Cobblestones are slick with rain, rain that promises only more of the same with every falling drop. Maybe in December there'll be snow, but there's no discussion of that now as the precipitation converges from heavy mist, to fog, to sprinkle, to rain.
     Davydd ap Owain walks the same pattern of streets, from Thief River along the River Thames, past the Strand, to the docks and around again until he reaches Waterloo Bridge and Gabriel's Wharf, where one of his other new property acquisitions stands, his flat (and not far from that, the newly acquired house boat).
     He walks it in Avenger style, umbrella up and opened, his hands covered by kid gloves, his winter garments black and grey, all wool -- long coat, trousers, jumper over shirt. He's letting his hair go longer again these nights, the curl relaxed to a come-hither-go-thither wave, giving him a bit of a professorish look -- in that professor-struggling-novelist manner of middle-aged academics. A green scarf (also wool) provides the only dash of color, echoed by his eyes.
     He walks his route tonight, the first leg of his nightly journey, umbrella propped on his shoulder, held lightly in his hand. At any time, he could shift it in his grasp and wield it as the sword it really is -- or brandish it like any number of cinematic umbrellas, in a flash and flurry of Gene Kelly. He can't help the whistle of Singin' in the Rain as he goes.
     But for all the jaunty sound of it, his eyes and attention aren't focused on the melody, or even on the random thoughts of MGM musicals. His eyes, and his thoughts, are all forward now as another evening opens before him so he can walk the road of it.

     For most vampires, there are very little secrets within their environments. Such Edward expects when following his own kind. True, some are better than others, and the distance matters immensely. So at this range, well, even the youngest vampire should notice the weight of a predator.
     If not - well, that youngster wouldn't be around long anyway.
     The traffic on the Strand itself can be a bear, but the night's rain keeps both the natives and tourists thin. Edward walks among them, but then he quickly slips from the street level to the nearest dock level, landing with a scant thud.
     And so he makes himself so obviously known.
     His hands slide into his pockets, deep caverns within his boot-length leather coat. Edward turns his face up to the rain, then looks ahead as if expecting someone imminently.

     The whistle goes feral, slipping from song to bird call to cat-call at the thud of Edwardian boots. There's only one thud like that in all of London, and the pricking of his hair on the back of his neck? Well, the sight confirms the reason.
     At the thud, he pivots. In one graceful motion of subsequent actions, Davydd turns, lowers the umbrella with a sweeping gesture, closes it, and loops it at his forearm, his hands slipping into his own coat pockets.
     His first inclination is to spring at you, lift you into an enormous Welsh bear-hug and clap his hand to your back to muffle the sound of his own emotional sobs. What he does, however, is turn to you, soften his look and dropping all pretense for a breath of 'Fuck it's good to see you'. Davydd shakes his head slightly, and smiling helplessly he makes a gesture in the air to convey his feelings:
     I've missed you...
     I love you...
     I'm sorry...
     You look great...
     God, it's been ages...
     His voice cracks when he finally gets out: "Nos dda..."

     Edward's head slithers back as he squints his brown eyes. "What?" he asks, as if expecting something. The changed demeanor begs the question. Edward brings a hand out to wipe at his face. "Did I get it off?" Whatever it was.
     But he knows better. The smile is met with muted acknowledgment through a blank stare. "It's wet out," he notes for the record, his hair plastered around his face.
     No question on whether things are alright. He can judge the streets well enough. "So you know," Edward says, "I'm going to be gone for a bit. Holiday," he explains.

