The invitation was simple (maybe a little too simple). It was a message on the phone, Davydd's voice, rattling off in Welsh: "By the time you get this, I'll already be there. Come to the Waterfront, Gabriel's Road, take the elevator to the penthouse, go to unit 1A."
     That's it.
     Gabriel's Road, off of Gabriel's Wharf, the fashionable South Waterfront area. There, the Thames is less foreboding, less disgusting, sparkling with a veneer of tourism and family entertainment. Cafes and boutiques abound. There's even a Starbucks.
     Gabriel's Road is an old narrow road consigned in modern times to alleydom, but well kept. It runs between The Flying Saucer cafe and a new condominium complex, the latest in artist loft living. The penthouses are large, with only four units spanning the top floor. Two units face the Thames, with floor-to-ceiling windows giving the all-star view. The other units have a view of the City, one of the best in this area.
     The elevators are new, everything is new. It doesn't reek of history, unlike your husbands two. Though you might notice that the music is Orbit and not the usual piped in muzak. Only London would have trance in an elevator...
     Up the hall and to the left...
     There is a sound ... metal? Laughter. Stomping feet, or are they running? A male shout gives them away. Davydd is there.
     And Rhodri, too...
     Have you been invited to a party or a quarrel?

     Eyebrows went up at the message when it was received; Fiona, coming out of a meeting and arriving home without dinner. Ah well. She can make a run around the city, right?
     Well ... maybe for him ...
     "Disgusting how some people let themselves be persuaded," Fiona comments to the telephone. "Alright, Davydd, you blue-balled bastard, I suppose I can forego toddling peacefully to dinner and then to bed. Not much peaceful about me, is there?" Bags are abandoned, clothes changed and then she's out of her own apartment and locking up again, heading across town to the wharf.
     She should've stopped in at Starbuck's, really, but curiosity spurs her onwards. Cryptic messages that border on espionage, delivered in foreign languages, new addresses - what's this all about, Davydd? And then a new building on top of it all.
     The elevator is examined incuriously, fingers running over the lapels of her coat - black, leather, trenchcoat; it'd be downright punk if it weren't so fashionable. She has time to regard her reflection on the way up, the pink and cream of her complexion, the pallidity of her hair bound back from her face in its braided crown. The braid'll be taken down later, perhaps, but she was in a hurry.
     "Should've had Swandive," Fiona mutters wryly to the speakers, and when the doors open, she steps out through them. Hallway, door, door - ah. Her eyebrows knit. What on earth...?
     She glances down at herself before she knocks. Before we announce ourselves, let's - take inventory, shall we? Pink diamonds at the throat - check. Emerald on hand - check, and just as well, if Rhodri's there. Black leather trenchcoat down to her ankles so that only the demure hint of charcoal stockings and the dainty black Peter Pan boots show, silver buttons on her earlobes, silver-tipped nails as well. It could be classy, it could be trashy, they won't know until the trenchcoat comes off...
     But she has other things to worry about. Are they dancing or fighting? Who's in there with them? A fist is made, bounced off the door once, then repeatedly. "Maybe," Fiona mutters to herself, "I should've brought a bottle. Or a stun gun..."

     The Welsh is guttural, snippets heard through the doors. How the neighbors must hate him. Or would, were the building still not in the midst of selling. The next door unit has sold but still sits empty. So far, there's no one below him. Good thing too, with such a ruckus. "Come in," comes the bellow, a shout that's edged by a wince and a grumbling 'bastard'...
     It doesn't sound as if it's backed by anger...
     Inside, something out of the cinema, a gladiatorial display. Davydd and Rhodri stand across from one another, shirts not tossed aside but grasped instead by their non-sword hands. Swords? Swords. In the grasp of the future Oak King, the Oak King's sword. In Davydd's, something far less ornate, far more functional, and far more mortal. One might say he were at a disadvantage...
     If one didn't know better...
     Their shirts, one red and the other black, flick back and forth like cats' tails. They are not looking at the door, not sparing a glance for you as the door opens. When the door opens, it opens to flickering swords, like lightning, like fire -- is this how angels came to be thought of as bearing swords of fire flame? -- as they move at one another, metal hitting metal, flat blade to sharp.
     But Davydd is so quick... so quick... he moves three moves for every one of Rhodri's. At the least. Rhodri turns, shaking his head and swearing at him, "It works better when you hold still."
     "Isn't that what you told Lady Nelson?" Davydd laughter barks out in a great, wide open and empty space. The perfect place for a swordfight. The banter does not last. For all of Davydd's speed, Rhodri is crafty. Both of them masters, but there is a difference of centuries between them. For Davydd, his style is that of bludgeoning Medievalist. For Rhodri, his style is that of light-footed cavalier.

     The door opens, and Fiona steps in, then comes to a halt for a moment. She's stuck - the door's big enough for her, but not big enough for the sight of the two of you in the midst of your combat. It has her staring...
     Besides, if she steps forward, she might get hit...
     But no, you're not in earnest; her heart can start beating again. It doesn't entirely want to, though now for different reasons, and the hint of colour leaps into her cheeks. She can blame it on the cold outside, as if the elevator ride hadn't given her time enough to warm to normal hues. But she's still stuck, caught fast, watching with wide eyes even as she pulls the door quietly closed behind her. Good; it gives her something to lean against.
     Blue eyes, grey eyes, flickers of green in between; they roil and tumble like the sea, as riotous as the flickering of your swords. Fiona crosses her arms over her chest, lips slightly parted, pursed as if to speak. But what to say? It isn't as if she's got to worry about distracting either of you. So instead she sidles along the wall, following it to what might be considered a safe distance. As if any part of this place might be safe - with the movements you make, the ground you cover.
     So, instead of speaking, she listens. She watches. And, Fiona begins to take off her coat.

