There was no announcement, only the arrival of a limousine...
     Within the leathered environs, an old prince sat, his suit refined and his glass with a thin golden line of remaining scotch. His eyes were trained to the window as Knightsbridge passed by and Dannerly Court arrived.
     William sits back in that final moment within the old limousine. A breath moves across the last swallow of scotch, becoming a fragrant Scottish wind in his imagination. His eyes are trained forward, intense and keen upon the air in front of him, and upon the thoughts that brought him to London in the first place.
     If you were to look out of your window at 156/7 Dannerly Court, Edward Meurelle, you would see the custom 1930s Jaguar limousine. As it pulls next to the curb, its lights are extinguished. Moments pass and traffic sounds from elsewhere as doors open and close and William Plantagenet straightens his suit coat upon standing.
     "Wait here," he says quietly. He doesn't know why he says it. Where else would his driver go? The Bahamas? "It may be a while." Make yourself comfortably vigilant.
     Here we are again, Meurelle, it is I, knocking on your door. You already know I am here, of course. What are we to do, old friend, but distract one another...

     "Mmph," Edward says, tossing back his head. He draws his finger from the bridge to the tip of his nose, letting his eyes drift closed. Settling back against the sofa near his bed, Edward would be glad for a night off, cradled in comfort. His toes wiggle, and he opens his mouth to say something to his constant companion, despite his absence. Fencing called.
     But then a vehicle's heard outside. Idling.
     Instead, Edward's mouth closes and he sighs. It is not his companion returning.
     The knocking was the dead giveaway.
     Another sigh is accompanied with the opening of his eyes. He'll have to move, and that's perhaps what most galls him.
     "Yeah, yeah," he says under his breath, knowing no one hears. No one cares. Clad only in his black boxers, Edward heads downstairs to see who it might be.
     Nearer to the door, he has a guess.
     Opening the door, Edward has no quippy words. He stands there, in his full glory, barefoot, with one hand on the door, and the other relaxed at his side. "What did I do to deserve..." he finally gets out, turning away from the door to let his infamous cos walk in on his own.

     "You did not say 'please' the last time you ordered a drink," William drolls out as he enters. A look to you -- he does not make it a long look, but he does look, he has eyes -- and then a look around. "Is this a bad time?" he says in his improving English. It is still thickly covered in all the French he has spoken of late.
     And if it were, would he leave? No, you know he would not. He would apologize, but he would not leave. Princes never do when they barge in. In his suit, he cuts a nice figure as he moves to the bar. He knows where you keep your drinks. A sign of his mood? It is scotch that is chosen.
     "Where is M. Montague?" he wonders warmly. He does like the young man. William glances up as he pollutes his scotch with ice.

     "Out," Edward begins, trying to lift his mood. "Fencing," he adds, plopping himself down on the sofa. He reaches out for a package of cigarettes left on the coffee-table before him. "He'll be back when his stomach rumbles," Edward notes for the record.
     "You never just visit," Edward also adds, crinkling up the package. There was one left. He leans to the side where his jacket lies haphazardly and picks it for his lighter. "How's Dunross?" he asks, matter of course.

     "I should let him give me a lesson. It has been years. I am very rusty. But then... I remember you saying it was a waste of my time," William smiles a little as he sets the bottle down and, with a sip of what he's poured, heads to the chair near your sofa. "Or maybe it was a waste of your time. And I am sorry that I never visit just to visit. Tonight, I am visiting...just to visit. Do you want a drink?" he suddenly offers, host in your own home.
     William sets his drink upon a coaster. "Dunross is good... he's doing very well. We are back in Scotland for a while now. I have had this need to be home." He goes back to the bar to pour you something. A gin? You like gin. A gin and tonic, or is that too fancy? "His businesses are back on their feet so he is feeling better. Though, I am guessing we will get a call from Messereich soon..."
     William stops himself suddenly and looks up at you as he reaches for a bottle. "Do you really want to know or were you only being polite?" He chuckles at himself, eyebrows arching and he slightly shakes his head. "He is good. I am in love..." How's that for a summary? He does grin.

