion, not only fills the space that is otherwise crowded with silent conversations but the space of the castle itself. To enter the bedchamber is to step into a moment of prayer.
It is not so holy...
Wine fills a glass three-quarters full, deep and red. One might mistake it for a more vital liquid. It rests beside a decanter, half full. Both rest, the liquid as still as the surrounding air, as if a frozen moment. A frozen moment in a painting, held here in three-dimensions, hovering before finding its way upon a canvas...
Layers of deep brown cover him, jacket, sweater, trousers shoes, all tones the same cocoa. His short hair, slightly more disheveled that usual, containing the same deep brown hue, deepest brown that turns to black in every other light but this one, aided by brown of the suit. Plum threads in the fabric, invisible upon anyone else, are lifted to the fore by blue-violet eyes. It is an exercise in the Beauty of Subtlety...
The truth is this...
The more peaceful on the exterior, the more tumultuous the internal. The more hectic, war-crazy the exterior, the more peaceful he is within. That is your man there...in all his paradox...
And in all his beauty...
And in all his frustration...
And in all his anger...
And with all his compassion...
With all his love...
Reading a book, notes from his own hand from his visit to the Della Salute....
William reaches out with his hand, his only ornament the ring that makes him Yours shining with the motion and the light. He takes up the wine with a slow motion made graceful by the practice of a thousand years...
Since his feet touched the fur near his bed, Ian's been on the move. First to make sure that his husband was awake and ready to face his evening. Then, personal attention as he dressed and moved out into the keep. He thought that he might spend his night on a walk in the far reaches of his home, before departing to France for summer. Yet, Ian found himself accompanied by one of his guests, a beautiful young man named Valan, as well as a slew of grey and wolfhounds.
The woods, Ian thought, he might sink into and disappear as he has so many times into the past. But once young Valan had departed, Ian found himself met by Davydd, the reason for the filled keep. But as so many things this night, that too faded into the past, left behind as Ian glided across the miles.
Eventually, zephyrous strides brought him back into his house, What had been before him was now behind, trailing wisps of ether.
The quiet of his keep, in the solitude of his bedroom, Ian enters. The exhale comes, though it is superfluous. He lets the door close behind him. Ian's brows arch a little when he looks up to see you there, certain that you'd be out and about. But Ian smiles anyway, and walks across to bend and to place a kiss at your ear.
"How are you?" he asks softly, moving around to make himself a drink.
The serenity, the prayerful silence, belies a mind that has been in constant motion for three nights. Though he may superficially appear to be relaxing with a book, such is, at best, a half truth (at worst, it's an all-out fabrication). He has, in the quiet of this chamber, traversed nearly a thousand years of the past, walked in the steps of the present, and like a navigator planning circumnavigation has plotted out the stars of his future. The seeming relaxation is found to be the half-truth that it is when his hand comes up, vampiric moments folding the one upon the other to set down the book in one part of a blink, and have you in hand by the blink's end. Just a momentary embrace for the kiss upon his ear, and then the book is in his hand and you are on your way for a drink.
"I have not killed anyone," comes the languid pull of that deep and quiet voice, its accent decidedly strange -- a blend of Scottish for the long stay here, the French that is always with him, and the Welsh he has been speaking tonight. Indigo eyes lift from the parchment pages to settle their attention on you. The Olympic features a little softer in hue. Davydd benefited, perhaps, from the breakfast of kings. In a cup. Of course.
"I am alright," he remarks softly. "I am angry, but... I am also understanding." Of Davydd's situation, of Davydd himself. It is okay to be angry with one's brother. It does not mean that one does not love or understand. One can be angry and loving simultaneously. Despite what the new age books say. William exhales as he sets the book aside, he takes up the wine and holds it balanced in steepled grasp, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "How are you?" he wonders, and there is warmth there. Warmth that others have not heard from him tonight. You can be sure of that...
Ian was swimming in his glass already, even as it was poured. "Hmm?" he murmurs, turning to see you. "Oh, I am fine," he affirms. The bottle tinkles as its replaced, and Ian returns to stand before you, now scotchified. "Walked most of the night," he smiles, knowing it will be a while before he will have such luxury again. "The team needed it," he explains of the dogs.