     The space is enormous, so odds are good there'll be at least some spot of sanctuary. If all else fails, try the fireplace. It's large, looks safe enough. And perhaps you realize that the darkly lit figures of your husbands -- for there are very few lights on within the space, just enough for you to see them, them to see one another -- are backlit against the glass and given to the view of the river.
     Like a fucking scene out of fucking Highlander...
     "You'll never be as fast... you will have to find another way..." the Holly King says, striding to the side, dark green eyes glinting toward the woman. He trails the black shirt behind him, the fabric brushing against the cement floor. The Oak King appears mildly frustrated, but studious. It was always difficult. But he doesn't remember it being this difficult.
     The Oak King throws his shirt-bearing arm out, the shirt fluttering forward, at first aimlessly and then, in a targeted motion, transforming into vines that appear around Davydd's ankle. A tug, and he goes down. "Something a bit like that?"
     "No... this," The vipered smile is broad, and the Holly King's tattooed arm wraps up in the vines and pulls Rhodri down. A grappling motion, and the Oak King is on his back with the Holly King's sword held above his throat -- nowhere near his skin. "Like this, boyo. Cheat, for god's sake. You can't hurt me. Much."

     It is everything that the two of you are. Fascinating. Difficult. Frustrating. Masculine. And, ultimately, highly desirable. She can't help telegraphing it, the emotions flickering across her face in fast forward, from one to another to another until it's all over and she can reclaim her face for herself and not for you.
     The trenchcoat comes off. Beneath it, a mockup of a Chinese gown, very tight, very short, high collar and short-sleeved, Chinese red and black. And she didn't even know she was continuing a motif...
     "I wouldn't have thought you'd have trouble cheating," Fiona murmurs, not confident her voice will carry. But then, you both have such sensitive ears, haven't you? She takes up a position by the fireplace, trenchcoat draped over her arm. "I like what you've done with the place. Very modern minimalism paired with old world violence. You could charge admission."
     She's afraid to talk too loudly, afraid of tipping the balance in one's favour and out of the others - all these sharp things being waved about, someone might get hurt. And she isn't really worried that it might be her. But then, she never is, is she? Those grey eyes watch, wary as swords go this way and that. A tug and then another tug, and there is a muted gasp - but for all her pretense, she's as excited as she is worried. They won't hurt each other - will they?
     "I should change," Fiona murmurs, to herself rather than to either of you. "With this going on, I feel like I'm in the wrong costume. Or I should ... do something, but damned if I know what. You two better not kill each other..."

     "Oh, cheat. You want me to cheat..." Rhodri grins, as if to say: moi? Cheat? The knee comes up with a great grunt and a wicked slant to his grin. "How's that?"
     How's that?
     That's Davydd grabbing his groin with a red face and rolling off to land on his back with a clatter of swords. Now they're both on their back. "Fuck you..." he barks through a laugh of agony. "Fucker..." He rolls off to his side, holding himself and looking at you in the Chinese dress. "If I had any testicles, I'd be turned on by that dress..."
     Rhodri chuckles, sitting up, a hand going to his father's shoulder, only to be punched hard... hard enough to move him and make him scowl. "Jesus... hey, there," he says finally to you, rising. He can. He still has his testicles where they should be. "You look amazing."
     Davydd rolls over onto his hands and knees and slowly gets up, limping as he does. And smirking. "If you had romantic thoughts, you can forget about it. Boyo, get the drinks...we need to toast my new flat. So... what do you think?"
     "I think he should leave it as it is, makes a great fencing studio. Why did you pick the one with the enormous fucking window?" Rhodri wonders, his arms slipping around you, Fiona, smiling and pulling you in for a kiss. "Hey," he murmurs there. "Safe and sound...well... mostly..." Another kiss, and he glances to Davydd. "I better do what he says. He can cut me in a million pieces sideways with barely an eyelash bat." A pat and he lets you go, heading for the bar, the only real piece of furniture (naturally, Davydd would see to that first) and begins pouring.
     "Maybe you'll have to kiss it and make it better," he rolls out. "That is, if I ever fucking find them again. Nos dda," Davydd smirks, pulling you gently to him for his own good evening kiss.

     There's a wince despite herself. "Mind the package! I'm fond of those packages," Fiona calls out, still wincing a bit. Of course she'd side with the loser. If there can be said to be a loser in all this. "I'm glad you like the dress. I was wondering if you'd even notice it, in your lust to kill each other."
     She watches the two of you rise, leaning back against the fireplace as she's approached, looking up through her eyelashes. "It's a gorgeous window. And hey yourself," she murmurs, arms going up around Rhodri's neck as she leans up on tiptoe. Kiss one and kiss two, and she presses up for a moment before pulling away.
     "What's the bar stocked with, anyway? Or is it dealer's choice..." And then the father comes for his own kiss, and arms go up again, hands to broad shoulders. "Poor thing. Serves you right for playing with a cheater. Not to mention encouraging him to cheat," Fiona coos, cutting her own words short with the kiss. She holds on - the son got two, after all, and the senior's got a sore groin. She nips gently at his lower lip, then slides her hands down along his arms. "You pretty much have to turn it into a fencing studio. Or a porn studio - I'm pretty sure someone's done some movie with this sort of backdrop. How're you going to stay here when the sun comes up, though?"

     "Well," he rattles out between the kisses, "...someone has to teach the boy. If it weren't for me, he wouldn't know how to lace his boots, kiss a woman, or steal a purse. I taught him everything he knows," Davydd croons, swaying you in his hold a bit. Like he's thinking of dancing. Were it not for the sudden soreness.
     "Oh, porn. I hadn't thought of making a sex boutique," eyes go wide at the thought. "There's actually another room, completely closed in. I'll be sleeping in there. I just liked the roominess. It's all new and open. You'll have to buy me furniture during the day, could you manage?" Davydd takes an extra kiss or two. So long as drinks are being poured. The kiss is suddenly fierce after the nipping. "There's a shower and clawfoot tub... I could do with a soak now that I've got a bruise on my Jimmy..."