     Edward snorts, the cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips. "Bloody hell, now you tell me," Edward says as he rolls his eyes, leaning back again. "I thought you were playing tiddly-fuckin'-winks." He removes the cigarette with two fingers, letting the hand rest on his thigh. Smoke billows around him. "You're not here to talk about Davydd then? Or something else?" Come on, the look says. Eyes slide languidly as the cigarette's returned to his mouth. He exhales again and sits up suddenly to grab the nearest ashtray. Only then does he sit back once more.

     "Pleasure before business, Meurelle," William murmurs as he sets your drink in front of you. Actually, there are two drinks -- a shot of whiskey and a gin sour. He gives his weight to the chair again, giving you each your space. It's not his first instinct with you, but he knows you prefer it.
     "I have come to talk about Davydd, yes," he nods taking a swallow of the scotch before sitting back and looking for his own cigarette and lighter. Your smoking is contagious. "If you're in the mind to hear it. If not... then I'll just visit. The choice is yours, frere..."

     Edward shrugs, as if to say I'll not avoid it. "He's working on something off Regent," Edward offers in the way of beginning. Yet he closes immediately, in turning to the information he has. "That's all I know," he says flatly.

     Indigo lifts to you. He takes that bit of information and it is filed away. "I have not spoken with him yet, but I will soon. Tomorrow night. I understand that he has been at court... at the Directorate... at Claridge's. He is showing his face around town. He is buying property in London. He seems to be making himself at home. Here."
     William exhales and sits back again, leaving his glass behind and the ash of his cigarette. "I want to understand why he did what he did, chose what he chose. This is why I am going to him. And because ...in spite of everything...I still love him. He is family, and I want to knock him flat," Plantagenet's voice makes a kind of deep, purring growl. "But ...from his own lips I want to hear it. And what he is planning to do in his present and future."
     Indigo eyes fix on you again. "I want to know what my heart should do now. I cannot leave it in limbo. I am no good at that, Edward. So... yes... I am meddling. I am here after you called. I am getting involved. All of those things I said I would not do."

     Edward picks up the gin and tilts it in your direction as salutation. Most would say 'to your health', but it seems unnecessary. He takes a drink and listens to you while restoring the cigarette to its rightful place.
     "It's how you are," Edward offers in reply. "I hope he gives you answers that make you feel better," Edward says hollowly, standing up to go to the bar himself. More gin is required, apparently. "I'm going back to Switzerland for Christmas, so you know," he goes on. "Valan does not know yet, though."

     "And what will it take for you, ami," William murmurs it. His concern is really not for Davydd. It is not even for himself -- though he knows he wants to feel better about it all. He is an artist, an engineer. Perspective is important to him. His body leans against the side of the chair, his arm upon its arm. "It is how I am, as you say. I go for myself, but I go for you too. You know this."
     You divert the conversation to the holidays, still half a year away. It is because you are hurting that you do this. William knows it. "I am sometimes surprised you have not moved there," he smiles a little. "Part of me is glad you have not. I do not like Switzerland as much and you moving there would require me to visit it." The smile grows. "But... good... it is good you remember to get away for the holidays with M. Montague. I am sure he will love the surprise. I will not say anything if I see him. You and he... you are happy, yes?"

     That brings a smile as the tall glass is filled to the rim. "Yes," Edward nods, "...we are. Well, at least I am. I can't speak for him," he says with usual allowance for everyman. "But it appears he is, so I take it on faith."
     "I don't think I could live in Switzerland. I don't like the Swiss," that's not new, "...and it's too cold. Best to take in short spurts. M. Montague likes it, I like to visit...we can rest a little without interruption," he begins, then looks up at you, "...much." A smile follows. "Well, alright, you were invited. Not that other one," Edward speaks at Girault.