     His hair darkens with the added moisture more than anything. Well, there's no sense in both of us seeming mad in the weather. Davydd pops up the umbrella again. He doesn't ask you if you want shelter from the storm (well, it's not really much of a storm. It's wet, it's November, it's not a shock). However, he does take the necessary strides to bring him in your range -- and you within his umbrella's reach.
     "Diolch," he says. "I'd be wondering, if I hadn't heard." He doesn't ask where you're going -- he can take a guess, and in your current mood you're not liable to tell him anyway. "I hope you have a good time of it. Your usual yearly sabbatical. Well," he smiles a bit, "... anti-sabbatical." The sabbat don't take holidays, do they?
     Davydd looks at you a moment, directly. There's no hemming and hawing. "I'm sorry, Edward," his words are quiet and measured. "For ... not taking care of my family. I...well, I just want to say it. You've been brother and son to me. You deserved better of me. Not the self-centered shite behavior you got."
     He takes a breath then. "Diolch," he whispers. "For... letting me know. About your holiday." He's not going to reach out and sock you on the arm, pull you into a hug or any of the other typical motions -- not yet, not without an overture to let him know it's okay. He's not a total idiot. He knows better than to hug a Brujah when that Brujah may or may not be homicidal.
     Jesus' Birthday notwithstanding...

     The apology gets only the purse of his lips. It's not the first or second time he's heard it now. After an exhale, Edward says, "It'll be a good holiday, thanks," his dis-ease readily apparent. While he's decided to make himself known, apparently, he has little to say or offer. A stand before you, to let schedules be known.
     That might be enough for him, for tonight.
     "Sure on the knowing," he waves off, seeming ready to go. "You," he starts, "...know how to reach me." If whatever is happening needs attention.
     "Maybe leaving you here alone isn't such a smart move," Edward thinks aloud.

     That makes an eyebrow quirk. His head draws back a centimeter or two. "I know I'm old, Edward, but I don't need a nanny to change my nappy or empty my drool cup." The mouth makes a lopsided smile, however slight.
     He sees the rest go over like a lead balloon. Well, at least you heard it. You'll act on it (or not) whenever you see fit. Davydd nods to the absence of commentary, and as he peers at you the lines pop out at the corner of his eyes.
     "I have your number, aye. I'll try not to call frequently. Unlike your other friends, who'll remain nameless but we both know I'm meaning Gwilym here," he adds in a seamless aside, "... I don't pester for the sake of it when a man's on holiday. Tell Valan I said ... to have a good holiday and ...Merry Christmas...happy new year. Same to you, you know that."

     He nods, Edward does, giving a slight smile at his cos' name. But then again, he often smirks where William is involved.
     "Joyeux Noel," Edward says, his French his safety net. But he thinks better of it, and tries again.
     "Have a good Yule," for we all know what is, "Davy."
     With his hands in his pockets again, Edward lingers a half-second, as if pondering something else to say. But it does not come, and instead, brown eyes simply watch a moment longer. Lips tighten and he bobs his head before turning away, likely to leap out as well as he leaped in.

     "We'll split it down the middle," he offers the idea instead of a handshake or arm slap or any number of other more physical gestures that once were between you. "Let's call it Joyule." It's like Festivus for old Europeans.
     Davydd nods, "Joyeux Noel, Eduard," he moves in your French for your sake, able to do so quite easily. Maybe this gesture will stick with you. He lingers likewise, letting you have as much or as little of the umbrella's shelter as you like.
     Blessings on this man. Davydd gives his thoughts to the air. For he's the best soul I've ever known. He tips back the umbrella and turns. He whistles again, a low sound of On the First Noel.

     "Joyule," Edward thinks, considering the term with a lift of his eyes. He does the unthinkable, and near the shed, he makes a leap upwards to the main street level.
     It's likely few in the crowd will notice. A decent enough looking bloke, jumping up from the docks?
     Say it ain't so.

     "There he goes," Davydd says upon an exhale, speaking only to himself. "Well, he didn't kill me." His face shows his emotion to the thousand mirrors of rain. "It must mean he loves me."
     It'll be a long journey, ap Owain, but you've made those before. You can't protest your feelings and expect things to change. Well, they'll change sure enough but in time. In time.
     Davydd ap Owain continues his route on the road that opens up before him. It's changed a bit from before, though his path is the same. Included in it now, the knowledge that he and Edward are walking again -- not in one another's shadow, mind you, but at least they're on the same street.

Posted by rowan at December 03, 2005 05:24 PM