     "Dealer's choice," Rhodri notes, contenting himself with drinks as the two of you get cozy. "And don't let him play up the sympathy card. You missed all the shite he was doing to me before you got here. With his disappearing shite, and the thorns, and the quick like lightning shite..." he laughs. "He has you snowed..."

     "Taught him everything he knows?", Fiona inquires with a wicked slant of a grin. "I don't know, I have faith in Rhodri's powers of improvisation." She smirks up at Davydd, then past the edge of his shoulder to Rhodri, then nods. "I imagine I can buy you furniture. Though you realize you're trusting me to decorate your flat, yes?" It thrills her, and she tries to keep it off her face. Nothing a woman likes more than rearranging her man's life...
     The kiss goes hard and she's hard-pressed not to melt; for a moment, she does, then elbows her way out of the embrace to move over to the bar. "Poor darling. Why don't you just magic it away, though? You two and your magic - but you're just boys, after all, coming running to me and wanting me to kiss it and make it all better. Well, I don't mind too much, fortunately." The grey eyes glance back over her shoulder, lips twitching just a little, and then she's leaning forward on her forearms, wiggling in position a little.
     "Oh, and you don't have me snowed at all, of course, Rhodri? It takes one to know one," Fiona retorts lazily. She leans over to pluck a glass away once it's filled, bringing it to her lips without even asking what's in it. Whatever it is, it's bound to be potent enough to knock her on her arse and what's wrong with that? "I'd say a knee in the balls probably evens things out. You both tend to get agitated enough when I talk about castration or the like. It's been a while since I've tried to break anyone's nose," she adds, straightening and folding one arm in against her midsection. "But then, watching you two, I don't think I'd stand a chance."

     "And what is improvisation," Davydd rings out, "...without the base notes, hmm? The foundation skills. A musician cannot improvise without first being taught notes and scales, darlin. Don't let him snow you. And yes... I realize... I'm giving you my very expensive flat to decorate. With my own money." He rolls his eyes, a last squeeze given before you draw away.
     The smile is a riot on his face, lighting his eyes like green bonfires, and setting that smile ablaze like the burning of Rome at the hands of the Vandals. With that fire-top hair, it is quite a vision. Davydd pulls his shirt back on and heads for the bar and his drink. "Hey, a knee in the balls never makes anything even," he rumbles. "Though, admittedly, they make a huge target. Rather hard to miss them, truth be told. Oh, bless you, boyo." A lift of the drink -- the drink? A greyhound. It's a cosmopolitan for the lady. For the bartender: a whiskey sour.
     "We're killers, to be sure. But," an exhale, "...practice makes perfect. After his coronation, we'll have to have a rematch. I'll be faster," he notes to Rhodri, "...but I expect I'll be able to break a glass on you without you flinching when it's done.''

     "Sounds delightful," Rhodri drolls, coming around the bar, his arm surrounding Fiona. Like Davydd, he takes his own embraces as he wants, when he wants. A murmur at her ear, a smile there and the tickling of his fingers. They're taking turns at you. It's quite civil. "Like furniture, Davy-bach. You need furniture. You aren't sleeping here. You should come to the flat," the one they shared over Davy's. "Least until you get a sofa...you're going to enjoy spending his money," he says to you, Fiona, grinning. "Need any help?"

     "Fuck you, as if I'm going to let you have access to my credit," Davydd cracks, leaning against the bar, on the other side of you, Fiona. You're surrounded.

     "I'll practice my improvisation with your very expensive flat and your very own money," Fiona says demurely over one shoulder, touching the crown of her hair with a fingertip and then taking a swallow of the drink. "I should do your flat over in manly pink tones. With frills and lace and bows, so that you don't know if you've come home or to a Parisian cathouse."
     She ducks slightly a moment later, then relaxes, turning to lean against the bar, smile not so demure, face flushed but happy. She squirms at the tickling, slapping at fingers but not bothering to pull away. "I'll let you help me with colour swatches and paint chips," she tells Rhodri, folding one arm over her belly while she holds her drink with the other hand. "Maybe for lifting heavy objects if I decide to do it on the cheap. What, you don't have enough money? And you never said how much daddy's cheque was for!" A hand comes in to tickle at male ribs this time, and she straightens - just in time to be surrounded.
     Both eyebrows go up as she looks from one pair of green eyes to another, a considering look on her face. Are they up to something, or ... Fiona hums under her breath, both hands on her glass, a look of pure mischief on her face. The song fuzzes into clarity, even though she doesn't sing aloud. The song is probably one of the more annoyingly catchier ones, but it has a hidden message, surely...
     Why do birds suddenly appear
     Every time you are near?
     Just like me, they long to be
     Close to you...

     "The cheque was substantial, but it's more fun spending someone else's," Rhodri notes quietly. "Substantial," he says, with a wink and a grin to Davydd. "As substantial as your ego," emerald eyes on his father. "Or rather, to be honest, mine." He laughs and tips the drink up, finishing the whiskey sour.
     Davydd hands out his glass to his bartender-son, "Yes, sir, I'll have another," not taking 'No' for an answer. It's Rhodri's lot in life. He should never have learned an honest trade. As Rhodri kisses your neck goodbye, Davydd's there to replace him, pulling you to him. "Give him your glass," he instructs you, a hand landing squarely on your hip, partially against your back. A very... dance-prep grasp...
     With that hand, he pulls you in flush, and he smiles. "Practice makes perfect," Davydd murmurs, leading you away from the bar...