"Good," he notes quietly. You can see that his concern for you was one of the items in his present -- and in his future -- that he was considering. He seems relieved, and now that you are standing in front of him, soothed. His mind can at least take a partial holiday. "How was Macs? He seems tired. I have been thinking that I should let go of... some of my things from the past. I should have been more humane before, but...when I was sick," mentally, that is, "... he was a comfort to me. Now, I look at him and I wonder. But," William exhales, "I will worry about the dog another night." The dog and the horse, Safir, the last two remnants of his Age. But for himself and Davydd. And Macsen an obvious tie, a symbolic tie between them.
William sits back in the chair, he takes a swallow of the wine and he sets the glass aside, head inclining and a smile starting on that mouth. "You can take as many dogs as you want to Chinon," William makes a husband's grand promise, his hand reaching out... a sign that you should join him on his lap...
Some things never change...
"...And anything else you want, you will have..." William continues, voice quiet, voice deep. There is loving meaning held in that, and his words of Occitan only underscore such.
"Hmph," Ian grins, deciding to take a seat. "You are upset. You are talking about dogs and giving me anything I want. You feel melancholy or guilty. Or both," Ian observes, smiling a little. He drinks from his glass and settles back. "You shouldn't feel either," Ian offers. "Though saying it won't make you feel differently, Guillaume."
"Your friends have brought too much to your doorstep tonight," Ian says, looking askance to see if he's correct. "And you feel you have brought too much upon me," he smiles. "The first may be true -- you must assess it. But the latter...do not worry upon at all, laird. I am...quite well."
There isn't an exhalation, a sigh, as you settle upon him. His arms surround you and he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I told him he had better not make me regret my decision. That if it is not respected as it should be, done as it was in the greatest of haste and for the safety of all concerned, if it is, in the end, in vain for any reason, he knows I mean what I say. Not all the love in the world shall save him then. I have given him everything. My love, his life, and the blood of my beloved. He ... owes me." There is a brief pause. "More than he ever owed Henry, he now owes me..."
In short, Everything. Fealty. Loyalty. Money. Life. Liberty. Everything.
Now comes the exhalation, the clearing breath, and William lifts his head, a kiss placed at your ear. "I am glad you are well. Yes... I was worried. I do not regret it. And I hope he never makes me regret it. As for Edward," there's a smirk and William shrugs his shoulders. "I will not be knocking myself over to run into any shoddily constructed buildings smelling of urine anytime soon. I'm not going to tell the man how to live his life. I've said my peace there..." The lips twist in half-humor, half-disgust.
That was truly upsetting...
"You expect much," Ian says, eyes going downward to see you. "A debt he may never repay. There is no chance for friendship based on that, Will."
"He may think...that you are even. He did a favor for you once..."
Helping you? William has already gone there and returned. "It is not on par," he says it simply. "He has to earn it back, my trust and my love and my forgiveness. He can do that, and if he does, then perhaps one night debts will be canceled. It is not something I am ... used to doing with my friends, boons and debts. So much has happened, water under the bridge. Like brothers we have always done for one another. But... that has changed, Ian. I can love him, I can take him into my arms as a brother and embrace him. But he must recognize that what he did was a betrayal of everything we were to have been to one another. For a six-hundred years since our reunion. I am sorry, but he has to earn it back...and maybe until he does there is not a friendship. At best, I think there is a kind of detante..."
A 'wait and see'...
"I love him, and I know in his heart he is a good man. I ...just need him to show me again. After this, I need him to show me..."
"You're a hard man," Ian murmurs softly, meaning it only as the observation it is. Truth, but truth that can be said, fearlessly. He will not try to talk you out of your feelings. Not that it's a useless exercise, but simply that it is not his. The feelings are yours and the expression of them belongs to you as well. Perhaps he could change your mind on this -- but what would it gain? No, any change must come from the source. Ian swallows the last of his drink, then offers you his glass to put aside for him.
"Come on," Ian grins, patting your knee. "I am suddenly in the need of a swim...before we leave..."
"Mais oui," William replies. "I am. Those who know me, know this to be so. My love is limitless. Until it is proven to me that it should not be so. And then, I can be very exacting. My patience short. My compassion absent and my love withdrawn." He is his mother's son.
