Calm down. Calm down.
     Don't cry.
     Resting upon the bed, Ian tried to drift off into a slumber. Perhaps to start this evening over again. He did quiet himself a little, but not so much as to find restful sleep. Anxiety came and tension went, and so it was enough.
     He was gone. He came home. I tried to show him that I loved and missed him, and instead...I am lying here, once more not sure what's happened.
     I should no longer be surprised. I am not surprised. It is what it is. It's how he is...
     The bed exhales as Ian turns upon his side, towards the center of the massive bed. He bends his arm beneath his head and pulls the sheet to his waist.
     Might as well forget tonight and try again later...

     How did the topic even arise? Is it even important? Important. That has been the word of the evening. What is important. What has meaning. Of all things, William, it is not what you do.
     Love has been given so easily. Why must respect be so difficult?
     And how is this my fault again?
     It was a short bath. For William, it may be the shortest bath and swim on the books. At first, he resisted his inclination to go right back upstairs, to admit to.... whatever he needed to admit to in order to right the evening. How was this my fault again? He swam, cigarettes and brandy unattended, discarded. He submerged and tried to sink it out of himself. For the anxiety and tension, sadness and perhaps a little anger coming from the bedroom, there was frustration, discouragement and perhaps a little sadness coming from the secret passage.
     But he could not stay long. He cannot rest when things are unsettled. When you are unsettled, he is unsettled. And the more unsettled he becomes, the more agitated he becomes. It doesn't even matter anymore. I do what I do; you do what you do. It doesn't matter...
     What you do doesn't matter and how he feels about it doesn't really matter. Certainly not enough to spoil a whole evening over...
     William appears in the doorway, covered in white towels, one around his waist ending just above the knees. Another rests draped over his shoulders, having been used to absorb some of the moisture from his hair. Inky black when wet, seeming all the shorter suddenly. Pivoting, he closes the panel and continues to the bed. With him comes the scent of water and nothing else. No cigarettes. No brandy. Not even the cinnamon of the ritual remains.
     The bed protests as he lands beside you. William says nothing. He simply lays his hand against your back, rubbing it down the center of the slope. The slope he loves so well. He tilts his head, he looks at it and you, and his hand upon you. "This is the only thing that matters," he murmurs after a long while. Just you. Just me. Just this. "I am sorry, Ian..."

     The emotions ebb when he is touched. Ian's eyes open and he breathes again, though he does not turn to face you. "I am sorry too," he whispers. "But apparently, it is not all that matters," he replies, trying to find some irony in the phrase.

     "Hmm... well, I will admit my ego was a little bruised. You know how that can be. But... you and I know what is really important. It is that you and I are together. How we spend our time otherwise ... I am sorry for ... getting caught up on the rusty nail of pride. In truth, what either one of us does is not important. We have a nice roof. We have means to live, to enjoy our time. We even have the ability to give one another extravagant gifts ... just because we can and because we want to. We're... very lucky men. I apologize for ...losing sight of that momentarily."
     William exhales, his hand rubbing again and then finishing with a pat, his hand not leaving you when that is done. Rather, with his hand upon your side he braces himself in his own bending and warmly kisses your neck. "Are you going to forgive me for that? Hmm? I do not do well apart from you. When I come home... I do not seem to come or go very well these nights." Frowning, William sits up. He puts a hand through his hair and with another exhalation starts to rise.

     Suddenly, Ian flips over, grabbing your wrist. "Speak the truth, William. No matter what I say or do," Ian laments, "...you want something from me. Something particular. It is not my respect for your ability as an artist, for I have told you so many times that you are talented and that I wish I had a fraction of your artistic skill," his cathartic and bonding watercolors come to mind, "...and that you run a successful business. But," Ian sits up, leaning in, "...you want something else from me, William. You want me to care, as you do, about art and the business of art as you see it. And if I do not...then...somehow, I am disrespectful to you, personally..." Ian shakes his head, amazed. "Is this what this is about?"

