Has winter ever seemed so long, or the night half as deep as this one? Once in a century, perhaps rarer still, a winter solstice seems like the death and birth of the world as once it was believed to be. Such depths this year, that even Modern Man took notice. And in Strathfayr the lamps and fires were tended throughout that night, for who knew if the sun would ever rise again.
     And they call the Medieval superstitious?
     Solstice now is at the heel, and winter begun is as good as winter ended. Longest night and the birth of Christ superimposed over the rebirth of the Oak King behind, the house now settles into January. The promise of longer days? Well, it's a bit further off than this. Oak King and Christ reborn or no...
     You have felt him...
     Jupiter down there with a sparring partner, someone called from Spain -- where else? When such distractions are desired, double-edged, it is Spain Guillaume looks to, not France. Even from that seldom used hall, you have felt the movement of feet. Casual blood being drawn. The sweat -- ah fine invention this! -- upon his skin. You know how his hands are, strong. Agile. Large Angevin paws wrapped around favored hilts...
     You have heard him...
     Early morning orisons of grunts and swearing. Of laughter. The occasional fall. Him. The more occasional fall of his partner, the dark-haired Spaniard, mutual in his affiliations with Girault. A gift, this. And all William can think of to do is try to kill him...
     You have known him...
     Thoughts of when you might stir slipping within the strokes of blades, insinuating itself, like your hand against his arms. You felt him undone. And you knew he was returning. There. Upon your blood. You are awake...
     Do you anticipate him?
     With the closing of doors down below, the steps upon a turret's staircase, do you at all lend yourself to expectation? Or are you surprised when the bedroom door opens, and he is seen, swordless, but damp. Leather and some muslin cotton shirt, whose sleeves are pulled up, whose fabric clings to him. And the motion of his chest in his breathing. The heart, strong and rhythmic. The eyes, brightly and darkly seeking. And the smile that is beginning, framed by rough darkness.
     William leans back against the door as he closes it, a long exhale. For all the exertion, not winded. But exhilarated. Warm. Where is winter? Defeated.

     Strathfayr is awake. Winter is his time of year, despite summer's gold that touches him. Your intuition is correct, but Ian has not gone far. Though winter is his best time, it also affords him indulgence. He remains in bed, hidden beneath the piles of comforters and woolen spreads, barely visible within the curtained muss.
     A groan. Bedding sounds as Ian stirs, a mound in the slowest of motion. "Practice?" he asks, wondering if that's what caused his recent rejuvenation. You stirring within him. It woke him from slumber.

     Though he, in all appearances, should be the Dark Half of the year, William's time is randy spring and ruddy summer. But longer evenings -- who will complain for this. The vampire rejoices when the sun sinks low and the moon lingers. No matter how the Essence of this Being longs for sunlight, child of Midsummer as he was born to be, though you more look the part...
     "Oui, finissage," Modern French, this too is practiced -- even it is accented strangely, tugged by his south-central dialect. Everywhere Aquitaine upon the Angevin, courtesy of his own great-grandfather, who as he conquered did so with the fiery tongue of Langue d'Oc.
     William pushes off the door, a great exhale and a spreading smile, his languid stride -- there is power expressed here, potency so recently uncouched. You feel his hand, maybe? As he touches the many coverlets, hoping to find a piece of you within. A bend, and he goes to kiss the top of your head, "Si vous sentez jamais le desir de faire de meme, je pense que vous le trouveriez un associe convenable..."
     He smells of Him and of cinnamon oil. The honeyed soap from earlier showering. He will need another soak, mais oui? You hear his removing leather half-gloves as he straightens. "A drink?" William murmurs, and he moves from the bed -- you can hear this too, and feel it as the heat he is emanating recedes. He pause by the sofa, a table, a collection of liqueurs. Pear and Plum, pieces of the fruit held intoxicatingly within. A recent shipment from Chinon.

     "Nngh," Ian grunts, wishing you close and away simultaneously. There's not much to find under the layers, but the kiss on the blonde strands was just as well appreciated it. Still, he seeks not to emerge into evening's light, and instead, muffled sounds emanate from the living pile on the bed. "Maybe later." Always later.
     A pale hand appears at the mound, pulling a pillow closer, closing off the small hint of light you made.
     "Anything to report?" Ian wonders, voice muted. "Is the keep on fire? Births? Deaths?" Thud. The mound tries to flip over.