William looks to you as he takes your glass, he sets it aside to rest beside his own. When he is angry, he does not drink. He loses patience with it. He finds little pleasure in the taste of it. It is simply not enough in those moments. So, his glass remains half-full.
Perhaps you could change his mind on this, but you are wise enough, and know him well enough, to know you cannot do so this evening, nor in any single evening, but working on him for months before you might get him to soften his position. Over time, it may soften on its own. For now, it is resolute. And as all things Angevin, set in limestone.
But your grin mollifies him a little. William nods, mouth upturning just at the corners. "I could do with a swim," he notes. A good idea. He looks at you for a moment, arms shifting to let you rise, and he smiles a little more, there it is brimming in the blue-violet eyes. You know me, they say, you know me so well...
Ian leans back for a kiss before he pushes himself up in a lingering draw. Once on his feet, Ian looks left and right, then heads toward the bath, leaving you behind him.
In the outer sitting room, a door almost immediately opens. A call to someone who was already on the floor. Footfalls are quick, and the inner door opens before Ian can manage to unbutton his shirt.
The young face, Marcel, arrives, eager to set about a task. "Sirs," he says softly, looking to each in turn, but to Ian last.
"Ah," Ian says, fingers finishing up his shirt, "...ask Felipe to help, but we'll have candles in the bath," he explains, slipping out of his shoes.
Kiss sought is kiss granted, kiss offered is kiss taken. He is a hard man, that is true. But he is not completely intractable. The kiss tells you that much. He remains seated while Marcel enters, rising, a hand raking through short black hair as he turns and leaves his jacket on the chair. A bath is better than a swim. That's a soak.
As you handle the servanting issue, William is arranging his shoes, setting them back in his closet. A glance is given toward his jacket, but he leaves it where it is...
He catches himself undressing and he is reminded of how much he has changed. But ten years ago he would fly out of his clothing like a sexual hurricane, spinning them in a cyclone of disarray and with aristocratic sloth, traipse about naked and glorious. Now, it is a study unto itself, a kind of meditation, clothing and unclothing. Things are folded, things are put where they belong. William glances to you and smiles, wondering if you have caught him as well. A slight shake of his head and he continues.
Nothing about Felipe is said aloud. That he is supportive of the decision comes in his lack of needing to say anything. The body language conveys it well enough. He looks to you as his sweater is removed, folded and set within the drawer where the others of its ilk lie...
"What else," Ian begins, eyes upon his companion once more, "...is bothering you. Something else? You're too taciturn still. Not just what's happened, but..." is there something else, his arching brows intimate.
"I don't like being put in this position," William replies quietly. He takes a seat upon the bed, only the cocoa trousers remaining on. A moment later and he is lying back, his eyes to the canopy, past them to the heavens, past them to the Past. "Of being the Norman in the woods. When I made my peace with him, when I married his sister, when I made him king, I put the war behind me. When I saw him, miraculously alive as I, those centuries later, the past dissolved. I ...never thought of him as the king I had made, the prince I had fought, the one who commanded the trees against me, whose forest I burned down to get to him. But you know...sometimes I think that he thinks we are still in that forest..."
William sits up with an exhale. He looks to you after a moment, then shakes his head. "Nothing else is the matter. It is just... it is just the way family is, no? I have, again, a brother I find has taken a position with me and, again, I have to come out as Myself. I am tired of fighting brothers..."
"He's used to that, yes?" Ian wonders, turning to see the two young men passing to head towards the baths. Returning to you, Ian walks around the bed, dressed only in trousers and socks as well. "I know...it makes you anxious, laird. And you're right, you should not be in this position." Ian's hand extends out, asking you to join him. "Not at all. Maybe that is the truth of this situation."
"Come with. You can gaze upon me in wondrous admiration, and lust obsessively. I won't even stop you," Ian grins, injecting levity. But it will not end the conversation, he knows. "And stare at the candle shadows." Fun for the whole family, apparently.
There is more to it even than that, as you know, as his look conveys. But with the injection of levity, and what you promise, William cannot help the sliding grin. His hand comes out, it takes your own, and with a tug he rises. "But yet," he murmurs, "...I do love him... and I do have compassion for the weight of this solitude. And I believe," he sighs, "...that he is telling me the truth. Perhaps, in part, because I have to," he smirks. Family.
I had forgotten what it was like...that it could be like this...
