When you awoke, the bed was empty of your man -- and it had been for a while for even the phantasm of his warmth, unreal as it truly is, was gone. But there was no need to worry, for though he was present, you could feel him on the air.
He is not far...
The wind thuds against the lighthouse glass, thuds against the thick walls, as a storm comes in off the Scottish sea, spurred by the tradewinds. The palm trees rasp and hiss like so many singing pompoms, cheering the squall on shore.
He is out in this?
But what better time to be in the waves than when the waves are whipped up by a late summer storm?
Just as the palm trees are an exotic sight on the Scottish shoreline, so is the figure coming up from the sand. If it weren't for the colder wind, one might think one were in Florida or California. Palm trees. Surfboard. Handsome man exiting the frothy sea like some male counterpart to Aphrodite.
The path is well-groomed and tended as it leads upward from the sand to the rock, from the rock to the Scottish sod above. William picks his way easily, with the familiarity of a person who lives nearby, the board couched beneath his right arm. His hair is drying. Short and given to the sea it has a touch of wave to it that is otherwise tamed.
A wet-suit protects his skin from the cold northern sea (no matter how warm the tradewinds allow this stretch of beach to be, the water is frigid). Both the smell of the sea and its coolness extends ahead of him, as if scouting the way home. His face, his feet, both left bare to the water, are reddened with skin's usual reactions -- but only because of the magic you have shown him. No vampire could otherwise mimic such things.
The wave of his hand indicates his presence - well, along with the surging energy not unlike the waves of the sea. He's never understood how these palms can grow in such darkness and chill. One of the enduring mysteries of Scotland.
Dressed in a thick grey sweater and dark pants, Ian sits on a set of stones, content to wait until his husband returned from the sea. That is now, finally. He smirks, knowing he is late for the events of the evening, but there is little worry; it looks like you've made good use of your time.
"Hae and ware," Ian says archaically. "I have..." he quirks, "...why are you wearing a wet-suit, exactly?" It is a tease, as he already knows the answer.
It is not as cold as other parts of Scotland. And it could be worse. It could be winter. But they manage, these southern creatures, to thrive here. And that includes your husband. Their roots cling to the stones, as do his around you.
Balancing the board with his right arm, the large body of it held against his own, William bends. "Why?" He smiles, he kisses you hello. "To keep my testicles from freezing solid." The smile widens. "It would be hard to walk, yes?" Ah, a pun.
Straightening, William half pivots, sinking the board to stand in the sand. Sharp eyes can pick out some of the intense decorations -- it is covered wholly by a collage he air-brushed years ago. You could play a game of finding your own face, for you are there. In several places.
"Did Stephen send you down with a change of clothing?" He chuckles, but he is hopeful all the same as he unzips the rubberized suit. His hair is drying in the wind. Eventually that wind will bring rain and thunder. Both of you can feel the charge and the change of pressure in the air.
There's a nod, and Ian points to a neatly arranged pile of clothing, wrapped in paper. "He was to bring them himself, but..." Ian decided to do the faithful young man a favor. There is a towel as well, but Ian makes no mention of that.
"How long are you going to want to stay," Ian tosses out, since you've taken to ice water surfing. "Maybe you will enjoy the warming," he smirks, for it doesn't happen, "...into Spring." Another smile, for conversations have already supposed that the two of you will stay as long as you like. Likely Ian doesn't mean what he says.
Not new, really, that concept.
Cold water surfing is not new. The Pacific is not known to be balmy. Though his skin is no longer mortal, and therefore not as delicate as the average surfer's, cold water is... cold water. It makes flesh shrivel, no matter how hardy.
"I don't know why I haven't played in the water like this for so long," he posits. "It felt good." Reaching for the clothes, he kisses you again, this time on your neck. And he is cold. "I am flexible on the subject," his body is revealed in parts as he twists out of the gear and into dry, and much warmer, clothing. For a moment, he wears a pullover with wet suit pants. Very Northwest America. But it does not last. He begins pulling off the next stretch of second skin.
Pants are pulled on with a great sigh of Thank God, and William comes to sit upon the neighboring rock, towel to his hair. He smells of salt and sea. "We can return to Strathfayr whenever you like. If I feel the need to surf, I can always come back. It's not so far."
He looks to the towel in his hands as he folds it. "I've forgotten how much I enjoy being on the water. I took it for granted the last half century." Indigo looks to you. "I took a lot of things for granted," William corrects.
And he leans in, kissing you again, this time his mouth, that mouth, on yours. "I love you," he whispers there. "And I am happy where I am. Here, Strathfayr. Wherever you are. But," the smile slants suddenly, "...if you are asking me whether I am finished with sulking and hiding, then... oui, I am, amours..."
Ian licks his bottom lip after he's kissed, but then grins, looking out to the water. "I am asking the latter," he says, letting the pretense drop. "It matters not where we are, but where You Are," he says with emphasis. "And I'd forgotten your surfing," he notes, nodding. It his not his bag of tea. Note the your part.
The folded towel is set upon the rock beside him and he looks out to the surf. Lastly to you. "It has been good to ... put my head back on my shoulders. To replace the noise with the sea. I needed this." He is not telling you anything you didn't already know.
"But," William nods, "... I am back in alignment." An interesting way to phrase it, as if Davydd threw his back out. He grins, looking at you, giving his shoulder to you with his hand on your thigh. William slips it between yours to warm it, making a face only ecstasy could create.
They will be under your clothing eventually, seeking warmth however illusory.