     "I am undefeated for the day, there is three more inches of snow, the dogs look bored and I am thirsty," such a lilt does his French make, with accenting for fire upon sudden Occitan syllables that blend smoothly into Gaelic, though seemingly unrelated tongues. An arm comes up, sleeve brushes at his forehead, and you hear the stopper on a bottle being freed. After it, the smell of pears and apricots. Thick. Heady. Potent.
     Indigo lifts to see you hide under your pillows and blankets, a lift of his lips following after. That essential month smoothening and folding into a grin. "You look very comfortable, I am thinking of coming back to bed. Non, do not move... stay just as you are. I and my drink will come join you..." Cinnamon, sweat, pear and apricot. It is making its way toward you.
     The bed creaks with his sudden heft. The glass sounds upon the wooden end-table, a soft thud. And he exhales again, a quiet groan as he bends to remove his shoes. "Amours," comes his voice, that languid baritone, softly, "...at first thaw, I will be going to Poitiers for a week or two," or more, depending on how it goes, "....do you want to be in Chinon for the coming of spring? I am thinking," the shoes fall, "...the first weekend of March..."

     "Sure," Ian murbles, perhaps face-down, if sound carries as it should. "I mean, March is fine...and it's fine if you go to Poitiers earlier." He has no difficulty with either. A shift, and the top of the mound closest to you begins to move, scrabbling. Hands pulling at bedding, and with each tug, finding only more. But soon, enough, blonde strands fly about, and fingers appear. Then...a head and the top of a face. Grey eyes. "Is there a problem?" Stupid question. Ian's eyes close and reopen. Let's try that again. "I mean, you are concerned about what the chevalier said?"

     The undressing halts upon the second shoe, and William turns his head, dark gaze given over broad shoulder. The expression is placid, tinge of amusement on his features, warmth there to finally see you, and he leans back a bit, "I am curious about what the chevalier said. How much of it may be in his mind, how much of it is true and real, and how serious it is or is not. I do not want to lose the city, nor have to amend my territory," Chinon and his surrounding holdings, "due to some displeasure of some new prince. I should rather know now if it is serious, then to be surprised in my own vineyards."
     A turn, a lift, and the shirt is gone. Tossed. Somewhere. Lord in heaven, the man you live with. The room was 'straight' before he entered. Now there's stuff all over. But in the revelation of knight's physique he usually finds forgiveness. William reaches out, capturing the glass of apricot and pear liqueur. A sip and he begins to settle back. Dampness, drying now with no sustained exertion. Salt and sunlight can still be sensed, however. And the blend of all. Pierce his skin just now and one might swear it would be Aquitaine that would bleed. His eyes are bent to you, dark and full of blue and violet in equal portions. And his free hand comes out, fingers to find golden hair. "How would you like to spend this evening, amours?" so much for Poitiers...

     He'd already fallen back into his comforting pile. Now, he must speak again. Too much energy exerted in that. "Nuffing," the voice effectively says, mouth filled with linen. Ian spits the bedding out, licking his bottom lip. "Nothing," he exhales this time, sinking into the cushions and enjoying the touch of your hand. "I have no plans." Eyes open, and he chimes, "Why not make Alire prince?" he wonders. It seems like a convenient solution. Tossed out there. He need not explain his reasons, for they are obvious. It is a logical suggestion, if not the answer you want.
     "Ach, I do not want to talk about politics," Ian finally says, reluctantly shifting again upon his stomach. Leg nearest you bends under the mound, and hands form a makeshift pillow beneath his head. "What do you want to do today?" he asks.

     "I suppose I should," is all he says, and quietly. It would be a solution. Alire could come into his own, perhaps, an opportunity for the chevalier. But then he would no longer be able to wander, would he. How would the Apostle adapt...
     William seems to wave it aside, with a motion of his drink, a tilt of his glass and a swallow of heady liquid. Sweetness that should not be legal. Heavy for winter, but with all the flavor and the promise of spring, cupped in a crystalline bowl. What would I like to do? When darkness smolders, have you any doubt of where my mind is going? My body soon to follow after. Setting the drink aside, William bends, half lolling into you. His mouth at your ear. Now ancient French explains in elongated syllables, with the flick of his tongue.
     What I want to do is to tangle in this bedding...
     Roll you with the apricot upon my tongue...
     Complete a night of swords as it should be completed. With absolute consummation...
     "To feel," he whispers there, "...and to fill..."
     Maybe it was not such a gift afterall, the ghoul of Girault sent to match swords with William...