     "No, that is not what it is," William replies. "I am not seeking your validation on my skill. I sometimes feel as though you do not trust my decisions, that somehow I am not living up to your expectations, in some way, that I am not handling things as you would handle them. As the issue with the painting tonight. You spoke as if I were unaware of the implications, that I was unaware, in fact, about the risks inherent in my business. Even though you said you know that I know these things... yet it seemed to me as if you... didn't think I knew. That bothers me, if I am not trusted, if that is so. If you think I ... cannot somehow handle matters. That I would put us in jeopardy. That I would... ever... put us in undue jeopardy, undue risk."
     An emotional, older vampire is not something to be trifled with. Even if you yourself are an older vampire. He may command your heart, but he is very aware that everything else... is more at your leisure than his own. "I ... know that I am an accomplished artist. I do not need anyone to tell me this. I have the frescoes of Italy to confirm it. I know I am an accomplished engineer. I have buildings to speak on my behalf. I only want you to believe in me, that I would do the right thing for us. Maybe..." William pauses, glancing to the wrist you hold. "Maybe it is too soon for that..."

     Ian looks disappointed, shaking his head negatively as he looks down.
     "Why do you wish an insane man who has told you that...he has his insanity...to be able to say what he cannot say...to anyone?" Ian breathes raggedly, he withdrawing his hand from your wrist. "I have confessed this to you, William," his voice climbing, "...to Victoria. No one can do what I want, I do not even expect it. I do not want it! I know how I am, I know my failing," he begins to cry. "How many more times can I say it: do not ask of me what I can not even give to myself..."
     "I..." Ian cries, "I threaten myself for not doing...what is right. Choosing what is right. Why do you want me to say it to you?"

     "I don't know how... not to try to live up to it. I wish I did, but I don't. I'm... no better than Victoria," he quirks at that suddenly. Two epiphanies in one night. You should slow down, milord. William sighs as he looks at you. "I will ... try better to remember, laird," he murmurs. "It is the best I can do. Do not fault me for my... occasional foray into humanity." He smiles through his own pained expression. "I have my insanities, too, you know. You're not the only one living on crazy street..."
     Now, I'm crying...
     "We really need to stop," William says, blinking hard to clear the burning eyes, he smiles through it even so. "I want to be wanted and you want to be right. God help us both." He rubs your back again, "Move over..."

     He does not move. "Right? I do not want to be right! Why does everyone think I enjoy this?" Near hysteria, Ian's hand clutches at his chest as he gasps for breath. "You live up to everything you should? I am not asking you to live up to anything. I do not want you to live up to anything. I do not want you trying to...serve...some insanity of mine. It is not...true! Stop making this," Ian cries, "...this thing in me true..."
     "I know it for what it is," Ian explains. "Why can't you? Why can't all of you? No one is listening to me..."

     I am listening, Ian... I am trying...
     You do not move. William does not move either, only to cover your hand with his. I am not you, I do not understand it as you do, but I am trying to understand it. There is concern there, there is love there, there is sympathy there. There is even frustration again. I love you and I am trying...
     But even that, he cannot live up to that either. He can't be in your head, no matter how frequently he gets beneath your skin. "I am sorry," William says again. "... what can I do. Tell me, Ian... tell me what to do. It kills me to see you suffer like this. Tell me..." he murmurs, fingers grasping your own tightly as he bends and rests his forehead against you.

     "There's nothing you can do. There's nothing I want you to do. Just be yourself," Ian wails, "...that is all. Nothing else is important. Nothing is. I am happy if you are yourself...as you are..." Without trying to please him. Or please that which cannot be pleased by himself nor anyone else. "I will be as I am," even if the voice pressures him too, "...and you be you, laird. Nothing else is important. I do not try...anymore. You shouldn't either."

     "Okay," he murmurs. "I will remember."
     He remains bent over you, half resting upon you for what seems to be many minutes when his weight suddenly lifts. William rises. Setting the towels upon the back of a chair to dry, he moves to his side of the bed. He is quiet as he settles again, warmth of a recently bathed form issues between the sheets and around you, even before you feel the first brush of his arm. Thrown across you, his arm enfolds you to him. He looks at you and he looks at no thing.
     I am sorry...
     I am sorry...
     I am sorry...
     "I will remember," William murmurs nearby, his mouth brushing your wet face. "I will remember..."

     "Do you understand?" Ian asks, now finally curling into you. "I..." It's so hard for him to explain. "You keep saying I am doing something to you, but I am not trying, I promise."

     "I understand," he assures you. "I know what you are saying, Ian. I understand." A hand brushes away your hair, his mouth follows again. William's arms wind around you and he cradles you to him. "I love you," he murmurs again, this time at your ear. "And I understand that, too..."

