It is an old habit, an old story, often re-enacted. It is a way of saying hello, remember me, farewell. Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.
     It is hello, old friend -- goodbye, old friend...
     The wine of the past few weeks has finally seeped from all of his pores, sweated out, meted out, bled out until there was no trace of cabernet left. Behind it comes the electric hum and the glide of opium, the cinnamon-clove kiss that hides it from the senses and adds to his own.
     He is purposefully edible, in layers of cocoa brown -- trousers, sweater jacket, shoes. In the light, were he standing in it, it would reveal the deep brown that forms the natural black of his hair, and his violeted eyes would pull out plum threads hidden in the chocolate brown.
     His hand touches the limestone as he pauses, taking a moment to take in the view. There are streaks of clouds still faintly purple with evening moving across an otherwise dark sky and hiding the fingernail sliver of a moon...

     "You're melancholy," Ian says, leaning against one of the crinellations, arms behind his back on the cool stone. "I should give you a cigar, you look like you should have one," he observes, smiling. Blonde head is tilted to a shoulder, then looks up at the sky above.
     "We will be back you know," Ian whispers, then smiles. "I guess I'm the same when we're leaving Strathfayr, eh?"

     "Actually," William says suddenly, turning his head to see where you come alongside him. He smiles around the body of the opium-laced cigarette, the clove and cinnamon on the air around him, and some other ...buzz, ask him and he will tell you that his tongue is nearly numb, "...I'm not melancholy. I'm just... absorbing it in. Thinking... it was a good year here," he gives his hip to the limestone, turning to face you, pausing to flick ashes down over the walls. Burning coals for the peasants of grass, ne c'est pas!
     "I know we will be back. Next year even. But it is just a marking of time, in the ways that men such as we mark it," a hand lands flat upon the stone. "Not in minutes and hours, but in seasons, centuries and locations. I am ready for Strathfayr," the duke says as he smiles to you and turns, continuing his stroll toward the bridge over the inner moat from Logis to Boissy.
     He blows the smoke to the wind, "That, and I am seeing more than a few colors," his full mouth slants at the intimation of his own intoxication. "This," a hand gestures, "... is a meditation for me. It always has been, it always will be. Guillaume walks the walls. Rouen. Chinon. Strathfayr. Mirabeau," you name the building, he's probably been there.
     William pauses again, turning to look at you, halting his wandering, holding a hand out for you. "When we first returned to Europe, I was prone to melancholy. But that is beginning to pass. The longer I am back, the more comfortable in its skin, my skin, I become. It is... a process, I think. A cycle, like seasons. Getting used to wearing the self again." With his hand he draws you to him. "We have no need for melancholy, or for sadness now," when his mouth meets your mouth, you can taste the opium, more feel it than taste it. Your tongue gets a shock of it.

     "You are totally knackered," Ian laughs, hearing the words and tasting the opium. "But I like you anyway," Ian kisses softly. A suck of his own lip and he smirks, shaking his head. "Me?" Ian goes on, "I like the change. No process for me, I think," Ian posits. "A season, and now I am ready to head elsewhere, for a different season. In truth, I didn't think I'd enjoy it, but I like the changes..."
     "Surprising, isn't it?"

     He laughs along with you, laughing smoke after he takes another draw. The admittance is in the smile, the raising of both eyebrows and the turn of his head to you. "Mais oui.... knackered," he says in sudden English, funny accent and all. He watches you suck on your lip. He enjoys that.
     "It is a little..." William grins, "...but ... it is good. To watch the changes, to make some of them, you know... it is not a bad thing." A pause. "My English, now this is a bad thing," he says in English again, odd canting (but beautiful) syllables, the languid accent even more elongated with how opium makes him speak.
     His hand still holding yours, he pulls you to another kiss, just a soft one, it isn't soul-stealing. "I am glad you still like me," he whispers. "And it is good to hear you laugh, always. And," William grins, eyebrows lifting a little, "... I am glad you like the suit..."