     Ian's lips burst into a blushing smile, not expecting you so close, so suddenly. He laughs faintly, and then tries to shake his head beneath the coverlet of you. "I shouldn't have asked," Gaelic comes, crisp and humored. "I was thinking more of...artistic or other hobby pursuits." Well. Maybe that falls into both of those categories as well.
     "Maybe you should stop fencing," Ian snickers. nose wiggling since you are at his ear. "It makes you too polite." For that, Ian's brows wiggle in mock-suggestiveness.

     Smooth the upward arch, the pulling of his mouth. The placid look, the voice that follows after: "We could always take the furs into the studio and do it on the table of blueprints," so literal he is in his single-minded purpose. But then William grins, the grin you can feel as well as see. Edged, most immortally. And his half loll turns into a full one. He, becoming another coverlet for you. Far less soft, indeed, that the others at hand. His weight, the heft of it, coming to bear. "A night of painting to follow a dusk of fencing -- how is that to make me more endurable?" he knows himself at least.
     Apricot brushes against your mouth. A delving, and he is able to steal a kiss. Polite? Not exactly, unless he shall moan 'sir' or 'please' upon its conclusion. And that is not likely, and he does not disappoint. When the kiss parts, he slightly lifts. "I would be happy to watch you as you paint. I do not know what to do with myself these days. To paint," a roll of his shoulders, his own work? What am I to do? Fruit? "I think I should sculpt something, but it is hard to get marble lifted in the snow...you paint, I will model..." he adds, the idea striking him suddenly. And he likes it, this idea.

     "Model?" he was with you until this. "No...no, I am not ready for models," Ian says, shaking his head. "You know that I like to fingerpaint," he reminds, voice young.
     "Maybe you should try still life, hmm? Or...you could work with clay. The kiln is near the kitchens? Or, if you like, we can have stone brought up, Gui...it is not such a chore." Not that either of you would do it anyhow. Ian does not worry that he is doubly covered, despite the weight. Arms stretch and he grunts for it, collapsing again into a soft pile, hands beneath his head.

     "I do not know, amours," he softly says, and as he speaks he eases more onto the bed that you. Flush against you, yes, but now his weight is the bed's to bear. "I just do not know what to paint anymore. Maybe if I brushed my hands over marble I would find inspiration again." Everything done in the last few years, every painting painted, the new movement, now flourishing vainly in London and New York. It is all swept away. So much canvas and blood. Colors. And yet not a painting hangs upon the wall. "It is too bad," William murmurs, turning his head against the pillows and blankets and toward you, "that the weather turned too foul for Caravaggio." The young boy with fruit is now safely ensconced in Chinon's vaults. Waiting for spring.
     "I may bring some stone up tomorrow. I still have some of that marble left that Ui and Victoria gave me. I think some of the red. I should do something with it." Raven brows knit together and indigo eyes flicker sidelong to you. "Where did I put it? Is it here or in Chinon? We move around too much," his eyes widen and he grins. Oui, and whose fault is that William?

     His face is relieved when you move, though he speaks it not. Ian watches you move beside him, yet he remains upon his stomach. Instead, his face turns, much like a flower following the sun. "Much of it is at Moray," at the new lighthouse. "But we can have them fetch some for you, Gui," his hand periscoping from the linens, coming to rest at your cheek.
     Cupping softly, Ian's fingers are smooth and cool. "As for painting, it will come. With Time." A smile there, for it is his latest answer to everything. Ian lifts to his elbows, the cross given him barely visible between chest and mattress. "Hmm," he grins, "...what can we do instead?" In the meantime. Ian whispers, "We cannot paint, and we want to remain in bed. No sculpting, no clay. Our choices are limited."
     "Maybe...we could...play Knight and Page? Or, maybe Prison Inmates?" Now that gets an arch of his brows. New game, that. Ian laughs at the notion, then looks at you, pale brows falling. "I guess you'd want to be the one in for life, and I have to be the new arrival?"

     "Because I have nothing to paint, this should not stop you," he murmurs, a turn into your hand. A look to your eyes, that self-assurance. You, who smile and seem always to know what to say to me. Dark eyes between even darker lashes lift and lower. "What sort of teacher and patron would I be, if I were to suggest it otherwise. I can bring your things in here. You can paint, I will watch, maybe play the twelve-string..."
     His friends... well... one friend of his would call his fencing 'archaic', perhaps even pointless. What does it serve in the modern age to remember how to handle a blade, how to move like this. Ah, but for its expense of energy, for its exertion, it is priceless. For pent-up power, it is unequaled. Except, perhaps, by rattling the bed. Nothing quite dispels him as that, and it is to such bed-bending activities that the Angevin mind and spirit is wont to go. If not on horse, then on you -- so should the family motto have been. And painting, too, served this purpose. But now, the brush is silent. And perhaps it should be. Perhaps it is time for it to be, unless his hands are working to restore.
     With William, creation must have a Way. Be it rutting, painting, singing, something. It must have a way.
     And as you speak of Knight and Page, Prisoners Old and New, he laughs. Rich and deep. He even reddens -- that's not something that happens every day. "Mon Dieu," he murmurs through it, chuckling, "...I should suggest making me strip at gunpoint again, were it not for the fact that I am already three-quarters the way there." An exhale, and a large hand reaches up, wiping away the wetness that the laughter caused. "We could play chess or cards, winner takes all," he murmurs. He, not so much up for acting, but he could be up for a good game of clubs.