     "I'm going to have to ask my father, I can see, aren't I." Fiona looks faintly miffed, but it's not serious; she takes another swallow, shaking her head. "Bastard," she murmurs as her neck is kissed, eyes closed at the caress. Eyes open again and - look - someone else is there. "Oh, hello."
     She takes a final pull at her glass, putting it on the bar solidly with a sudden wary, wide-eyed look up at her Other Husband, a glance down to the hand on her hip. Whump. Chest meets chest. "Practice? I wasn't aware we were entering a ballroom competition," Fiona retorts as she's led away. "Don't we need music for this? Don't I get any say in whether or not I want to dance?" Ah, belligerence. You do recognise that voice, don't you? "I can't spread my thighs in this dress, so no tangoing, you hear?"

     "No tango, but I can tango," Davydd notes. "Give us a waltz, Rhodri..."
     "Pour the drinks, Cinderelly, play the music, Cinderelly..." Rhodri cracks in reply, putting three new drinks on the bar counter and he moves out from behind it, making motion with his hands. Violin and bow in tow. Yes. They did have something up their sleeves when he called you. And it wasn't swords...
     "A slow waltz," Davydd cautions. His hand clasps your hand, his other on your waist, and he looks to you with a grin. "Pretend you have a train to hold and that I'm in a dashing tux..." A slow waltz, a lovely piece from the 18th Century, warbles out, the music filling the empty space and reverberating.
     And you are moved in three-four time, gliding from the force that his your second husband. There are three times when a man's power may be most personally, most intimately felt. One, when he is inside a woman. Two, when he is in battle. Three, when he dances. A man who dances may command the world.
     His strength, his power, his grace -- all meet you in the center space, the force you create in your combined motions. He spins you in a three-four circle, he pulls you back to him, he moves you around the wide open space.
     He was not lying. He... can... dance...

     "Leave the sewing to the women! You go get some trimmings!" Fiona's response is automatic, but rises in pitch as she spots the violin. She's been set up! Again! She should really get used to this...
     "That's a lot of pretending for one dance," Fiona mutters, hand moving slightly in Davydd's grasp and then relaxing a little. It's not as if she's never danced before. It's just been a while since she's done the sort of dancing that qualifies as dancing and not electric boogaloo. But some things, the body remembers when the mind has forgotten. Sex. Bicycle-riding. Swimming. And this...
     Physical memory fills in where the intellect fails. Cheeks that were pink are now flushed again, a crimson blush that she doesn't seem aware of as her footsteps move, her attention distracted, slightly; she is trying to remember how to dance, tensing a little with the effort, tensing with the effort not to be affected by nearness, by grace, by power.
     Of course, it's a lost cause. She's affected. She knows it. Both of you know it. She is rapidly being reminded of her femininity, fragility beyond the swordfight - in a way, this is a swordfight, but without swords...

     Do the steps foretell the notes of the song, or does the song predict the motion of his feet, how he pulls you in, to the twirls or to the quasi-dip. Even his grin seems to go with the virtuoso trills of the violin's voice. One husband playing for you, the other dancing with you. What is a woman to do when she is seduced at once by two?
     "A little faster now," Davydd requests, and his feet, without waiting, pick up their pace. His grace only becoming more so, the confidence, the surety, as he moves you, the both of you in circles past the window facade that looks out onto the river. His hand presses, you move in a slight dip. His hips shift, your direction shifts. You are commanded. You are ridden. You are ravished. You are had.
     Is it any wonder the jewels of this once-kingdom once dripped from their hands?
     The playing is as masterful, the runs and the measures, each note perfectly timed to the steps as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times. It is no less skillful. It is no less commanding. The sliding of the bow as expertly moved as your clothes from your figure. The plucking of strings as easily done as the laces of your bodice. You are lured. You are stolen. You are plucked. You are loved.

     It is almost possible to have an orgasm from this. Her breathing - she must pay attention to her breathing. There are little signs here and there, of her training over the years (so many fewer years than you both, but training nonetheless). She counts silently until her body remembers how to do it for her, the in-out, one-two, one-two-three-four of her footsteps. Water and air both glide...
     "This is so wrong," Fiona mutters, glance dipping down between her body and Davydd's. It's not a criticism, not really - just an indication of her own difficulty in changing gears, accepting her own reaction. She moves with the pressure, but her reaction is as inevitable as it is visible...
     Silk flows over her, but it suddenly is no protection. It never was, but suddenly she is powerless where before she thought herself powerful, at ease. Do you see it? The slight shiver inside her own skin, even as she sighs and surrenders to that guidance, the mastery which music and dance both provide? The moment when Fiona stops fighting it and just goes with it, flowing into the dance as the silk against her skin. But breathing has again become just a little bit difficult - not second nature, perhaps, after all, at all.

     "Wrong?" Davydd murmurs, his lean, his leading you into a circle, brings his mouth to your ear. "How long has it been for you? You ... seem to be doing quite well. Better than I thought," he teases. "Do I need to slow down?" It's as if he knows. Perhaps he's concerned for the breathlessness. He does move faster than a mortal man. Sometimes, it is easy to forget he can take three steps for every one of a normal man's.
     Holding your fingertips with his own, lightly clasping, Davydd guides you into a slow twirl, then draws you back to him, nearly flush again. His eyes watch your eyes, your reaction. He smiles. He does not look at your feet, or his, but only upon your eyes. His body, your body in reply, tells him everything he needs to know...
     The song seems to crest, the notes moving over you like drumming fingers and then sliding away. I love you, issues within you, skimming against your skin from the inside. You look beautiful, dancing. Rhodri grins, the song plucking its way to an ending. Breathless. Beauttiful...
     Rhodri gives a last trill and then the song falls away, the dance spinning once more before Davydd stops the two of you in place. Bending, he kisses you. It is not a brief thing, but a full thing. It is not a polite thing, but a lingering thing. I won't be able to kiss you like this, of course, comes Davydd's voice within you as the kiss parts. He lifts a hand, moving back a stray strand of hair.