He goes to set it aside, emotionally and mentally. You can feel it in the air around you both, in the warmth against your neck as he bends to place a kiss there. "You aren't going to stop me?" William smiles, warmth dawning over his expression, weariness of the soul driven back like shadows by the sun. Such a smile. "What will you allow me if I have a fight with Edward?" Indigo eyes enriched by humor, love and gratitude sparkle in a wink as his arms surround you, his head tipping to look at you squarely.
"Ah," Ian shakes his head. He makes much presumption upon your friends, though he's only now getting to know them intimately. "A fight with Edward...you should never recover, laird," smile there. "Just make sure that...does not happen, hmm? You'd be disconsolate, and...who knows what I may have to do then?"
Ian draws you both towards the bathroom, where Felipe and Marcel finish their required preparations. Ian does not pay much attention to them, but lets your hand go to go look at one of the candles, a new one, only recently to flicker. There's always been something about fire and shadow that keeps his attention. "No, laird, I am only teasing. Yes, what's happened," he switching to his older tongue to keep away interested servants, "...is unfortunate. But family..." Ian nods, "...when you are close...it is hard. Being..." he thinks for a moment, cocking his head, "...open to...wounding." The word vulnerable has never satisfactorily expressed his own feeling.
"I should be very hard to soothe, mais oui," though meant in answer to the jest, it comes in a moment of soft spoken truth. He loves Edward very much. Admittedly, his relationship with Davydd is more complex. They are both complex, to be honest, but in vastly different ways. There isn't much attention paid to the servants nearby, not even to see Felipe prepare a bath -- which is an amazing thing. One night, there were oranges floating on the surface of it and citrus oil added to soften and tone the skin. Tonight, it is about illumination and shadow. He has an artist's gift.
The fine trousers are removed, belt still looped and chiming as he moves to set them, folded, upon the dry countertop. Either Marcel or Felipe (trying not to blush -- he remembers the lord from Cadiz) shall get them on his way out. William turns to you, beautiful features smoothened with the abrasion of constant contemplation. He nods, Occitan burning and insinuating its way to your ears. "That is true. To love, truly, one must be willing to lose, or one is not loving as fully as one can. So you and I have seen, have learned, have survived. I ...do not doubt that he and I shall survive this. I only cannot say when we will be as we have been again..."
He cannot either. Ian nods at Felipe, then looks to William, "Do you think he would mind to play music?" Something soft and not so intrusive. Leaving you with this task, Ian moves around to slide out of his own trousers to set them with their mate. He then bends to deal with his feet.
"Amaramos tener cierta musica," William says, his Spanish fluent, born naturally from the Occitan. Ah, the benefits to having grown up with Andalusian servants.
Felipe pauses, his masters' trousers in hand, and he bows his head, "Por supuesto, senior. Tener Augustino cantar?"
Augustino has a lovely voice. William does not have to think long on such a proposition: "...Si... que sera agradable...Del cuarto principal, suavemente."
Felipe bows his head again and steps past the gate that separates the bath from the bedroom. The other door can be heard to open and close moments later.
Steam rises, curling, from the surface of the heated water. Great, the exhalation of pleasure as he sinks within it. Tonight, no citrus oil or orange slides. Tonight, it is soothing almond oil and honey, elixirs for the calming of the soul. Already, he is improving. William spreads himself out, submerging wherever possible. He leans his head back to watch you from the bath. He will have the pleasure of watching you step into the pool like Ganymede again. The thought makes that mouth of his twitch a little at the corners. "You make it nearly impossible to be angry..." William murmurs.
"Good," Ian smiles, now with bare feet. He heads to the bath and cautiously steps into it, causing only ripples to radiate across the water's surface. His exhale bounces off the near walls. "Are you pleased to head to Chinon soon?" he asks, slowly disappearing from the bottom up. "I am sure everyone there will be delighted to see you."
"I am, though whenever I am in one home, I miss the other," he says. "But it will be good to be there for the summer and harvest again. I think I will visit Tours and Poitiers as well this year. Would you like to go with me to see Alire? To see how he is doing?" He is asking you to see Alire? This is a first in a few years.
Well, he can't be mad at everyone now, can he?
There is music starting in the bedroom, from the sofas, the gentle sound of two guitars tuning to one another....