     Ian grins at your laughter, enjoying seeing you so. That's better. His hand lowers, and as you wipe tears, he thinks of a reason why not play cards. "Well, we could play cards, but why not just go to the point? I mean," he shrugs, as if telling a random, obvious fact, "...Prison Inmates gets to the heart of it." Yeah, that's it. He laughs too, shrugging at the ongoing joke. "Say, I'm tossed into the...what is it....cell with you my first night? You're a horrid, tough, hardened criminal who hasn't bathed in two weeks..."
     Okay, this is interesting.
     "I arrive with my new cell uniform, and you're already there: smelly, half-dressed, violent. Who knows what crimes you have committed!"
     Once on his elbows, Ian's now on his side, gesturing the scene as if a seasoned director.
     "Outside, we can hear people shouting, expecting the worst, the noises..." he gleams, long past this being about anything involving the two of you, "...cheering and egging you on -- you're the known 'welcomer' of new recruits, of course -- and I, of course, have heard what happens from movies and what guards have said..."
     Then he stops. "Ach, Gui, you're not buying this, hmm?"

     Getting to the point. It causes the broad smile to slant and eyes to sparkle. We could get to the point without any sort of game, mais oui. As you mention 'smelly' there's a wrinkle of his nose, a noblesse oblige smirk, and a lifting twist to retrieve the liqueur. "Essayez-vous de me dire quelque chose, mon amour?" And he is in laughter again, a turn with his drink expertly balanced, his brows arched darkly and his expression... expectant. "Mais oui, smelly prisoner. Grizzled perhaps even. Guilty of ...hmm... murder, if he is smelly, yes? I should think so. He would not be guilty of forging paintings for a living, or he should smell of roses, sleep in a room the envy of a mansion or fine hotel..."
     As you stop, William sips at the apricot and pear concoction and motions to you with his hand. No, amours, please... continue...
     "Should we go to the catacombs? It is dank there, it will be more cell like, oui?"

     "Just because you act as if you're in a cell doesn't mean you're in one," Ian huffs, rolling his eyes. Goodness. I have to explain everything. But then he continues.
     "And so, he is guilty of some very depraved acts," Ian nods sagely, knowing you must know that part. "No one would want to share a cell with him...they know what would happen, what they would become."
     "And voila!" he chirps in non-sequitur fashion, "Who will do that part?" brow arching accusingly. Grey eyes look at himself: golden, young. Then eyes look at you. Ian smiles vapidly.
     "Well, now, I am thinking, maybe I was too quick to dismiss appropriate setting..." and eyes look away, pondering upon the catacombs and the whole effect.

     The low sound of a lion's laughter. Like to a growl, but lingering, far warmer. It continues for the whole duration of your explanation, from your exasperation to your realization. Soft, held in his expansive chest, picking up at the word 'depraved'. I think I can manage, flecks the Occitan. "Ah... even better amours...your bath is made of stone, and... it has a gated, not unlike a cell door. If you have to have the special effects."
     That, and it's much closer...
     "Maybe," William murmurs, and he is in motion, turning, his arms enfolding, scooping you up for this moment at least, "...the 'Welcomer' is not such an evil man. Maybe, the new prisoner, his cellmate would teach him a lesson. Bolt him to the cell, maybe... the bed is probably made of iron... uncomfortable, very squeaky..."
     And for effect, William moves the bed. Though wood, it is old and prone to squeakiness. So all the servants in Strathfayr could confirm...

     Ian's nose quirks at your rendition. "Bah, that is boring," he waves off with a smile. "The depraved killer really has a heart of gold, and the new person is the ravaging rapist?" He shakes his head, "Who's directing this anyway?" Duh. Me or you, his hands gesture. Me.
     The light comes on! Ian blinks and stiffens in your arms, halfway sitting up. "We could...get someone else to be the evil, depraved lifer..."