     "You know, I'm not sure I was invited," William thinks back. "I think it was a hypothetical. But I heard an invitation in it, and so... I shouldn't have come that time, but it was good to hear. The invitation. And ...your inclusion of Ian." There, he's said it. After years of rumination, here in these close quarters he says it like the two of you are in a trench giving one another your final confessions.
     "I'm glad you're happy," William says, finishing his scotch. "That means much to me." His eyebrows come together. "Who else popped in on you and Valan in Switzerland? You must have been a wreck, so many vampires around your mortal lover." He rolls his indigo eyes at himself and rolls the burning end of his cigarette in the tray, delicately painting the glass with ash, charcoal and fire. An artist, even in this.
     "I don't like the Swiss either. I do not blame you for that. Or... for not living in France either. I think both are a good place to visit. Scotland is a good home," he speaks the difference there. "Do you want to stay in Chenonceau on your way? I will tell them to make the rooms ready for you if you like. There are horses there, if you wish to take him riding..."

     "You were theoretically invited," Edward explains, but with a grin. He puts the cigarette back to his lips and moves back to his seat on the sofa. "Girault did, with Mariko in tow," he notes. "There was a call from Maria. And the owner arrived eventually," he lists. But in truth, it was no distress. "The following time, it was less busy. And I don't think so on the other," Edward adds, "...we'll be fine." No more castles for him. Maybe it is not his way, despite a try. "Thanks, though," he notes, fingers holding the cigarette again for a moment as he exhales, drinks, and pulls at his bottom lip.
     "So when are you going home?" as you explained before.

     "It depends on how it goes with Davydd. If I kill him," William drolls, "I will be here longer." At least he has a sense of humor about it. "But soon," he says seriously, quietly. "Ian does not like to be in London for long stretches, but ...he knows I hate traveling alone. Still, I do not want to wear out his generosity," now he grins.
     Ian? Generous?
     He chuckles as you recount the visitations, eyebrows lifting in surprise. With an exhale of smoke, he shakes his head. "Mon Dieu, well... here's to his fortitude," he lifts his glass, there is a drop or two left, he finishes it for the toast's sake. "Next time, I will make sure I wait to hear the words: You are invited, William. I was so glad to hear from you, I think I made the rest of it up," quiet laughter edges his words. "How rude of me."
     Now, the cigarette is nearing its end. He pulls a breath of smoke from it, then rolls it on the glass of the ashtray once more, like he is making Chinese calligraphy from ash. "I understand. You understand that I have to offer, even though I know you will not stay." Indigo glances up to you. There is love there, past the tendrils of smoke. "I have to say that my homes are open to you, my ship, cars, whatever. These things are meaningless if they are not shared with those whom I love. Ian gives them to me," William grins, "...and I give them to you. Does this make me a bad husband or a really good friend?" he wonders, eyes narrowed at the philosophy.
     "Is there... anything you wish me to say to him for you, on your behalf or cause... or anything you wish me to ... come to know from him, Edward?" Him meaning Davydd of course.

     "It makes you overly generous with your personal gifts from your..." Edward pauses then says, "....husband. Maybe you should rethink that," he suggests with a smile, though he means it. "But, I know what you mean, cos," he nods, "I appreciate it. I think me and M. Montague are just...simpler than most," he says softly. "Maybe it's just me." He does not define 'simple'. Edward drinks most of his gin, licks his lips, and then breathes the last of his own cigarette. Certainly there's more around here somewhere.
     There's no comment on what to say to Davydd. All Edward says is, "Since you're not going to let it die, I'll just say that he and I don't have anything to say." He shrugs. "I can talk to him on my own, if we had anything to talk about, Will. Don't bother on me, alright?"
     It almost follows with, Just let me alone. Valan cannot get home soon enough. Not that Edward wants you to leave, but his occasional look at the door suggests anxiety. He drinks more of his gin, then frowns as he realizes he has to find another pack of cigs.

     "I do not know how to say No. This is my problem." Spoken as if he only had one. He knows that to be untrue, the same as you. "I do not know how to give just a little bit. But, I will not let you drive my new car. Never that," he grins. "Well, you know... all you need to do is ask. All doors open to M. Meurelle."
     William takes note of your looks and your tone. His rolling of the cigarette becomes a stamp. Fire is extinguished and orange ash colors the grey where the last embers of flame exist, before that too turns grey. He nods to you. "I will leave you to your own then," he notes. "That is between you and him. I may be compelled to... fix ...what I see before me that is broken, Edward. Please... try to...forgive me for that. It is ...just my nature. I do not know that I can change it. So... I will leave it at that. I came here to ...let you know my heart and mind."
     Indigo glances to the door. "He is due home soon? Perhaps I should go. You will not want me sitting here as a third wheel." William removes his pack of cigarettes, standard issue tobacco, no opium for him now. No cloves. No cinnamon. Just tobacco. He leaves them on the table for you.
     He knows you as you know him. Better than brothers. Perhaps even better than he should, than either of you should. "If I don't speak with you before you leave on your holiday, please give M. Montague my very fond hello's. And enjoy the skiing and saunas. I will be in the snow too, hopefully."

