There are two sanctuaries from the Scottish winter. The large lord's bedchamber, with its mighty hearth, its furs, the enormous bed, and the greenhouse, full of flowers and fruit trees that would otherwise freeze and fail to grow if exposed to the weather outside. It is a predictable December. There has been the first frost, the first snow, the first squall, a full week of rain...
     With tiny fists, the falling water beats a rhythm on the glass. But that is as close to winter as one comes here. There are roses blooming in this false spring, this birth of summer seeming. And the fruit trees brought from France last year are growing, another inch taller, more full...
     It is not unusual to see a chair or two set up here, not unusual for it to become a kind of garden-den this time of year. And so tonight is no exception. Two chairs. Wine waiting for you. Scotch. Brandy. Whatsoever you might desire. Even a little fruit, and bread and cheese...
     ...There was a cream colored rose waiting next to your pillow. Maybe that was a hint that you'd find him here. Or maybe... after all of this time... you don't need hints anymore. You ...simply know. Simply understand. Simply find him, no matter where he might be. So how can you be surprised when you see him in the greenhouse, wine poured, everything about him seeming... new, without obstruction.
     William sits in one of the chairs, an open and comfortable position, legs stretched out, and eyes on the rose -- another plucking from the same bush that provided the one he left for you -- that his held before him, balanced between fingers, lightly rolling.

     Only in the greenhouse can Ian dress as if he's rolled from his bed. Staying in the keep requires layering. Out here, in the artificial ever-summer, he can dress simply. Slacks and a long grey shirt, untucked. He has no plans to go outside, apparently, nor does he seem to have plans to stay in the keep. He's dressed for the in-outdoors.
     "What do you think?" he asks, his archaic tongue gentle as he lets the antechamber door close behind him. Around his neck, left exposed by unbuttoned collar, rests the petals hung by a thread. He's plucked them and wears them as a necklace. "A bit girly," he whispers, brows arching and falling as he exhales and touches your seat. The petals brush at your ear while he kisses your forehead. "Hello," Ian says softly. It seems he would have preferred to remain in bed, but instead, he has followed you here. "Are you alright?" he asks, still leaning in.

     He was thinking. About what, who may know? Well, you may -- what is he able to keep from you, afterall. Little, if anything at all. But it was not unpleasant these thoughts, or perhaps to call them thoughts would be giving them too much. Nevertheless, when you come in, the flower is lowered, when you kiss him, there is the start of a grin, when you do not retreat he takes advantage of the position and the situation.
     ...As only he can...
     The kiss may have seemed sudden. In truth, it had been in the planning stages for an hour as he waited for you to wake. Unable to sit still, this energy today. Even now, though he is held by the chair, there is something dynamic about his relaxation that makes it seem anything but relaxing. Certainly, while the kiss may convey his overall contentment, it is anything but relaxed.
     You are freed with a suckling tug, and with a spreading smile, William sits back. The cream colored rose is tossed upon the table, narrowly missing the poured wine. "Wonderful," he replies, simply. Blue-violet eyes hold you, and then lower to the rose petals around your neck. "I like that," his voice, soft, Gaelic, his fingers reaching out to just barely stroke them. William tilts his head. "Not girly. It would be girly if you wore them in your hair. I have heard stories of Alexander's favorites, who wore rose petals threaded around their neck thus. They, like you, knew how to get to the heart of a general." The grin cocks slantwise. "Or... if not his heart... the next best thing..."

     He covers the lighting set along the beams in the greenhouse. Ian's hair hangs freely, upside-down as he is in part. "Alexander's favorites wore petals?" He had not heard that. "Hmm," he nods, liking the image. But thoughts of Alexander vanish, and he kisses your cheek, smooth-shaven as it is. "You feel so wonderful, Will," he grins, still enjoying your new look. "It...it takes me back..." to a time so very long ago. When he loved a mortal. That's it. You seem...mortal again...