     He laughs and he submits. Fine. Lying back upon the bed, he settles in a lordly sprawl. Lifted just enough to manage drinking the liqueur without spilling it all over him. But when you mention finding another person for his role as the evil, murdering, ravaging, depraved rapist, William lifts up and smirks. "We could ask Rafael. He is Spanish. It is not so much a stretch for him, perhaps. I could summon him," William settles back down. "He could play the 'Welcomer'...and you the new inmate. I, I shall be the warden, watching the developments on the closed-circuit television..."
     Sitting up, William releases you, setting his glass aside. An Angevin paw lands on your hip, somewhere beneath all that blanket and fur, and he seems prepared to summon...
     Rafael San Martino. One of Girault's prized ghouls -- chosen in the 1600s for his gift with swords. And a few other gifts. He is ...stunning. As if Girault would chose anything else. A paragon of his time and Age. He should be embraced. But Girault seems loathe to do so. Even after 400 years...

     Ian blinks and pauses. Why, that's a fine idea. Ian settles back, smirking at his own ingenuity. "I should have been in movies," he muses, nodding dramatically. A deal struck.
     "Are you sure he'll be good at this?" Ian peers, questioning it all now. He'd hate to need to fire an actor.

     "I am surprised you did not steal Kyle's business and set yourself up in Hollywood..." Now that would have been funny for a few years. But William would have grown bored even with Hollywood. Hollywood is simply not France. "And it is not too late, amours, you could always go into producing, hmmm? If you get bored with piracy, conquest and gun-running..."
     And the laughter, rich and warm. He is proud of himself for that one. And William rises with an exhalation, vocal. In only his sword-marked leathers now, these not for wearing to social functions, but clinging, undiplomatic, formed against him, protective. Cupping. Barefoot, he moves toward the bottles of brandy and liqueur, choosing now the black-purple plum. The most potent beverage born of Chinon orchards.
     And for a moment he is quiet. Command made, and then he pivots. Your dark knight, dark drink in his hand. "I am sure you will find him an enthusiastic performer..."

     Now upon his back, Ian shifts to take up the space you once occupied. Arms fold behind his head, biceps tight against his ears, and he thinks.
     You bring up...an excellent idea.
     Grey eyes stare at some point in space, well into pondering the ramifications of your suggestion. Yet he hears your comment on Rafael, perhaps, for a slow, spreading grin crawls across Ian's lips; the kind unseen in many nights...

     You should have seen them, combatting beauties. Dark. A sword in each hand. Blood rising in the air and immediately dissipating with the rapid healing of wounds. One with long hair, the other short. Both complected olive. Perhaps you may yet see it. Perhaps you could ... start a prison riot...
     What prison movie is without a riot, afterall?
     And you hear the steps upon the stone approaching...
     And as Rafael is in motion, so too your William. Dousing light, until only that which is strategic is left. Golden luminescence upon the iron gate of the bath. The fire spilling light outward upon furs and furnishing. Your dark knight seeming all the darker, his drink going from violet to black, not unlike his eyes. It seems cavern like here in this great chamber. Indeed, cell like. Each pocket of shadows could be a separate cell could it not? At least for the purposes of this endeavor...
     You see your William moving, the door to the sitting chamber left ajar. You hear the door of the second landing open...

     "Wait. Cut!" Not that it would really do much, but all the same, Ian calls cut. "What's my motivation? And I can't see..." he laughs, killing himself as he rolls over onto his side in hysterics.

     It is too late to cut, the film is rolling...you have a runaway cameraman, so to speak. William remains at the door, light from the sitting room cutting in. "Ah, the hazards of an actor/director," he murmurs, but then his eyes are directed to the outer doors and the impending arrival...
     "Shhh... no laughter!" William whispers, theatrically of course. "You are the new prisoner. You are supposed to be filled with anticipation, anxiety, potentially horny." We know the sort of films William would direct, non? "He's here..."
     Quiet on the set!

     Well, but...
     Not that Ian gets that thought out clearly. What prisoners -lie- in a bed? He rolls his eyes in mock-distress, falling back against the pillows. The mound of blankets and furs still half-cover him, and so he takes the moment to pull them up. One has to look innocent somehow.
     "I'm not supposed to look too horny," Ian blurts out softly, making a frown. It's supposed to look real, he mouths, not sure who's directing this thing after all.