     "No, he's not due home soon," Edward replies, swallowing the last of his gin whole. Open throat, let it slide. He winces as he sets the glass on the coffeetable. The burn soon passes and Edward exhales. "You don't need," he looks as if he might burp, "...to fix things. I'm sorry that you feel the need to talk to him - you always talk too much," Edward adds with a smile. There. The strange sensation passes in his chest. Another exhale follows. "I think you just want to talk," he teases gently.
     "Do you want something from me on this?" Edward suddenly asks, wondering if he's misunderstood. "Cause if you do, cos," Edward shakes his head negatively, "I can't help ya." He's going to let his friendship go, it seems. Or something.

     "For years," William's languid voice pulls with elongated syllables as he sits back, "... Ian could not get me to talk. Now, no one can get me to shut up," an exhale comes at the end of that. "I used to drink it away, fuck it away, fight it away, paint it away. Now? None of that works." The smile is slow, spreading, wryly aware of itself and its own joke.
     William is quiet for a moment and then he looks to you. "You are ... ready to cut it free," he wonders. "To cut him free." He asks and he answers with that tone. "I wish I could in this instance be as strong as you, as final as you. I speak a good game, mais oui, but I cannot do that with him. No more than I could do it with you were situations different."
     "Is this real?" William adds on, his fingers lacing against his suited stomach, "... or is this your way of handling it for now. Putting it to the side until you can get your hands around it, ami? If so, that is fine...whatever you feel you need to do..."

     "You're analyzing," Edward bites, frowning now as he stops his rummaging though his jacket for more smokes. "Not interested," he says, getting the lighter and indeed finding an open pack. "He did what he did, asses are covered, and..." Edward shrugs and shakes his head, giving you a blank look. There is nothing left to say, think, or do. "It's all done," he seems to complete.
     In it, however, the question is not truly answered. Edward goes ahead and lights his cigarette. "And you wouldn't have had to do anything with me...because it'd never have happened." Not with him. Edward bends, lights, and closes the case. It's that simple. He shrugs again. You'd have to launch a full-out assault on me to get me to retaliate as if I meant it. But Edward does not say it. He stares at you simply, as if he understands himself perfectly.

     "You're right," William replies simply. "I am analyzing." He is a Ventrue. It is what they do. He is unable to do anything but pick the matter up, analyze it, study it, define it, understand it. His mind is of that nature, his temperament is of that kind.
     William meets your stare with his own. For a time, nothing is said. There is just the meeting of his eyes to yours. Two strong men sit here with two very different ways to go about mending a wound. You cauterize it with a brand, sealing it up. A good solution, albeit painful. He prefers to address the wound in a different manner, by sizing up the damage, by stitching it, by trying to make it whole again.
     He shall have his work cut out for him...
     "I should go," he says quietly. His fingers unlace and he sits forward, the first motion involved in him standing.

     Edward's lips purse. You're upset. But he'll not stop you from departing. "Alright," he says softly, rising as well. It is not how he wishes to leave things, but you, well, he'll talk to you again later. The jacket is set aside, and Edward sets the cigarette into the ashtray for retrieval later. He moves around the table to accompany you to the door.