     He had not thought about it quite in that light. But perhaps that is it, the feeling. To have gone through all he had gone through, walked the dark roads and woods he had walked, moved through centuries, nations, your bed -- and others' -- to come back to where he stood when he simply was... Himself.
     But how many truly knew him so? None, not even in mortal hours, as you have known him...
     William closes his eyes but his smile remains. His hand lifts, moving against golden strands. He chuckles, the sound caught in his throat, held there. He opens his eyes, dark blue-violet. Brilliant. "Merci," he murmurs, easily. Tipping back his head, his mouth tries to find a part of you again, a kiss left on your chin -- sitting up in the chair to do so. He will take what he can get. "I have been doing a lot of thinking lately... as you know," you've seen him. In between all the phone calls -- even the one from Messereich. "It was time to ... let the 20th Century go... to let it go into the past. To be honest, I prefer being.... myself. Not the William that is expected. But the Guillaume that simply Is." So he explains it. It's what makes the most sense. "And I have ceased to care what the world thinks of it. That is up to the world, ne c'est pas?"

     "It is," Ian affirms, still a curtain to the world. Like this, his back is given to the realities of the world. Shielded upon this stage, there is but you and him. "I often wanted to know the man better," Ian grins. "I thought I knew him. Maybe I did," he confesses. "But that man never knew me," he adds. "Sometimes, I think I confused the two." Knowing you, loving you...maybe there had been presumption that you knew and loved him too. A fantasy, his mind finally admits. Ian shrugs a little, almost apologetically. He had been in his own world then, a world of make-believe. The thought of it causes a hint of melancholy.
     "So," he tries to begin again, rising to his height, and opening the view to the world once more, "...any news this evening? All quiet on the Western Front?" he asks, turning take a seat nearby.

     "You know him well," he murmurs. A chuckle and he opens his stance to you. A visible: join me. "You know him better than anyone," he finishes in a serious whisper. "You always have. So, come here... we'll talk about the myth and legend more..." The smile is a flash, a warmth, a spread of summer upon the Angevin mouth. And it makes him beautiful.
     "All is quiet so far," comes the mull of languid baritone. "No calls from The Powers That Be. Scotland shall afford me peace that France has not... in the recent weeks..." There is a smirk. An understanding. But he is taking it with humor. It is the Divine Comedy, is it not?
     William reaches over for one of the two glasses of Bordeaux. A rich red. The same color as his shirt. He sips at it, but his gaze settles on you immediately. "Do not fault yourself for falling in love with a golden idol, a graven image," William smiles, voice softening and warming it. "But the Duke and the Man are the... same man... oui?" Do not be melancholy...

     He does decide to take you up on your offer. Instead of sitting in an opposite spot, he exhales and slides into a spot next to you. Hand waves at the wine. "I guess they are," Ian says, voice unsure, really. "Ach, Will," he laments, hands coming to cover his eyes. "Talk of something else. I think I have had too much wine in the last weeks and maybe I should attempt sobriety," Ian worries. The following sigh comes with the landing of his hands upon his thighs.
     "I am to meet with Siobhe MacInveray next week," he notes for the record. Ian looks to the petals at his throat, tugging gently at the string. "Gerald MacInveray will cease to exist in a few weeks." Maybe that is it. But Ian smiles a little, adding, "I've decided that he...does not need to leave the planet. Just that he...has a change of look. But, his daughter will become head of Midlothian Enterprises," his hands lift, "...Party, LLP, in a few weeks," he grins. Priest to the corporation, he is. "Gerald is resigned to it," Ian finishes. Maybe he is too.

     "I never bothered Then, I shall not Now," he says to matters of his own sobriety, and the Duke, for that is who it is, in truth, lifts the glass in toast to you and drinks. He sits comfortably, cinnamon brown trousers -- another new item -- tailored to make the most of any pose. He listens to your mention of Gerald, of your plans. You speak so little of business these days, these nights. "Lovely woman, I'm sure she'll do well. And Gerald could probably use the time off. Henry has requested the same. I don't expect we'll be doing much globetrotting in the next year. Not that would require a Concorde, at any rate. I am sure it will be successful, whatever you do. It always is." Nearly always.
     William sips at the wine, but mostly holds it, gives his hand something to do. His other hand reaches over, an offer to hold your own. His head rests back upon the back of the chair. His much-shorter hair lends no impediment to his gaze, spares you no part of his attention.