     "I said potentially," comes the stage-whispered quip. "Are you going to set the scene?" But William stops there, his eyes turning to the sitting room. You see the slant of his mouth. You see the focus of his dark eyes. And then you see the shadow of Rafael darkening the doorway with him. A whisper from William to him, a warm grin, warm if wicked. And the door to the bedroom is closed.
     Rafael San Martino stands somewhere in the neighborhood of 5'10". For his family, he was a giant. For certain parts of Espana, he still is. Olive and carmel complected, his eyes are a dark brown, his hair is onyx black and long, as long as yours. And the almost delicate features of his face, the line of his jaw, there is a beard there, closely trimmed. He is trim and lean, a fencer's thighs, strong but supple hands. He, unlike William, made it to the showers after their bout, and he is clothed in a silk button down shirt and silk pants. Despite the chill. He dispels the chill with his smile, and he moves from William to the very edge of the bed.
     You are to do whatever he asks...
     And William?
     He remains held in a shadow, until or if he is needed...

     "Well, I thought he'd already know," Ian blinks, a bit surprised. Isn't this supposed to happen automagically? How is it supposed to be real if you have to tell the person what to do?
     Trials and tribulations of directing. He'll never be good at it.
     But then Rafael enters. Ian quiets, lips slanted. "Well, this isn't gonna work!" he calls out, sitting up now and letting the blankets fall to his waist. "We hired an actor and didn't send him a script. I thought you said this would happen naturally?" Ian looking at you accusingly. Ah. Now, you're Casting Director too.

     I'm sorry, I'm union. And this is officially my break. Just the thought of it makes William's mouth curl upward. As if he could ever be union. Socialists around the world are rolling in their crypts just now...
     William looks to Rafael, mouth capture to hold back the laughter and he moves from the door, a nod to the Spaniard, and a glance, Ian, to you. "Laissez-moi parler un moment avec mon client," so William speaks, morphing instantly into the Spaniard's agent. An arm around the beautiful dark fencer and he draws him toward the sofa, mouth to the young man's ear.
     Of course, you can hear it all...
     Estamos fijando una escena, querido Rafael, y usted ha hecho nuestro jugador principal. Tenemos en mente algo que implica presos y las celulas, y usted, pirata querido, no debe tener ninguna dificultad con esto...
     No difficulty indeed...
     Usted, el hombre culpable, el hombre depravado, criminal insensible. El nuevo preso. Y usted es... le da la bienvenida, se? Para mostrarle como que prision es...
     And all the while, the slow creeping smile of Rafael San Martino, and dark eyes that glitter their way over to you. Yes, he murmurs, I know how to do this. It will be my pleasure. In the fullest.

     Pirate?
     No one mentioned real pirates.
     Okay, pirates are scary. I know this. I hire plenty of them.
     Ian's eyes narrow as he peers to you conversing, wondering if anything else is being conveyed, like...make you tickle him, or something of the sort. "You are looking very cozy!" Ian calls, squinting slits of eyes. "And no bruising!"
     The director became a starlet. Nice.
     "I guess the warden bit is alright," he reconfirms. "Do you need an assistant or some such?"

     "Vous ne me verrez pas meme, je suis sur," French issues from him, the Loire hanging upon every syllable of it. You will not even see me, I am sure. And he is quite sure. Look at the evil prisoner. Dark haired. Beautiful. Thighs of a god. William will be invisible even without the obfuscation.
     And has it already started? Have you even noticed him taking a seat on the sofa and lounging there, sprawling. Leather yet on. For now. Who knows. Perhaps he will call an assistant in. For now, he is content to settle back and watch it unfold. Ah, cigarettes. Plum brandy. He has all that he needs...

     And perhaps so do you...
     Rafael move to the bed, his shirt pulled off as he goes. A hand in his hair. He is not smelly, but he musses himself to ...look the part. And he speaks in Spanish to you, lovely Catalan. Who told you that you could have my bunk...
     And so, the show begins...

~*~          ~*~

     Do you recall when it was that the sofa in the bedroom no longer held him? When soft light flickered from the studio, frescoes -- as you know -- wavering beneath candlelight. The door left ajar -- and he... though unseen... present. He, though uninvolved, somehow still participating...
     It has been over an hour, but whether or not it has folded into two or three he could not say. A night more marked by the ending of the coupled noise than had it continued throughout the night. As it still may do. The hush of sound. The whispers, far more than the moaning that preceded it, caused indigo eyes to lift toward the double doorway for the first time in... however long it's been...
     He is surrounded by books. Bound richly but untitled, marked -- in fact -- only in a sequence of Roman numerals, to indicate the particular volume. There are five such books, one of which is open before him as he is outstretched, half-sitting and half-reclined upon his side, on the velvet sofa, seemingly covered in nothing but the book and the velvet coverlets and sheets. A cigarette burns unattended but nearby. It is, were one to take notice of the butts left scattered around it, his seventh. And a lingering scent of cinnamon is heavy in the air. Cinnamon and something strangely herbal. Not tobacco. There is also a nearly empty bottle of what was once plum brandy in all its pulpy glory. One glass left and the bottle shall be emptied.
     And there is no evidence of painting or creation here. Merely lingering. Thinking. Wondering.
     William turns another page, coming to the pictures of his own Impressionist collection, his indigo eyes straying darkly over the images of several Monets...