"The surfing helped," William murmurs. "I used to do it every night when I was in California." He looks to his feet in the sand for a moment, then back to you. "I should have called you," he whispers. "I'm sorry for ... being so prideful and ... easily hurt. But... I have learned that lesson, was reminded of that lesson when I was out there tonight."
Ian's eyes slide over slowly, and his brow gently knits. "You do not have to apologize...there is nothing that you did that I did not do." But where did California come from? "We were both hurt then," Ian says again. His preference is never to speak of America, but apparently, there is a need.
"We have said our peace on this, yes? We met, it was resolved." In Newport. "And here, we have found reconciliation." In Chinon and Strathfayr.
"We have," he agrees. But when things come up, he acknowledges them. And his mistakes -- these he has come to understand more and more, the more removed from America you and he have become.
"I mention it only because I am not going to let so many years go by before I call my friend." Lesson learned, applied, and a repeat avoided. "That's all."
He takes in a breath and lets it out as he looks over the ocean, and then back to you. He is smiling again, and those eyes are undaunted by the chill of the sea. "I thought of something else while I was out there. I was wondering why we have not bought another stretch of beach and created the first villa on the Scottish Riviera."
Ian's concern disappears as he considers the statement. "Because," he begins, "...it's witch's nipple cold," he laughs. "If we were in the West, a bit more southerly," he'd make the investment. "Well," Ian rethinks, "...what do you have in mind? There's still investment to be had on some of the lochs. The wedding market's taken, but there is potentially a spa market," he nods, something turning over and over in that brain of his.
Lips purse, then Ian looks back at you, now intrigued.
"Well, then why don't we? More southerly," he laughs as well. Witch's nipple cold -- yes, his extremities can vouch for that. "We have talked about having a place in the midlands, but I think we should look to the coast, and yes... perhaps even create a spa empire." He grins at you.
"First and foremost, however," William's voice lowers as he leans close to you, "... I want a place, a private place for us on the sea. Our beach. Our sanctuary. A romantic hideaway. On our island," he murmurs.
The hand nestled between your thighs squeezes a leg and then gently pats it. "And... oui... the spa market is under-served in Britain in general and Scotland in particular. There is certainly investment potential there. It would make more sense than creating another hunting lodge. Besides, we have two of those already and now no waterfront property. Not even in Switzerland." Let alone America.
"And...what is this?" Ian asks, motioning to the rock and the sea. "A lighthouse and a beach does not..." the statement left unfinished.
He chuckles quietly. "Our lighthouse is wonderful. But I think we need more space. It is a little small, oui? Without the cavern bedroom. We should perhaps expand it."
There is a pause and he looks from you to the ocean. "I am just thinking out loud, amours. There is nothing wrong with things as they are..." His hand, warmer than it was, finally withdraws and William leans back on the boulder cut out from tides past. "Well, maybe a little more room so we can have Stephen stay with us without having to sleep on the sofa."
Pale brows arch and Ian 'ahs' quietly, barely audible in the sounds of the sea. "Think on it more," he says to the both of you. "We may upgrade Stephen to his own cot." Ian laughs, then grows quiet. Business has returned to the forefront.
"I'll get Padraig to look at numbers."
"I will put some thoughts on paper and give you some estimates. Based on what normal people charge," William laughs. "And not my insane mark up rate. I am such a pirate." That mouth curves quite delectably as he says such a thing.
"Are we ready to go inside? I am getting a little chilly." Getting? "I think a scotch would be nice. And we can get Stephen set up on his cot," he chuckles. "And then..."
And then...
His mouth is at your neck, nuzzling. "We can get in our bed." Didn't you just get out of bed? You know what he means. You do not need the whisper of I need you at your ear, a warm wash of his breath.
But he says it anyway...
His grin is a warm blush in the mortal world. But in this one, in the dimness of Scotland, his paleness is a virtue. He hides not what he is, and his smile reveals marble and blue. A rush of color.
"I meant on the spa market. You can worry on the lighthouse."
"And I just left bed," Ian reminds. Too late, his mind has turned. "I should call Padraig," Ian smirks, knowing that his focus may leave you cold. Even better, you know it as well.
"It is your fault, really.
William laughs. At himself and at you. He shakes his head and rises with a stretch. A large hand lands upon the crown of your head, fingers moving through your hair. Strands held, he gently guides your head to a tilt, and you to a kiss.
"I still need you," William grins. Whether or not you indulge him in that need. "Call Padraig from the sofa, hmm? I will pour the scotch and listen with my head on your lap." Ah, compromise. Business is not sneered at. It is simply worked around.
William gathers the wet-suit and the board, his eyes turned to you. Coming?
"Why is it you now think you can tell me what to do?" Ian grumps, pushing off his rock to follow at his own pace. At the moment, leisurely. "Go ahead then," he says, "I shall see you inside in a few." All to the contrarian.
"My call might take a while," he notes for the record. "Padraig may be busy - it is late," he reminds. You can wait.
"Mon Dieu," William chuckles up at the sky, as if God Himself shall intervene on his behalf. Do you see this, O Lord? "Alright," William calls back with a grin, "I will see you when I see you...but not before you are ready."
That last part was added for special emphasis, and with that smooth laugh of his...
Without another word, William ascends the rest of the way to the lighthouse. But you will find, when you ascend, that he is there holding the door open. The light of living room spilling out and onto the surfboard. It is... an incredible piece of art, a psychedelic collage. And yes, Ian Dunross, you are there...
Posted by rowan at October 22, 2005 08:44 PM