     "Opted for early graduation, so ... four, five years? Something like that," Fiona murmurs, the words taking an effort to get out as smoothly as she'd like. "But I had deportment lessons, ballet, ballroom, the rest. Mother wanted me to marry well."
     If only her mother knew...
     Moving more slowly only seems to make it more agonizing. It isn't sex. It should be sex. In a way, she wishes that it were, that there were none of these layers between skins, but it is bad enough as it is. And it is so difficult, to meet gazes - so difficult, when everything that was closed is being open, held open, until there are no doors, no shields, no wards, no barriers. It is worse than sex, for that.
     I love you, too. But you know that, don't you.
     It's whispered, even for a thought it's whispered, hushed as if not to break into the music, flavoured with something shy and fragile. There is something almost painfully honest about this. And then the music ends, and she's caught - pinned like a butterfly to a board, helpless and still fluttering slowly, heartbeat left as percussion where violin has left off. The kiss falls upon her, her fingers tighten.
     Dresden shepherdesses on mantlepieces are less honest than this, in all their painted and demure merriment. But they are no less fragile. Her heart could break in a moment like this - but it is all about the trust, isn't it? That openness, that Fiona gives in such moments. She fought, and was conquered, the rolling sea in her eyes fathomless as she stands there.
     I'm afraid to say anything. It might ruin the moment...

     "One more dance," Davydd places a kiss upon your lips, your forehead, your eyelids, and then he relinquishes you. His hand frees your hip, your hand, he leads it the hands of another, your Other Husband, and instead takes the violin.
     "May I have this dance?" Rhodri says with a grin. His hand moves to the small of your back, holding you within a breath of his body, his other hand grasping your hand, leading you in dance to the different tempoed song from the violin.
     This, a foxtrot. Who knew the foxtrot could be as sensual as the tango? "One dance," Rhodri notes softly, "...and we'll head to the flat and continue there. With something other than the violin."
     Not to say Davydd doesn't play well. He's as much a virtuoso as his son. The foxtrot is a sweeping tune, full vibrato and resonating throughout the loft, and has the voice of a quartet. All from one instrument...

     It is a distinctly different measure, this - as different as one might expect from a different husband. She is already susceptible; already vulnerable. "You mean I have a choice?" The quip is as necessary as it is automatic; it needs no prompting. But she isn't fighting it, either...
     Her cheeks are flushed, still, again, that stray strand of hair curling gently against her cheek, the crown of her hair still pinned up. "One dance," Fiona echos, then nods uncertainly. She hasn't got much time to think about what it really means; she's absorbed it on some level, but she's not letting herself think about it, picture it, that intimate imagery (which she does think about, nightly, daily, whether or not she ever admits to it) that leads her into exotic imaginary gardens of the mind.
     There is a part of her which wants to cling, right now, as close to skin as silk will allow, cling and never let go until Time insists and blows her away like the petals of a rose upon autumn's wind, the seeds of a dandelion in the midst of summer. But she moves within the dance, trying to pick up the blasted shards of her Self from where they've fallen.
     Who knew that a dance could be so powerful? She shouldn't have been surprised...
     And it must present quite the sight for any who, by some quirk of magic or Fate, pass by and look into that window from wherever they are. It is almost unreal. But perhaps it will inspire something, and ages will pass, and there will be a Memory that transcends even the mortal world : perfect moments, caught behind glass.

          

~*~          ~*~

     It's a little bit overwhelming...
     It's all a little bit much...
     How is a girl supposed to cope? She's outnumbered when she's one on one with either of you. With the two of you both teaming up to seduce her, to sweep her off her feet, she's never been able to resist.
     Of course, how much she's wanted to is debatable...
     There's music playing in her head, even if not in the air all the way from one flat to another, up the stairs in ignorance of anyone but the two of you. You have shape and meaning where the world threatens to go away; Chinese silk red under leather trenchcoat black. Isn't it just like the two of you...
     And what if I told you not to look at me that way
     What if I told you not to watch me so lustful
     So painful so good it might make me fall
     I might be too weak to keep my resistance
     I'll surrender and give up my distance...
     She moves into the flat, sliding out from in between the two of you in order to unbelt and unhook her coat again, sliding it down her arms and then turning quickly, on one toe in a pivot to watch you enter, watch you filling the doorway. Eyebrows quirk up, lips slightly part as if to speak; she changes her mind, shakes her head a little and turns to move over to the window, lifting the blinds to peer out at the electrically lit street. It has nothing for voltage on the two of you, nothing on the circuit formed by threes.
     Please forget about what I said I only want you
     I want you to come
     Over me why don't you rise over me
     Why don't you shine over me and keep me warm eternally
     Like a star...
     "So..." The curtain's dropped. Act one is over. Fiona folds her arms over her chest, watching reflections in the glass like a modern-day Perseus wary of Medusa. "What's to drink?"

     They do... fill the doorway, one at a time, Davydd's hand outstretched and holding the door open for you both to pass. "Why don't you surprise us for once," he rattles out quietly, a quick glance traveling from the door to you sliding out of your coat. He closes the door behind the train of men and women, locking everyone up tight. No. No escaping, that's for sure.
     Jackets come off and are tossed in the master bedroom for now. Then two pair of male hands go to lift the table and chairs and to move them out of the way, into the hallway by the other two bedrooms -- bedrooms that likely won't be used tonight. The couch will be left where it is, but they move the coffee table as well, moving it to the hallway. It really only takes one of them, truth be told. But there's not need to be flashy about it...
     They do all of this in relative silence, apart from the occasional whistle, fully expecting that you're mixing the drinks, making something deadly. Rhodri goes to the bedroom. Moments later, Glenn Miller can be heard.
     "Fuck, it's been ages," Davydd rolls out with a breath. His t-shirt still on, the jeans dark and vintage, he kicks off his shoes, leaving the socks on (at least he removes them in bed). "They don't make music like that anymore, sweetheart," and out comes the cigarette, lit with a flash, his words punctuated by smoke signals. "I would dance myself sick on this shite whenever possible." Dark eyes shift back and forth, looking for an ashtray. Finding it, he reaches over and takes one that's left here just for him.
     "The good ole days," Rhodri chuckles. "So what are we drinking?"