     It has been quiet for a while. Light from the studio dispels at meeting the bedroom's darkness. At some point, quiet intervened, though your lover is not so normally known for being vocal. That's oft reserved for you.
     So will you hear him when he pads around the door, becoming visible? He's wet, freshly-dipped from the bath. Blonde hair looks darker, drying against his face. Hands push into the pockets of silk pants, as if cold. Toes curl upon the stone floor.
     "Still alive?" he asks softly, voice Gaelic. These nights, it's all he speaks, unless using English to make a point. Ian grins and moves towards you, scented much more like...nothing. Clear water.
     When he arrives next to you, hand reaches up to caress your back. It rises to your neck and shoulder, massaging. "Where were you?" he asks. "I look up and you're gone." Ian's head tips, looking around, with a smile, to see your eyes.

     The book -- well, all of them -- is a bound portfolio of his own collection. Bound by the corporation, sent to him as a kind of inventory. An image with provenance and history per page. The more modern the age, the better the images, as leafing through his library would prove. Now, with digital technology, it is like a museum in miniature. The glossy paper. The notations in modern French.
     But as he feels your hand on his back, up to his shoulder and his neck, the book is tipped downward, released to rest upon the bed, and his eyes lift then center upon you. In a room of little candlelight -- just a few wavering flames -- his eyes are deep as universal sky, with moments -- brilliant moments -- of violet and blue. As if the flame lived in that dark color, showing the vibrant hues that comprise it, as it flickered. The essential mouth curves in a smirk. How could he not to see you so happy? So... refreshed. "Amours, you were busy..." Of course you did not notice.
     The book is left behind and he turns to sprawl upon his back. Ah, how squeaky this old sofa is. He had quite forgotten. Old, the sleeper complains with every slight motion. "How did the movie end?"

     There was an instance of hesitance upon hearing that he was busy. I am never too busy for you. But he leaves it there, he coming to sit beside you. "It was a movie. You know how they all end -- some staged creation, always left unfulfilling. You know, for the time, you have been duped." He smiles faintly, one hand at your neck, the other at your knee.
     "I would rather that you have watched the movie with me," Ian grins, patting softly. "Even better, I wish...we could maybe read a book together for a while." Something similar.

     How can you be bothered, Plantagenet, when you know that one in there was nothing, ne c'est pas? Nothing. And you, you know your station, Rigel, in the universe. There should be no doubt. And there isn't. Not doubt on that. This of all things, Ian of all things, you are certain...
     But watching... tonight... I was in the mood for doing...
     Leaning, William reaches behind you, deft fingers stamping out the cigarette. A waste of good cinnamon and hashish, to burn it merely as an incense. And he exhales, sitting back, shifting after a moment to open up more of the bed for you. "I was not in the mood to watch, as I thought I might be," he murmurs. "But at least the movie was good?" dark eyebrows lift as he reclines back on velvet pillows. And he waits for you to settle, his eyes on you, lifting from you to the unpainted ceiling. The largest blank canvas in proximity stares back at him. A void. He frowns at it. Scaffolding built, remaining unused. And nothing to put there. No color to take up the space.
     "I was just flipping through my collection," William says, "...wondering upon what to keep in the next decade or not... maybe, hopefully, to get an idea or two." A roll of great shoulders.

     Ian looks a little surprised, but he glides easily into the talk. "No talk about collections," he smiles, moving to recline beside you. Arms snake around, a smile upon his face. "I missed you," he whispers, arms warm and dry. "And I wished...you were there." Ian's grey eyes look up to yours, wondering whether that made an impression. "And if you weren't in a mood to watch, that was fine. Then...I could have stopped."