     This would have been enough... just ten years ago... it would have seemed like the end of the world...
     But no one is storming off, though we may cry and yell. No one is running away. Most amazingly, I am not running away. "I understand," William says at your ear, a hand skimming the gold of your hair. "I know this," he confirms with a voice that seems more Him. "It was a momentary lapse... I reacted to what I heard, oui... rather than to what I knew, mais oui. And I have been so good at ...not doing that," he finishes in a hush. "So," he breathes, "...it will be alright, amours. Do not worry. I know what the truth is." Those arms surround you again, warmly, snugly.
     It is my own sickness, seeking the Father's approval, sometimes with such desperation. You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.
     "It isn't yours to bear," William breathes nearby. "I did not mean to give it to you." With a clearing exhalation, he seems prepared to leave it behind. At least for tonight.
     Maybe that is what is behind the ... difficult returns from a time departed. Maybe it is something far more instinctual, a buried memory, a buried hope, that upon returning to the castle I should find my father pleased to see me, I should see him there with approval in his looks and a word of pride. But when I return, always when I return, I find he is nowhere to be found...

     "Guillaume," Ian whispers, suddenly throwing his arms around your neck. It still frightens some part him, being in opposition to you. It's almost as if the very essence of him is shaken. Recoiling and fundamentally set adrift. He would have run from it years ago, simply choosing to accept what was given to him or, if other parts found their resolve, steeled himself in all opposition, to spite himself. To deny himself.
     To burn and renew himself in the hope of something different.
     Next time.
     Always a next time. The next time you would have him, the next time you would choose him.
     And maybe, you'd see. You'd see what he truly was.
     But there are no next times. It's all now. Decide now. Choose now. Solve and resolve now.
     And so Ian holds onto you, trying to still the essential clamoring, the desire to for key to fit into lock.
     "Don't walk away," Ian murmurs, perhaps referring to the bath. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry."

     There is a little bit of a smile. The Devil's Look that he inherited, god help him (and all men). "I am not going anywhere," he insists, indigo eyes widening upon such terms. The eyes shift just slightly toward the direction of the bath. "You should have come with me," his arms settle around your waist, drawing you to him moreso if such were even possible. "I was naked and glistening. And I would not have bothered with sulking a little. I regretted every step down that hallway," he whispers at your mouth, and then he kisses you.
     It is tender, this kiss -- simple. Unadorned with seduction, only clad in his love and his longing, and it is left at that. "I will not do it again, bathe alone," his mouth parts at your chin, "...to leave you even for that time, i cannot bear it." The large, imperial hands plant themselves at your backside and cups you to him. "I love you so much... so much," William says, looking to you, "...that there is no way to end the sentence, no words to tack on at the end. I ... am not going anywhere. Never. Not without you. Do not let me ... in my moments when I think I am brave... do such a stupid thing as to leave you behind..."

     "Alright," Ian smiles, feeling slightly cheerier. There's a wash of relief that's almost palpable. "Maybe I should definitely go with you to Venice," he grins, pulling his chest away to see your face. "Well, I was going to go, but...I must go," he affirms.

     "I need you with me," he confirms, smiling as he does at your grin, but the confirmation is a serious one. "It is not just that I want you to be with me. I have to have you there, amours." His hand lifts from your backside and reaches up to brush back your hair again. "When I come home at night, I have to see your face, hear your voice, drink only from what your hand provides, to love you, to spoil you, to feel you around me. You are my joy on this earth," William whispers.
     The kiss that is born at your mouth is fuller than those that have come before it this night, warmer, seeking and finding you in clasps. It comes with the surrounding embrace of his arms, the feel of his fingers pressing at your skin. It parts with a breath of your name, with a smile, with the inclination of his head to brush the warmth of another kiss upon your forehead.
     "I do not think it is a maybe. I think it is a must be. This year... we will not have to worry about it too much. Mostly... it will be planning and meetings, but much of this can be over the internet these nights... the real work will not begin for another year, two. So... we will go when we need to go and stay in the best hotels, eat the best Italy has to offer, and be with one another. It will be a good trip..." Whenever it happens. Whenever it is needed, or required.
     "I need you with me now," William admits quietly after a moment or two of silence. The slight smile smoothes its way to a grin. "El Hefe," eyebrows quirk at the nickname (he does like it), "... has not thanked you enough for the wonderful present. He has not shown his... true appreciation...mais oui?"

     "I think he did," Ian's smile warms. "But one cannot be thanked enough."
     "Care to go riding?" he offers. "Before we tire again," and decide to seek bed for a final time. "I'll even let you lead..."

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2004 01:56 PM