     Fiona moves over to the bar, taking down glasses and peering inside. It is ... of course ... incredibly well stocked ...
     Even if it weren't, she could undoubtedly pluck it out of nowhere - but in a bartender's living room? Really, how likely is she to need to do that? She moves in relative quiet of her own, grey-eyed glance on her own hands. "As long as you don't expect me to lindy," she answers Davydd absently. "Should I change?"
     It's hard to concentrate. There's so much emotion and so much more in the room, and her mind keeps going back to something other than just the dancing; difficulty reconstructing her walls after they've been stripped away, after she's been opened and held naked. It goes round in circles...
     I forgive you selfishness I forgive you the lies
     I blame you for your tenderness and your lovely eyes
     I forgive Oblivion I forgive silence
     I blame you for being lovable and for making sense
     "For your father, A Taste of Winter," Fiona announces, sliding a glass over. Schweppes Russian combined with citrus-infused vodka, Galliano, and a dry cherry liqueur by way of Denmark - not sweet, but flavorful, and cold, so cold, over enough ice to qualify as a small glacier. "For the son, Sunny Sex," a mix of rum, orange juice, vodka, firewater and red wine, "and for myself, a Fairytale." Vodka over crushed strawberries and crushed ice with ground chocolate, shaken thoroughly - how cute. She raises her eyebrows as she takes up her own drink. "I thought I'd go with a theme tonight. Though I know what I'm having for my second drink..."

     "No Lindy tonight, but make sure your wedding dress has good flow." Forest green eyes give a dark sparkle over your geisha girl outfit, the cigarette toyed with where it balances between his lips, then it's plucked, ash tapped in the tray and he takes his drink. A cautionary sip. A smirk for the Sunny Sex. Fine, make his sexy. I'll show you sexy...
     Rhodri's face alights and when it does so, it does so with a golden vengeance. "Sounds more like an activity than a drink, you sure you don't want to take a turn behind the taps?" Bartend, he means, "You'd make a hell of a bartender. Girl after my own heart," he murmurs at your ear and then takes his drink a step or two away. "That looks good," he notes, "mind if I steal a sip?" At least he asked. Can that be considered stealing, really?
     Davydd sips the drink with a quick jerk of fiery eyebrows. "That's wicked, that is," a glance to the drink and a grin to his girl. "Fits me to a T. So, take a good long swallow," he says, stamping out his cigarette after another drag, "... and set it down for a moment. We've a rug to cut. I'll show you how we did it in the Great War..."
     "With a whizz-bang," Rhodri cracks in full English accenting. "There were some upsides to the war. The music..."
     "The women and their rolled hair..." Davydd rolls out, taking another swig of the dangerous drink. "You should rename that Wicked Winter," the Holly King grins. He moves to the center of the large living room space, made larger by the emptying out of the dining room. Speakers in the corners bring the big band sound like the big band was here...
     With him standing there, waiting on you, Time itself peels away...
     Imagine that in an RAF uniform, a pilot climbing out of his plane, prigging a jeep and rolling, laughing into a dancehall with the rain of war on his jacket...
     I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places...

     "I'll take the hoops out of the dress when we go upstairs after the ceremony, before the reception," Fiona murmurs. Her glance is entirely too demure. She's finding her balance again, now, and she moves to lean against the wall, taking a long pull at her drink.
     "I got around a bit, before I met you two. Never bartended professionally, but I hung around a few," no wonder she felt so comfortable with Rhodri, "and picked up a few tricks. And drinks." Pale eyelashes flicker, and there's a hint of smugness for a moment. High praise indeed, from the professional. "You can have a taste, sure. I'll make another round if you like, after I oblige His Kingship," a molten look to Davydd, "with a dance."
     She saunters slowly towards the center of the room, head tilted slightly to one side - very Gloria Vanderbilt, she could look, in the right dress, with the hair done the right way. She puts a hand on her hip and squares her shoulders back cockily. "So," Fiona inquires lazily, "come here often, flyboy?"

     If you wanted to be set on fire with a look, who knew it could be as easy as calling him any sort of 'boy' at all? But at the term 'flyboy', his smile cants sideways and his eyes flintstrike and smolder. His hand takes your other and pulls you to him. "When I'm not busy killing Germans," he rumbles low. "Care to take a tour of the cockpit..."
     Rhodri laughs from the kitchen, working on his drink...
     Sing, Sing, Sing with a swing...
     High energy, and it suddenly pops electric against your skin and underneath it. He twirls you to him and begins moving. You thought you knew power before. You thought you knew speed before. You thought you were dancing before. Now, you are flying...
     It's the Lindy minus the splits and the wide-legged grasping, but the steps on the ground are the same. And you are lifted, as easily as a piece of paper, set back down gently, pulled to him, rocking in close-quartered dancing as the song momentarily slows...
     Warmth. Strength. Power. Musculature. It is all there for you, and glimpses of the past. Him in uniform, smoking like a chimney. Tired. You can see how tired he was, but it didn't keep him from grinning like a wild man. From flashing that grin like a comet, like lightning. From dancing the remainder of the night away before crawling off at the edges of dawn. Only to fly more missions at dusk.