     "I was there for a moment or two," he murmurs. It was several minutes, even. And as you join him, and enfold him, arms snaking around him. Especially as you smile -- there is not defense for this -- William turns into the hold. Away from the books of his collection. As the great form moves beneath the velvet, two other books are shoved away. "Ah, I was just in here, not far," comes the Occitan, it too like the flames that waver in this chamber. Smooth as the wax they liquify. Burning and lilting as the fire itself. "Sometimes," his eyes lower to you, to the mercurial grey, drifting after midway between your mouth and chin, "...I think my... watching over like a hawk circling the field is a little... inhibiting. Do you not find it so? I thought you might be more free to enjoy him without my staring at it." Eyes settle on you, dark, flickering -- aided in that by the occasional jumping of flame. "I would not have wanted you to stop for me. Why should you, amours? It was my idea. I just did not realize at the time that I did not want to share," the sensual mouth twists, "you should not suffer for this, mais oui..."

     "Why not?" Ian smiles, looking up again. "It is not...suffering, Will. I thought...we agreed to talk about things when they upset us? I want you to intervene, when you are upset, distressed, or things are not as you like or want..." emphasis growing as he speaks. A sigh comes, something to calm himself. "I enjoy things more when we do them together. Both are a part, whatever that part is."
     "It means so little...when you're not there."

     "I did not think it was going to bother me, and I do not know why it did. Maybe... it was just not my night," a small smile, a slight roll of his eyes. Indigo, finding humor at himself when the gaze is directed inward. "Next time," William continues, his voice soft, no louder than a breath, "I will... tell you then, when it comes to me. Or... I will just kick the other person out of my bed..."
     A hand lays upon your skin, large and strong, but the touch it leaves behind is gentle. There are so few times when he is truly so, he should think. Tender and gentle. Usually only after he has been rough and demanding, yes? Honey, to follow the salt. "It is not that I doubt my place," comes the languid baritone, a lilt and drag of French upon whispered tones. An exhalation of impatience with himself.. "I was sitting there on the couch, watching you, thinking... knowing... how beautiful you were... are... and then it was him, so lucky to touch you. I wanted it to be me, though it has been me for... so many centuries. But I did not want to stop you."
     "I should have joined you..."
     And why didn't you, Plantagenet...
     He lets his voice fade to silence. Watching you. Hand lifting from your side, he draws you to him. His arms working their way around you. "Next time," William whispers, and he closes his eyes. A brush of his mouth, the tickle of the not-quite beard, against your forehead.

     An improvement. Ian's eyes close as he's squeezed, seeming content with that reply. "Next time, when you feel that way..." he smiles, "...show me, hmm?" He is amenable to the notion of tossing someone from your bed. And why not? "Next time," Ian inhales, exhaling loudly as he relaxes further.

     Emasculation...
     Is it the feeling of a ...loss of potency? Impotence. That is what it feels like, but it has been with me now longer than the Spaniard has been in this house. No Caravaggio to soak the blame. Dormire. Dormant. Like a fire has been doused. Somewhere.
     By someone or something...
     And without his fire, there was no rising from the sofa, no slap upon the Spaniard's thigh and a purr to him for him to 'get out of the way'. Without his fire, there was no assuming of his role. He watched another man have you in his bed and all he could do was withdraw here and stare at empty canvas. A blank ceiling. Nothing to fill it.
     It is not like him...
     The knight's strong arms hold you to him. The form, beautiful image of potency, resting against you. Warmed by the magic you have shown him. One hand curls at your back, the other in your hair. "I will..." There is a lift of his mouth at the corners. A smirk that may yet become a smile. "How many stars would you give him?"
     Back to the movie motif...

     Arms instinctively tighten again. Yes, Guillaume, I know there is more. But for now, we will begin with this. Just talk of tonight.
     "I wouldn't," Ian shrugs, "I do not rate such things. I know what makes me happy. That was pleasant enough. But...you..." eyes open, '...you make me happy. Making love to you...is like nothing else, Prince William." And it is true. You know me.
     A shrug. "He was pleasant, laird. That's all. It occupied time in a pleasant way. Anything more than that, would have needed to come from you."

     Come...
     A soft word in shared Gaelic, repeated in his native tongue, and arms that surround you, guide you with him as he rolls onto his back. You do not have to come, he brings you with him. The strong, enveloping grasp. And a knight upon velvet becomes your bed.
     Hands, doting hands, pull the velvet coverlet up and over, tucking you both in, sending several of the books to the floor. And an Angevin paw grasps a thigh, his other at your back...
     And he doesn't look at the ceiling...
     Indigo looks to you, even as he is propped up slightly upon the cushions. You know he has heard you. He merely does not say anything after it, choosing to let it sink beneath his skin. Absorb. Beneath you as he is, William closes his eyes and takes comfort in it.

Posted by rowan at June 24, 2001 11:54 PM