William leans his head back against the body of the pool, looking at you, staring openly. A hand moves beneath the water, you see it reaching toward you. "It will be good to have you there with me," he murmurs. For the two of you had discussed the possibility of you not going, remaining to tend to business, not having to go with him. But those thoughts seem distant (as well as ludicrous) now...
"It will be nice," Ian admits, accepting the space offered in the open arm. He lowers and turns around, backing into his spot for the next while. "And yes, I would be happy to see Alire," Ian nods, "I would like to know how things have turned out for him and his young man. It seems we have not heard from him in some time," now that Ian thinks about it. It causes a slight frown.
Leaving thoughts of Alire, Ian looks behind him to you. A smile comes, then he looks ahead again, waving his arms at the water's surface.
"I will call him and let him know we will be coming to see him this year," William notes. Like you, it had not registered how long it had been since he had heard news from or seen Alire. Briefly, he saw him at the Venetian masque, at a meeting a night or so after. "I hear good things from Poitiers. I hope he is doing well himself. We will see, non?"
We will see...
The arm encloses around you, drawing you in easily, your form buoyant in the water. William is quiet, content to hold you. No better anchor, he thinks, than you. Smiling a little, he brushes your neck with a kiss and a warm breath rolls over your skin the next moment. A change of venue would be good, he thinks.
Much as his father, when in doubt ... move castles...
~*~ ~*~
Once in the bed, Ian went quiet. He spoke softly in the bath of Chinon and new horses, but once dried and in the confines of the draped bed, there was little else to talk about. Instead, he contented himself with warm hands placed at your back and shoulders. A droplet of oil upon his fingertips was all he needed, and he began the task of tending to the knots physically, instead of through discourse.
In the outer room, the boys continue to play, though they do so without their lovely singing voices. The nights had seen much of words, and Ian was content to halt the droning of analysis. Perhaps the mind would follow, if the world led.
And so, his fingers, parted widely, provide the only activity in the bedroom. Sitting upon his lover's back, he slows to work around the scapula. Not that a vampire needs such physical tending, for it is useless there, but it connects two beings and provides comfort and distraction.
The bed creaks as Ian leans forward. He allows himself to breathe, another regularizing of the space. Once done, for the moment, beneath one of the shoulder blades, Ian's fingers move towards the spine to work downwards.
The mind is too active. You know this. Faulted at times for simply not "being very bright", it is quite the opposite. His mind is very active, prone to being too active. In the absence of information, entire epics can be born. When working, this activity is much to his profit, both as artist and engineer. A tireless general. An apt ruler. A commander of men and battle lines. His lamps were always lit late in his camp.
But such can be a disadvantage when one is trying to deal with matters more emotional in nature. That activity can turn inward, as you have seen. It can be very destructive. And talking usually only eggs it on. For some, talking is a relief, it is a release to express one's feelings. For William, talk simply feeds the mind, the mind drives his energy and his energy tightens and expands.
In short, it can lead to dreadful evenings...
And in some cases, decades...
There is a long, low sound that emits from him, and your William turns his head against the surface of the bed, one indigo eye opening and looking back at you. While the vampire's form may not need it overly much, the soul, the heart have knots that will require such employment of your hands.
William's eye half closes, showing the tail end of a brief rolling of his eyes, and the tightness beneath your fingers starts slowly to unwind. It has been quiet for minutes and minutes. The only sound being the two guitars, the gentle creak of the bed for the subtle motions, and William's own soft groan.
"Dieu," he breathes out. Comfort and distraction. It is all he can hope for now...
"I take that as it's working," Ian grins, voice barely a whisper. He continues to lift, to press at the small of the back just ahead of himself. Another exhale and Ian draws quiet again, his coiled fist rocking at the top of the right buttock.
The bedroom door opens, and the sound of the guitars rises. Someone's quietly entered, but whatever task they perform is done quietly. At the nightstand, glasses are replaced and something else is left.
"Hmmm," William makes another sound, almost an expressed thought. The sound is pleasure, the relief of a knotted form. Muscles give way beneath your fingertips and your fists. His mouth forms the start of a smile. "...we will know in a while, hmm? When I start to snore..." The mouth twists. Ah, the first stage, finding his humor again.