     His arm comes around your shoulder as you come around the table to lead him to the door. His reach is tremendous, as you know. One-armed, he pulls you into a hug. "I'm not upset with you," he whispers to you in French.
     But he is upset...
     His hand gives you a brotherly pat, he even parts with a kiss upon the crown of your head. Outside, there is the sound of a car door opening. His driver has been... alerted...
     In the foyer, William turns to you. "I will try not to think too much." William's mouth slants a little. "And... maybe not to talk so much. Come... see me sometime in Scotland. I have a nice place on the coast. We can go fishing." It is a nice idea. "Tell M. Montague... that I...that we," he corrects to add Ian into it, "... say hello and hope he is doing well."
     At the door, William pauses for a moment. "A bientot," he says. I will see you soon. Never good bye. Between you in so many centuries, good bye has never been said. Always hello, or...see you soon...

     Edward winces at the hug, and twists his nose with a squinted eye for effect. "I only go to Scotland when I'm desperate," Edward says for the record. His lips pull in a slight smile - not too much. "And I don't fish," he says with a look of incredulity. As if.
     "A bientot, frere," Edward nodding on the rest. He puts his hand back onto the door, looking much like he looked when his guest first arrived.

     "Indulge me," William says as he steps out of your home and toward your lawn. "You know how I like to be indulged." Particularly when he is upset. And he is. You can tell it by the walk that though you may not be the one with whom he is upset, that your grass is being murdered for it.
     The chauffeur even feels it, bowing his head a little in the wave of majesty, as William folds himself into the aged Jaguar. It suits him. It's stylish and old and full of scotch. The door closes with a very solid steel thunk and the driver returns to his duty.
     In the back of the car, William exhales as he gives his body to the leather. Tipping his head back, he stares at the ceiling. He closes his eyes. And he frowns. "Kensington," he says. "No other stops tonight, Mr. Matthewson."
     "Yes, sir..."

     There was a minor eruption against the silent dark. It had been peaceful, the evening, with the occasional drifting thought caught upon the Bond, showing you his current image, male beauty in the back of a limousine, heading from The Abbey gallery to Knightsbridge. Occasionally sharing his thoughts of you, of wondering what might be occupying you this early evening.
     There was a time of silence. Wherever he was, though he might be thinking of you, he was in conversation. Then there was a palpable pop, a flare that streaked across the silent darkness of the country you share, this bond between you.
     Anger...
     Upset...
     Is he in a fight?
     There is a new story in the images that sail at you. A man with a face of terrible beauty when angered pours himself a drink in the back of a limousine. The bulletproof glass installed as a modification to the old limousine holds up to the throwing of a glass as his temper erupts. His scotch-stained hands go to his head as he sits forward.
     It is very shortly after that the limousine speeds into the drive of Kensington Palace, complete with one very nervous driver and one very unhappy Plantagenet.

     It's far earlier than expected. Ian frowns as he sits at his temporary table, hand extending in front of him with brush in hand. A project brought on the trip, to occupy his evenings as you wander on business in London. He says he likes London well enough, but never enough to leave the Palace other than to have his requisite drink with Robert.
     But now, you are rushing back, and in a mood. He expected it, to be honest. And it was not something so prescient to know that one night should end like this - three friends are at a crossroads. Yet they have not realized that they are more than friends, more than brothers. They are of the same source and cloth. A pattern lain differently, it's true, but still, they are of the same fibers. Beloved, even. It's only when you are so comfortable in your sameness, your righteousness, in the strength, confidence, and love of such a relationship can one be so heartbroken at the first real disappointment.
     And all that, Ian keeps to himself.
     For his part, Ian is responsible for only one. And so he rises from his seat and pulls his white silk robe about himself. The black lapels and trim recalls the very water-coloring he works on. There's no rush to find you, for you shall find him. So Ian pads beneath the archway to the bedroom again, where he pours two short glasses of whiskey in anticipation.

     No one should have to see his immortal fury. The driver is spared the memory of it as William passes, his shoulders rolling slightly to resettle his suit's jacket upon them. He doesn't glance at the servants who come to take his things, if he has such. He waves off most of them, heading down the hall and upstairs to the master bedroom.
     William's energy burns. He wants to curse, to yell, to knock something over. He is hot, too hot for any save you to touch. And even you might think better of it some nights.
     His steps announce him -- heavy, bearing his weight without the languid and mostly silent stride that opium and time provided. The door to the private chamber opens and he is through it, spinning and sending it slamming shut. It is good that the door is made of English oak, or he might have shattered it. "God damn it," his voice carries and he stills himself suddenly, his back landing against the door as if in apology for the way he enters the space he shares with you.
     Exhaling, William shakes his head. His jaw is set after he pushes off the door. "Are you here?" he says, though he feels you are near.