     The look and the smile go straight to her groin, even faster than the drink. The tug at her hand just increases her anticipation, and for a moment she lifts her hand to trace that grin. "Wouldn't want to take your time away from killing Germans," Fiona drawls, "but sure, when you're not too busy to show me around... I ... wouldn't say no." Isn't that what you like about her?
     Her ... not saying no...
     She's pulled, and her eyes go wide and she's hard-pressed to keep up. Ah, so this is what the waltz and the foxtrot really were - warmup for this. It's a good thing she's been loosened up a bit, that her body's had time to reclaim all that muscle-memory. All that she sees, it's absorbed, but at a distance - good lord, is this really her feet?
     "I'm going to need another drink," Fiona pants, in that moment of slowness, her head moving in towards Davydd's shoulder. She could close her eyes and Forget - forget herself, forget the world. As if shutting out the War, as if she'd been there, if she were there. "My hero," she murmurs. "So I suppose I need to reward you..."

     There's no more picking you up and throwing you around. He is enjoying the close-quartered dancing too much to change it now, even when the song goes fast-tempo again. "Listen to that, hero," he murmurs. As if anyone would call him that. But he'll take it, grinning. "I have a few... ideas on how... but I won't spoil your surprising me with sommat. Sometime. Maybe later. Maybe after the next drink."
     Davydd dances you back to the kitchen, but you're probably not going to get off lightly, for Rhodri's standing there with an empty glass, his eyes on the pair you make, a smile on his face. And that look. That look that says it all: wait until it's my turn.
     You've been traded off and back and forth all night. Likely telling you how the rest of your night will be going...
     "I'll make the next round," Davydd generously offers. The kiss is as generous. He's a very... giving... man. "And there's nothing a GI likes more than a slip of a girl in a Chinese silk dress," he's no good for your make-up. He plucks your lips like the strings of a fiddle.
     "May I ...cut in?" As Davydd heads for the kitchen to pour another round, your other husband's hands surround your waist, guiding you to him. "No acrobatics," Rhodri promises with a smooth smile, "... just the basics... you and me, music...movement..."

     "I'm always open to ideas, flyboy," Fiona murmurs back confidingly. Her eyes are closed, she's content. For the moment - contented moments always have to end, or they'd be cheapened by inflation...
     She opens her eyes as she's danced back to the kitchen, released with such a kiss. She has to kiss back; has to nip, that little promise in the nip, the knowing gleam of delighted mischief for how you will react. Makeup? Who cares about makeup? Beestung lips are in, aren't they? "Glad you like the dress, GI. Silk's rather dear in wartime, or so I'm told."
     She turns to her other husband as his hands go to her waist, her face turning upwards with a blink. "You're actually asking if you can cut in?", Fiona murmurs slyly. "Here, I should feel your forehead, love. And just the basics? With you, it's never ... 'just the basics' ... I think I should be worried."
     But she isn't - not really. She's regained her centre for the moment, regarding you with wide, kittenish eyes and a laughing, gamine grin. "Come on, fox," she dares, "show me how you dance..."

     "Oh, you shouldn't say that," comes the dangerous, earthy tone from the kitchen. "I'll take advantage straight-away." There are three cream infused concoctions, cream, ice, kahlua, vodka. Caucasians, they're called by some. Davydd prefers to call them Ukrainians. White. Damn cold. Dark centers.
     They are set upon the counter, one-two-three, and his hands come to lean upon the counter, bearing his weight. It's a fond thing, this look. To watch you dancing. There's no jealousy now. Just ... joy really. Davydd tilts his head, his hands coming off the counter, his arms crossing, folding at his chest.
     While the music is still mid to late 40s, the dance is far more modern. No one danced like that in the 40s. No one. There's no leaping, no lifting you up, no swinging you around, no acrobatics. And it is basic. So is sex. So is breathing. It's like that. Like breathing. Natural.
     Primal's another word...
     "Imagine you and I, and you in white," Rhodri says at your ear, his hands guiding you around, around so you can face the kitchen, his arms surrounding you, his mouth at your ear. "Do you think we could get away with this..." His laughter is the slide of sound at your ear. His hands slide against the silk of your dress, lifting the hem against your skin.
     Well, he didn't promise to be good...

     "That's rather the point, isn't it?" After all, what's the point if not to have the offer taken advantage of? That's the fun of it. She can't help herself around you...
     She's led back to the floor again, as it were, and a shiver moves through her; she leans up against Rhodri, her hands to his shoulders, then arms around his neck. Oh, this is more like it. "You've both been teasing me all night," she murmurs to the voice at her ear. "Bastards, both of you. I'm starting to understand why women want to go out dancing with their husbands, though."
     Her eyes, which had been lazily lowering lashes against her cheeks, suddenly widen at the feel of silk moving up higher than it's intended to go. There's a bit of a gasp for that, the sudden quickening of her pulse. "I think we'd shock half the guest list. Stop that, you brat..."
     Oh, but that isn't a very harsh rejoinder, is it? For such soft words to pass her lips, she mustn't mean it at all...

     "I'm thinking of hiding under your dress," comes a chuckle from the kitchen, muffled by a sip of his drink. "Maybe pop in while she's getting ready. Shoo out the other women, get rid of her mother, lift her skirts and make us both happy. Can you picture it? Her coming out of the bridal chamber, looking all flushed."
     He's thinking of it. Clearly. And it's tickling him to no end. Davydd flashes that madcap grin, his eyes lowering to the rising hem. "You can't see her beforehand, bad luck you know. But there're no rules about the father of the groom seeing her before the ceremony..."
     Rhodri looks up, a challenging flash coupled with a broad grin. "You can give me a preview of the special honeymoon knickers. Speaking of knickers..." The silk continues to lift to give him a preview of tonight's sampling. Rhodri breaks the dance to lean back for a better view, eyebrows cocking upward.
     Grinning, he drops your skirt, his hands grasping your hips, pulling you in and then releasing you with a tickle. "He spent all that time making the drinks, and we're letting them melt and dilute..."