     Fingers twine around yours, and Ian is quiet for a while. "I have to go back to work," he adds, eyes upon his petals. "But this time," he grins, "...it will be different." Not like the last explosion of work last time that sent you both apart. "I think I shall do as many do now and...work from home." A smirk at that, a man pulled into the modern age.

     We are not as we were. Times are different. We have grown. There is not trepidation in his look. Nothing but warmth in his eyes. "I shall enjoy interrupting you more now... appreciating it more," William murmurs. "Imagine it. You in your den... working away on your satellite hook-up. Me... slipping into your den wearing only a bear fur and a smile..." William laughs, lifts the glass. He sips, he swallows, he smiles. "I shall... enjoy it...and you..."
     What joy there is in having nothing to prove...
     "I have started to paint again. Thanks to you." Well, perhaps in part to himself as well, and to long departed Caravaggio. "Your idea of painting fruit saved me. I was feeling quite wretched." The wine is done, the glass set aside. "I will enjoy the break from the Old Italian," the Caravaggio, "... to do something a little less....tedious. And so long as I can keep phone calls from the Justicar to a minimum, this year shall be a grand one..." Fingers give yours a squeeze, and William bends, mouth warm against them. A pressing kiss with eyes closed.

     Me? Ian's head twists to see you, a look of surprise on his face. "Me?" he says aloud, grinning slantedly. "How is that?" he wonders, leaving the bit about justicars behind. "I mean, I am glad that you enjoy your painting," he smiles. "I especially enjoy when I am the subject -- but we have not done that for some time. What did I do?" Ian wonders curiously, crossing his legs now.

     "You told me to paint fruit when I was frustrated with the portraits," and nearly fighting with Edward over the representations of Valan. "And ...after a while...I listened." William laughs, sitting back, eyes bright with it. "I paint the most provocative pomegranates on the planet," how's that for alliteration. And it's likely true. Strong fingers for strong hands. They hold you, they move against your own. No artist's hand would be such from art alone. He came to the brush late, as they say -- but oh what he has done with it.
     "Parts of you adorn my work still... they always will. You cannot hope to avoid it," William murmurs. "You are husband ... and muse..." Your stomach, your back, your hands. They adorn canvases. They occupy his fantasies. "I had not realized you enjoyed it so much. Well, while you are trapped in your den," he grins at the idea of it, "... I will occupy myself with making you the subject..."

     Ah, Ian mouths silently. "Muse. A new job," he grins. "I think I like it," Ian adds, nodding daintily. "In fact," he chirps, standing and letting your hand go, "...how about we work on something new? I will look lovely, and you...will record it." For all time. Ian's eyes widen a little, and he adds, "Well. I will provide a canvas and then shower afterwards," he modifies, snickering at himself.

     "The canvas should go upstairs... undress... and spread himself on the furs by the fire," he says, rising from his seat, setting the glass aside. "And wait for me," his voice comes in a breath, his mouth at your forehead, kissing, murmuring. His hands at your waist, Warmly. Warmth that, with the benefit of the magic you have taught him, presses past the fabric of your shirt. William smiles, another kiss left upon your brow, and then he parts. "I will make a stop at the studio... and meet you there, hmm? Remember.... naked... furs... spread...."

     "I got it," Ian groans, rolling his eyes. He tears himself from you, shaking his head. "You've turned an elegant moment into something tawdry, I just know it," he quips, heading back towards the antechamber and the keep proper. He waves behind himself at you, attention already turned to the next, most interesting thing he'll pass on the way upstairs.

Posted by rowan at January 12, 2001 12:41 AM