     "I do," Ian affirms, a blush at his cheeks. Cooling breeze of pending Winter always changes his shade. "A perfect confection," he admits. "I like the thought of it. Delightful, desirable, delectable when had." Language becomes him.
     "How's your packing?" Ian asks. It's not so much packing as it is directing. The staff knows what to do, save the occasional item. "I think mine is mostly done," he notes.

     That tickles him. He always did like being a confection. "Me? Non... I have not started," he sighs. "Eros started for me. But I am buying a lot of new clothes, mais oui. New winter, new things. I haven't decided what to take." Opium doesn't help. He'll just want to take everything.
     "I have decided to send all of the Andalusians to Chenonceau for the winter. I am not going to take one or two with me to Strathfayr. I have sorted that out. I have a plan," he laughs, such an engineer sometimes, "...but no real work. I have to do that tomorrow night. Whatever Eros does not do. He knows me better than I know myself when it comes to what to pack."
     There is not much of this particular cigarette left. He will want to light another. He looks to you a long moment, then smiles. "I had a surprise for you. I was... going to hold it until we got to the island," Britain. "But ... I want to tell you now, amours..."

     Ian looks a little surprised, coming upright against the stone. "Oh? I do like surprises. But just good surprises," Ian explains. "Bad surprises are rather dismaying..."

     "It is a good surprise," William says, warmth in his tone. That has nothing to do with what he has been smoking. "I have been thinking... how I could... have everything I want. You...and proximity to my work. I have been thinking that I do not have to work in Chinon itself. There are... other ways, amours. I could, for example, buy studio space in Inverness that would allow me to continue my work there on this painting -- and other restorations."
     For that matter, he convert a space in Strathfayr, install temperature and air control...
     "You see, there are ways... of getting what we want that do not mean we have to suffer for them." He takes the final drag off his opium cigarette, crushing what little remained on the limestone, snuffing it. William looks back to you, taking both of your hands now. "What do you think about that surprise... hmmm... me... moving my business to Scotland," he smiles.

     There's a nod from Ian, his bottom lip curling beneath his teeth. A bite. "Not a bad idea, but that just means for paintings," Ian goes on, "...you would have some separation and solitude. It doesn't change our...anxieties...about you doing other work that you like, that would take you further away. And in truth," the businessman showing a little, "...you should enjoy the things you want, laird." Ian leans back against the stone and smiles, "Such is existence."
     "I'm not going to keep you from those projects," Ian says, crossing his ankles. "I can't. I will miss you. You will miss me. We will have moments. But we have to...do the things that fulfill us. And things in Italy and other places, brings you joy. I know that, too."

     "That is true, and if I could move the della Salute," how he says that, Italian from that mouth, "...to Strathfayr, I would. I can't... and the buildings are what need me most of all. Still... for paintings, like the Caravaggio, that would keep me in Chinon for months at a stretch..." his voice leads. "It would be nice to have some place closer to you. A professionally outfitted studio, on par with the labs," in the guts of Chinon. "Italy will still call me..."
     And he will have to say 'Yes'. They have already been calling. You have heard him speak Italian these last several weeks. The night will come when he will have packed bags. Businessman that he is, engineer and artist, you know he will have to say 'Yes'.
     "I will still look at Inverness for a studio, or something that can be converted. I like the idea. The buildings will be something else. I hope it will mostly be advisory. I do not want to lie on my back...again... like Michelangelo," he slants a smile, "...getting old and blind from stone falling in my eyes. We will see," he notes. And he leaves it at that.
     "It will be alright," he says after a time. He looks to you and he nods. "Whatever else should happen on this unknown road, I love you, Ian..."

     There's a smile from Ian, his hand reaching to curl around one larger. He simply nods, looking down at his feet and swinging the twined fingers and hands.

Posted by rowan at November 18, 2003 01:47 AM