     "You wouldn't be able to stay under there throughout the ceremony! You're as big a brat as this one is." The reprimand isn't a reprimand, and Fiona's arms are still around Rhodri's neck, not throttling him, either. She glances to the kitchen, the blush in her cheeks already. Now she's thinking about it...
     "I have no idea what I'm going to wear on the honeymoon, brute," she mutters upwards. "Knowing you, probably just a pair of lace-up boots and a nice satin choker, maybe be nice and shaved all over except for my head for the occasion. Or just ... into patterns..."
     As the hem of her dress continues to rise, so does the colour rise in Fiona's face, until she's blushing fully as much as if she were suddenly revealed in the midst of a crowd. Well, the two of you do make a crowd all on your own...
     Beneath the hem she's got on pale pink - baby girl pink. It's as pink and soft as the dress is scarlet and bright, trimmed with black lace - French cut, of course, with a ruffle all the way around, low over the hips and high over the thighs, snug enough to outline what's underneath, with a little black satin bow in front. Girl clothes.
     She's grasped, she's tickled, there's the briefest moment where she's tempted to lift her knee and like father, like son, but the moment passes and Fiona settles for a belligerent defiance on her face. "You made the drinks back at his flat, so I suppose it's my turn to make the drinks again next?" She strides to the kitchen with a roll of her hips, as if not confident the hem is back down where it's supposed to belong. But her cheeks still give her away.

     "It is, and I'm empty," Davydd cracks, glass on the counter. He reaches for his cigarettes and gestures to Rhodri with a nod. Help me move the furniture back, boyo. "How about you make me another Wicked Winter. I liked that. I think I'll crown you my new bartender..."
     "Nice. I'm right here," Rhodri barks back. "Ungrateful bastard..."
     The dining room table is put back into place, and the four chairs. Then the coffee table is put back where it belongs. As if the dancing had never taken place. But you'll be able to trace your patterns in the carpet, at least in your mind. Now you'll have thoughts of being in their arms with your clothes on. How's that for broadening your horizons?
     Davydd blows smoke toward the ceiling, rakes a hand through his copper hair, the short, thick strands on end in spots. Disheveled, cigarette hanging off his lips, waiting on a drink. Vintage Llywelyn. He plops down on the sofa with a groan. No, not for the ball-jarring kneejob from earlier, but just for plain old theatrics. One arm going back behind his head, he turns to look at you in the kitchen.
     Rhodri has taken a seat on a nearby dining room chair, also watching you. He doesn't smoke but he does finish his Caucasian. Is it a weighty thing? Those eyes on you. Each pair with their own intensity. Each green. One, the green of summer forests and groves. The Other, the dark green of holly leaves...

     "Another Winter for you, fine," Fiona retorts, "as if you don't get enough of Winter. But alright, I don't mind. Beats being kept barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen." Yet...
     She saunters over to the bar again, beginning the process of making drinks again. Another ... newly rechristened ... Wicked Winter for pere, and then a mixture of 151 proof rum, Everclear, triple sec, amaretto and cola for fils, topped off with an orange wedge. "I thought you might like something a little more Hard Core this time," Fiona says demurely as she slides the glasses to one side.
     For herself, she's keeping it simple, it seems - Chambord, Bailey's, milk, put together in a shaker with ice and vibrated mightily, then strained into a glass. And she pretends she's unaware of those green gazes. Oh, yes, she pretends...
     She picks up her glass, lifting it in ironic toast, one arm folded under her breasts as she leans her weight back on one foot, the other knee bent slightly forward. "Salud," Fiona murmurs drolly. "You've got your drinks. Hope they're to your tastes, gentlemen, because I'm done with bartending duties as of this drink of mine." She doesn't name it. Maybe she's expecting you both to know, or to guess, or give it names all your own...

     Pere et Fils. Suits them. Even if it is French. Each with a drink, now lifts a glass to you. To you, a separate, silent toast. For one, a toast to love, his wife, his lover, his kitten, his puss-n-boots. For the other, a toast to desire, his wife, his lover, his partner, his queen.
     One, florid and ringing soft Welsh beneath your skin...
     The Other, earthy and musical, his voice a hum of a tune as much as silent syllables...
     The One, suggesting you join him on his chair...
     The Other, thinking you should join him on the sofa...
     After you take a straddled seat upon the chair and the man in it... of course...
     Now, what was the point of the evening?
     Was it getting you to watch them fight?
     Was it getting you to dance with them?
     Was it to rearrange your furniture?      To lift a glass...
     Or to watch you enjoying yourself, thoroughly...from One, to the Other...?

     The colour just stays in her face. It's not given any chance to go anywhere; just hovers, unceasing, unfading. She takes a sip of her drink (a Wet Pussy; crude but evocative), then moves into the living room again, looking between husbands One and Two.
     "You two..."
     Her voice has gone soft again, muted not by drink but by ... something inside of her. "I don't know. What am I to do with the two of you?" She loves you; is it not plain? It glows in her eyes and out from them, too much for her to contain.
     The glass is examined a moment, then set aside. She moves into the living room, hands going up to her hair, unpinning the heavy braids and letting them swing free, down along her back as she rolls her head on her neck, moving. After all... her night is only beginning, isn't it? Fiona smiles, slowly. But of course she's got to get in the last word.
     "A pair of insufferable rogues... I think I need to make you two suffer more than I do." She tips her head back again, and laughs despite herself.
     One king ... one thief ... one girl ...
      It is the stuff of which fairy tales are made...

Posted by rowan at January 25, 2005 12:25 AM