Can you imagine the scene?
     The vat constructed yearly is nearly finished. Soon, tourists and villagers alike will be able to crush the grapes that will fill the great vats and several smaller ones. Can you picture it? The Bei Ragazzi crushing grapes like their forefathers, smiling and laughing with those faces. How beautiful they will both be. Once crushed, the blood of the grape will be poured out upon the earth as an offering.
     But not before the sacrifice...
     He will be carried, most likely, and most likely tossed in, his skin will be stained with cabernet, his hair inky and soaked, he will be the ritual, the sacrifice, the symbol, the icon.
     And for once, he will enjoy it...
     Water splashes as the Plantagenet form springs and arches in air, slicing through water to the bottom of the heated pool. It will not be as stylized as that. It will be as naked as that, however.
     What's a pagan sacrifice without a bit of wine and nakedness?
     The water roils as he skims the folds of water and pressure beneath, his wake causing the image of his form to waver and then he surfaces.
     Next week, he will be violeted...
     There's no better shade for him...

     Not so far away, Ian floats beneath the water, on the floor of the warm bath. He lets himself sink, like a stone, his back against the stone and concrete. Angelic he looks, with his white-blonde hair scurrying around him, and the hue of warm water casting blueness on his skin. His arms are extended, as if he's drowned, oddly enough.

     You have a weird way of swimming, amours...
     There are times when you 'play dead' as if to prove a point. He would say he doesn't quite understand it. But it makes him laugh, and the sound of it echoes off the walls, off the water, perhaps only reflecting off the surface of the pool. Do you hear him?
     William shakes his head and, keeping to the surface, rolls over to float upon his back. It gives him a great vantage of the arched Angevin buttressing. He watches it as fascinated as he would be by the stars.
     You are turning blue he thinks. Is this your way of getting me to give you mouth-to-mouth? Seems to be a lot of work, amours, for a kiss. He smiles, closing his eyes and drifting, his strong legs occasionally shifting and kicking to keep him afloat and to change his direction.

     There's amusement across the bond as the figure at the bottom of the pool opens its eyes. Surreal, it is. Perhaps he needs to be reminded of his state. It is most definitely morbid, and now with grey eyes open and watery, it only gets worse.
     The water surges, as if lifting. Around your ankle, William, comes a deathly hand.

     There's a certain creep factor to it, even for him -- and he knows you and is as dead as you are, really. As you grab his ankle, indigo eyes narrow to a squint. Que faites ...? What are you doing?
     But along with the slight alarm and the thud of near-living adrenaline on the air is the joined amusement. Wasn't this in Salem's Lot?
     The great Plantagenet form that you know and love so well is in motion as soon as he feels the hand, a roll of his shoulders to turn him about and, perhaps, escape the clutch...

     Too easy. Ian's hand pulls, increasing the adrenaline. Indeed, a hand from the murky depths, cold and dead, tugging with force to drag you under...
     And he's still amused.

     If he were human, he'd be trying to beat you off with a stick or a fish, if need be. Instead, he submerges easily, his rolling shoulders leading the way. There is no breath to hold, no reason to hold it. The heart doesn't panic. There is force in the opposite direction, ankle twisting in the kick of a powerful leg. It becomes an underwater grapple.
     And now William is laughing...

     Ian's body rises from the depths, coiling around its mate. Ian smiles too, hands grasp and groping closer. His legs swing about to encircle a set of Angevin hips. A kiss soon follows, filled with warm air. A tip of his chin suggests surfacing, now that he's attached himself to his buoy.

     You feel the water peel away from your skin, a thousand drops felt all at once and a sudden rush of air. One hand cups you to him, the other is given to the water, treading it. Water flavors the kiss as he swims slowly along with you.
     Playing dead falls by the wayside...
     That mouth. There have been poems written about it, praises sung to it, lives lost for it. It belongs to you, given to your mouth as the two of you drift along. You know its claiming ways, like his family claimed territory, and you know what it promises when it moves along your neck, parted, brushing.
     And then William smiles there. Grins at the crook of your shoulder and neck.

     "Mmm," Ian purrs, "...and once more," the heat from his bottom-visiting still there, "...I am reborn. Hot." He smirks, crossing his ankles and tightening.
     "So," Ian exhales, "...the water's wonderful. I should spend more time in it." Cleans everything away, physical and not. "I love floating," he admits. No weight. No mortal coil.
     "Now, I could use with a drink." And more of the Angevin. Ian's in no rush to release himself. "How are you?" he asks softly, catching unneeded breath.

     "Me, too. I could spend hours in it," he says at your ear. As you and he drift, treading and floating, making haphazard circuits around the heated pool, his hands go to hold you, to balance you, to keep you where you are. The incidental joining of two bodies in motion is a scientific turn-on.
     "I love to float, to swim, to submerge, I love it all. I wonder what it would cost to make one in the basements of Strathfayr," William suddenly chuckles. As if the idea were crazy.
     As if...
     Slowly floating, the treading motion of his thighs moves you to and fro, even as his mouth wanders to your chin, just beneath it, to your mouth, and along the other side of your neck. Contentment is found in this.
     "If it is possible in the rock of Oregon," he posits, "....I would imagine Scotland would be doable as well...."

     "Yes, but it's nice that it's just here," Ian observes, his hands moving water away. "Strathfayr has its own charms, laird." Nose brushes other nose, and Ian grins, nibbling the lips before him. They are tasty, and Ian smirks, his breaths still warm across touching mouths.
     You want to, don't you?
     Here and now?
     Ian smirks, his lashes lowered.
     You heard me. I know you did...
     Ian's arms leave the water to join together in a gentle circle. His forehead leans heavily on its darker mate. He inhales and exhales again, his mouth staying just enough away to avoid a kiss.

Posted by rowan at October 22, 2003 01:36 AM