William closes his eyes as the door opens, the guitars growing louder ....but then softer again as the door is closed. "This is what I needed," he murmurs. "You...always know..."
You know me better than myself most nights... my better half...
Folding his arms, he props his chin up on his forearms, his legs readjusting to further sprawl over the entire bed.
"You could spare me that," Ian teases, moving his fist to the large knot of the left side. "It could break my heart," he murmurs, as if he should be wounded that you would fall asleep on him. But then he laughs a little, thoroughly expecting it. "I can only do this for so long," he admits.
"I think it is time for the boys to sleep though," Ian says, twisting slightly.
"Hmm... I will try not to fall asleep on you," he grins. "Though I have done that before, I think, yes? You poor man, I am heavy. I make a better bed than I do a blanket." William lifts his head slightly, looking back to you. Indigo eyes then look toward the door. He nods, "The music has been nice, amours, but they may go to bed," he murmurs. "There is no need to have them play all night, no?"
William relaxes on the bed again, spreading out beneath you, breathing into the motion on his back. "I think I fell asleep making love to you at least once. When I was drunk," he grins. "You should not let me drink..." But opium on the other hand...
He can taste the hum of it in his mouth. "I could break out a smoke, if you wanted..."
That gives Ian a pause.
"That...would be nice," he smiles, already moving off of your back. "But you know what happens when we..." do that.
"It's been a while," William softly rationalizes. And I could really, really use a smoke. "It's late, we will probably just lie here, laugh a little and pass out, but it will feel good..." I will feel good. "Hm... do you mind getting the case? It is in my drawer, mon mari..." My husband...
As you begin to move, William begins to roll over onto his side. Already, he can feel his tongue go sympathetically numb. Indigo eyes flicker as they fix their attention on you, and he smiles.
He doesn't mind. Ian moves from you, from the bed. The drapes are pushed aside, revealing a bottle of scotch and two new glasses. But Ian doesn't bother with the drinks. He moves out of the range of view, to the outer room where he gently dismisses the two there with thanks. The door closes again, and his feet are once more heard near the bed as he pulls out the drawer and lifts a box which he sets upon the bed.
"Looks as if we are to ourselves," for the rest of the night. Ian smiles as he crawls back onto the bed. There will be no more servants, even to freshen things up. Once they are formally dismissed, there is no need for courtesy attendance.
"Good," William says, rolling over to half lie on his back. Propped up by the many pillows, he reaches for the box. "Last time, we were interrupted by constant phone calls. That won't be happening this time," he smiles. "It's just you and me," he leaves a kiss behind for you as he takes the box from your hand. The kiss comes again, it lingers there briefly and then William sits back, box of implements with him.
In the ornate box, fine (and exceedingly expensive) powder, cutting board and blade, bowl and pipe and measuring spoon. "I should have done this earlier," he smirks at himself. Turn off his brain and look at the pretty colors or have sex. But no, he had to think.
Silly man. Silly, silly man...
With a vampire's speed and an old hand's precision, the opium powder is prepared, placed in the bowl and finally lit. The pungent flavor rises immediately, making the tip of his tongue go numb in anticipation. He takes a deep breath from the pipe, holding the chemicals in as he passes the pipe to you.
Settling back, William starts making himself comfortable, the surroundings only dimly lit with the curtains of the bed lowered again. Only then does he release the breath, closing his eyes and smiling a little. He waits for his next breath...
And he watches you... so beautiful...he stares at you...
Ian's brow arches as he watches you settle. "Maybe one of us should be aware," Ian teases, knowing that is not likely to happen. Even as the warning's pronounced, he takes the pipe and decides to straddle you instead. "Happy birthday," Ian cheers, a toast if there were any. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lowering his hands (and their content) before releasing it to the world.
"That's what the servants are for," William drolls. Both eyebrows lift, arching slowly, as you straddle his lap. It does not take long for this grade of opium to start to work on him. Another breathe of it, and you can already see it. In his eyes. In the wayward, drifting smile. "Hmmm... happy birthday to me," he murmurs. And then he chuckles, only losing a little of the smoke. The rest is held in even longer, before he hands the pipe back to you...
When he does, William sits up, his hands easing the pipe into your grasp, his mouth finding its way upon your mouth, gently plying it open with a suckling, widening kiss.