     "I am," Ian replies, turning about from the bar to see you. He hasn't gotten far this evening, expecting you much later. Instead, he'd gotten up, showered, and walked to sit in front of his project in his bed robe. Two drinks are lifted, one for him and one for you. Pale brows arch sympathetically, and his lips twist slightly to see you so upset.
     "Here," Ian says softly, padding over in barefeet. His robe hangs from him softly; he in total opposition to your emotion. "A pure dram - I couldn't think of anything better."

     Just being in your presence helps immensely. The desire to throw things dissipates at least. With another clearing exhale, William pushes off the door to meet you halfway, his hand out to take the dram. "That's fine," he murmurs. He takes the drink with one hand and you with the other.
     His hand rests at your back as he drains the dram in a swallow. "I don't trust myself with glass right now," he hands it back to you, his face still tight in its hard expression, his frown held securely by his mouth. "I don't know what to do, Ian. I really don't. I don't know how I'm going to fix it..."
     Now his expression is animated, animated in the high amount of energy this upset carries with it. Indigo eyes widen, their colors flashing.

     "It's alright, laird," Ian murmurs, exchanging your empty for his. "it will take time and patience," he notes, turning around to walk the short distance to the bottles again. "You'll figure it out eventually," he notes, the cart tingling as he moves things around.

     William exhales as you go to pour another. He comes out of his suit coat, laying it gently aside for the valets to get later, and then begins tugging on the tie. One tug is all it takes in his current mood. He tosses it on the table beside the jacket and heads toward his wardrobe in the bedroom to remove the rest.
     If he is going to be upset, he will at the very least be comfortable.
     The shirt is unbuttoned and then off. His musculature is tight, coiled and ready to send him into action. His skin is flushed, a deep olive. The pants are next. "I don't know if there will be enough time," William frowns. He shakes his head. "I am going to speak to Davydd... but... Edward may never take him into his heart again...he's already gone, you know?"
     Trousers are exchanged in a brief moment of nudity from linen slacks to cotton lounge pants.

     "What do you mean?" Ian asks, finishing latest preparation. Turning about, Ian moves fluidly towards you again, offering a backup to the one in your hand. He stands and watches, rather patiently. "Something is going to happen?"

     "It's just fucked... it's going to take a long time to repair. If... it may even be mended. All I can do," William exhales again, his eyes going to the ceiling and his hands to his face for a moment of clearing, "...is to take these tiny steps forward. I ... wish I could abide a broken thing." Without having to fix it.
     He moves back to you, his hand coming out to take the refill as he joins you halfway. "Nothing new, no... I saw Edward tonight... he's just... he's very hurt and his trust is shattered. And Davydd fucking did that. Edward... I don't know how serious he is, he seems serious... I don't know. About not speaking with him again. I can get Davydd to the table. I can get myself there. But all three of us... it seems unlikely right now..."
     William pauses, downing the next dram in a long swallow. He sighs as he swallows it, tasting, feeling the burn. He returns the glass to you. "I don't know if there will be time left in the universe to mend what Davydd has broken."

     Ah, the world in extremes. It is how Plantagenets see everything. Ian accepts the second empty dram, leaving you with what was his. "You can abide a thing that is fixed over time, yes? Slowly and surely. Of course, there is upset. Yours, Edward's. Even Davydd's. You knew it shall be like this for a while, and it is not surprising yes? That is a victory for you. A beginning. You seem to be imagining this well," Ian suggests, "...imagining how it will progress."
     Ian exhales and looks at you. One hand slides into yours, fingers twining. After a smile, Ian turns around to lead you to sit on the bed.

     "Oui," he sighs, taking a seat. Part of his upset is frustration, no doubt. "It is the beginning. I am just angry, amours. Angry that we are here, the three of us, in this situation. And I am angry that Davydd is the one who put us here. God damn him. What was fucking wrong with the way it was? Wasn't everyone happy?" He takes your drink and downs it, wincing at the burn. "Mostly?"
     Apparently not Davydd...
     The bed creaks under William's weight as he sits on the bed. "You are right, I know you are right. It was... just looking at the mess... I just became so upset, so angry..."

     Ian nods. You must be upset - there has been no comment on his dressing only in his robe. No comment on burning whiskey. Ian nods, it seems, for no reason, other than your words. "Maybe he was not, Davydd, that is." As if he heard you. Ian sighs and his brows arch in resignation. He crosses his legs and stares as his own knees. There is little more that he can offer, save to hold your hand, which he does, caressing it in his silence.

     He looks at you. He stills when you hold his hand, your fingers moving against it in soothing circles. William lifts his hand and yours joined and he kisses it. The last sigh of the night moves across your skin. "Do I smell of scotch?" he murmurs. "I shattered a glass in the car."
     Now that he is still, indigo eyes move over you, taking the sight of you in. William sits near you, so near that he needs to lean back in order to see all of you. His other hand lifts to your face, fingers skimming your skin. "You are my heart's only solace. Thank god for you and that you love me." William leans forward to kiss you.
     And, yes, he does smell of scotch. At least it was not cheap scotch.

     Now that he thinks about it, his expression quirks, you do smell like whiskey. But Ian accepts the kiss, adding, "I doubt he had anything to do with this," grinning before his lips touch yours. Even as he kisses, Ian's hand still gently circles your own. Another kiss is given with the tilt of his head, and then Ian pulls away to purse his lips. He's sorry, the look says, half-apologetic. "We should make sure you don't have glass in your clothes," he suggests. "Do you want another?" he asks.

     William shakes his head. "No... I think I better not have any more whiskey. For both of our sakes," he grins at last. It is so much better than the frown. He leans forward and kisses you again, breathing warmly, a sigh that tells of his changing mood. The energy is there, as you know, but you have a way of redirecting it from violence to a better, much more enjoyable mode of passion.
     "As long as I do not have glass in my hair. I should rinse the scotch out of my hair, hmm?" William pulls from the kiss as you do. Your look of apology and sympathy is registered. He must persevere. You put the breath back in his body when he feels it is knocked from him.

     "Probably," Ian whispers, looking up to see if he can see anything. Ian takes the glass from you and then stands, hand still in yours. He walks towards the bath, where running water fixes all ills.

     He rises with you. He does not fill the space of quiet with his voice. He does not need to speak at the moment. William lets you lead him, heading for the sink. He bends his head, letting go of your hand only when he reaches it. His hands go to his hair and move through it, hopefully loosening whatever glass may be there. If any.
     It makes a great visual, oddly enough. But then, when the emperor's half-undressed, it is always a great visual.
     "So, before I rudely interrupted you," indigo eyes glance to you, and he slants a smile. "You were having a nice evening?" William straightens, his hair just as creatively mussed as it was before.

     "Quiet," Ian smiles, nodding his head. He watches you and the water. "Just coloring," he explains. Indeed, he seems to be enjoying one of his enigmatic evenings. He rarely speaks and does not go so far. The young man in him has taken hold, and all he does is walk around and color when the mood strikes him. Or he sits in an alcove, staring at the wall across from him. Ian sighs slightly and gives you another grin before he turns to find a towel.
     "I wish I had more help for you," he says softly, returning with a large white towel.

     "I wish you and I both had more help for me, but," William sighs, "... it is as it is, amours. I appreciate you trying, being here to calm me. Could you imagine? If I had stupidly traveled without you?"
     He meets you halfway again, it is the theme of the night. "You have been... amazing...through all of this. Since that night," William murmurs. He bends and his mouth meets yours halfway in a kiss. "I love you. And the rest ... will follow as it will."
     He glances behind you. "Would you care for a bath? I could do with a soak and a smoke..."

     Amazing. He had not thought of it that way. At first, Ian's not sure to what you refer, but after an instant, it dawns on him. His shoulders rise and fall in silk. "It will follow as it will," he says in reply to confirm the notion. "And sure," on the bath, although he has had one.

Posted by rowan at July 10, 2005 04:52 PM