A kiss that shares the last vestiges of smoke from his second breath. "Your turn," he murmurs, a kiss left upon your chin...
"Mm," Ian starts, having settled into something frightfully comfortable. Already, his turn. He runs his hand over his dampening head, causing white-blonde strands to clump together. "That was fast," he observes, accepting and closing his eyes for another breath.
"So, what do you want to do for your birthday?" Ian wonders from within his cloud. "Other than go home..."
He remains seated up, you cradled with the pipe in your hand, you are then in his. You feel them behind you, and the ease in which that great form of his can move, nights in India recalled, and nearly a thousand other years. Indigo peers behind the billows of intoxicating smoke, a raj in this temple-like bed, its drapes, fineries, cushions. He is startled, by you and then the colors that surround you. His mouth feels its way along the line of your jaw without thought. As natural as the movement of air.
"We should take a trip on our Rigel," the ship, "... to Monaco. Some place to live like a king, spend money like a king and watch you move through only the best halls on this earth. That is what I wish," William whispers, Gaelic spilling from him softly, in the torrents and rushes of a near-native speaker. He breathes in the smoke that you release, and his mouth seeks the pipe you hold in your hands.
To be served by hands such as these...
"We will have a long, slow, comfortable summer, you and I. We will be together, as we should be." No time apart, no talk of it now. No talk either of work, of the great work. One project near complete; another looming on the horizon. But there's no talk of it now. The dragon snakes its way along serpentine smoke, past full lips, to coil against his very blood. Tightening and expanding all at once, like a constrictor, brilliantly scaled. William exhales at your neck, releasing the smoke he inhales. "So beautiful," he says to you, "... I love you ... so much," so much is repeated in Occitan, in Italian, in Latin, even in Saracen. So much... even in English.
Ian smiles, arms extending to encircle broad shoulders and skin that he knows like his own. "Ah that's a birthday. Chinon," the pipe's turned around and offered, "...then Monaco? We find the Rigel there. Cote d'Azur. Mallorca? Ibiza?" he wonders, closing his eyes again. "But we can get bored on the boat," Ian murmurs, recalling. "Our dogs are not there, I don't know. Maybe it is just me, laird. A week or two? Three..." he seems more uncertain.
"We will just go to Monaco," the drawl is thick, mouth moving even as smoke is inhaled, held, released, puffs of euphoria leaving his lips as if his words were appearing visibly from them. "Just a week, hmm? Maybe two, and then we will return to Chinon. I do not like being trapped on a boat for long, I got that out of my system in the twelfth century," indigo gleams, two universes of swirling blue and dancing violet, colors pooling into one another until indivisible. "We will stay at Chinon, go riding and hunting at Chenonceau," such a lodge he bought for you, "...and even, if you like, attend opera in Paris..."
So far away do the last nights seem now, the opium having done its duty, and worked its magic. And you, with all the distraction you can muster, and master, there is no thought given to his brother now...
Full mouth pulls -- how it pulls -- upon the pipe deeply, black eyebrows lifting as he glances to the contraption, able to tell how much is left by the quality of the smoke he is getting. Such a professional. Smoke eases from his mouth, and then his mouth moves against your own, the pipe deftly offered by his tongue.
Ian's skin blushes as the smoke is returned to him in such an intimate fashion. He shakes his head, but accepts it, sure to make sure his lips brush its twin. You are too much his grin says, and Ian takes a deep inhale, content to let the last moments pass over him. He must shuffle as he leans to set the pipe aside for a bit.
"Mm, now Chenonceau," Ian smiles, "...Opera Garnier..." both cause his features to brighten. "Paris....we haven't been there in a while." He approves.
"A long and lazy summer, right into fall," Ian murmurs softly, the effects starting to cloud in his eyes. "I think...we will have a wonderful season..."
The pipe is passed and William lies back. The bed feels the weight but he never feels the landing. The sheets and the coverlets, the pillows and pillowtop give way, like water anticipating the falling stone and moving before it splashes within. His hands slipped against you, and as he lies back, you are drawn toward him.
"The summer starts now," in typical Plantagenet fashion, Angevin and Poitevin as he is, the summer starts when the king decrees it. And he decrees it now. With you reclining on him, now it is summer. The summer starts now...
Posted by rowan at June 27, 2004 04:00 PM
