The car's arrival was not with the loud rumble of a revving engine. Instead, the car was quiet as it came to a halt in the garage, indicating a gentle drive home. The usual sounds followed - a close of the car door, the open and close of the door into the house, and the sound of keys and footsteps. By the time Edward made it through the wet room to a coat rack, the jacket was off and ready for its drying session. By the time he made it to the kitchen, he'd crawled out of his shirt. It was tossed to the floor near the maid's utility area for attendance later. Edward opened the refrigerator door for something, but then that was followed by the soft squish of a closed seal.
     His plans were clear. Edward appeared in the living room and made strides to the bar. In his hand, a quart of milk. Not normally his thing, but apparently times change.

     When the car pulled into the drive (quietly), Valan Montague set aside his book. The bottle of wine was emptied through this night (another bottle was finished the previous night -- again, without you). It was left to set on the nightstand.
     By the time the squish of the refrigerator's seal sounded, Valan Montague was standing on the staircase. You are working on a drink. He stands quietly, his gold-green eyes merely watching you.
     You are leaving me...
     It is a subconscious fear that bubbles from his primordial gut, hovers in his mind, and then pops in his brain, that overactive immortal gland. Perhaps the only organ in the body that is not atrophied. If anything it becomes pervertedly strong.
     He exhales from where he stands. The sound is not meant to convey passive-aggressive powerplay. It is, in its very essence, the breath of apology.

     He stands up from the bar, something poured quite liberally into the quart of milk. Edward looks over to the stairs, closing the low cabinet door with his foot.
     "Thought you'd be sleep by now," Edward says softly. Perhaps he hoped it. He moves to the sofa, setting his spiked milk on it. It'd be better with blood, certainly. He begins the process of peeling out of his wet pants, remembering then he has to deal with the boots too. Instead of staring at you, Edward bends to put his attention into his dress-down.

     "I couldn't sleep," Valan replies, his French quiet. He's not even undressed. He is wearing a light-knit shirt, the sleeves long and unbuttoned, the French cuffs covering his hands. The crimson shirt is untucked over black pants. "I know you are still angry. I don't blame you for being angry. If you want me to leave..."
     He pauses at the sound of that, a hand going to his forehead, rubbing it and then raking through his golden hair. "I will go if you want me to go. I can't take the quiet. If you want me to go, please tell me."
     He rests against the stairwell. His face, his demeanor -- he seems resigned to the fact that you will be asking this, that you want it, that he pushed you too far, this too far, and that he has become tiresome.

     "I want to go," Edward admits, pushing his boots off. Left. Right. Only then does he begin to roll the pants down his thighs. "I want to head to the continent and disappear," he says, exhaling in annoyance at his clothing and the situation. But he does not look at you. His attention is given to the wall for now.
     "Didn't think I'd hear myself say that. And it pisses me off," he says matter-of-factly. Emotion is given to the damned pants that are painted at his legs.

     Perhaps Ian was right. I do have the power to ruin. Even the one thing I loved. "Why should you go," he replies as matter-of-factly as you. "This is your city. It is your house. Do you think I would stay if you were not here?"
     Valan Montague is in motion. He heads to the sofa and he plops down on it, inelegantly beautiful. "I don't blame you for wanting this. I don't like me either. Why should you?" His arms fold against his chest. "I don't know if it's this place. I don't know if it's this life. I don't know if it's this...thing in me... that wants to ruin everything. Maybe it is just that, and beneath it I am still the Valan you once liked and loved." I would hate to think that the Valan you loved is the one who died. That would be... beyond tragic.
     He does not look at you for a moment. His fingers pick at the shirt, as if it is covered in lint and threads. "I was thinking of going to Spain... to see the King and his library," Valan murmurs. "Maybe there is something there that can help me. I'm sorry, Edward."

     Clothing gone, Edward remains wet. He shakes his head and moves around the coffee table towards the courtesy bath, likely for a towel. There's quiet from him as he goes through the motions, returning with a towel around his waist, and a small one on his head.
     "If you want to go to Spain, we can go to Spain," Edward says, setting down near you, but not so close as to touch. He is damp afterall. Legs splayed, he sits back, then thinks better of it, leaning forward to pick up his plastic quart.

     "I don't like who I am here. I don't know if I would be the same everywhere. But here...this Valan is a ... pompous bitch. In everyone's business, never minding his own. The worst of gossips. Catty..." He spits that out. The self-incrimination has gone on for nights in your absence. Not without cause.
     He stops himself before he rants, a hand to his face, then both, french cuffs and hands hiding his face. Fingers curl against his scalp, pulling his own mod-cut hair.
     Golden eyes look at you at last, you there in your towel. You are unhappy. I am unhappy. How did we get to this place. "You would go?" His hands fold on his stomach. "You do not have to. It's ... my problem. You have your work here...and you... may need your space..."

     "We'll go to Spain," is all Edward replies, looking over now. "I'll call Alfonso's secretary tomorrow night and we will leave." The milk is lifted and drunk, even as he faces your direction.
     "Right now, what I think," he follows with a mouth of milky...vodka... "what I think isn't important. Not now."

     Valan looks at you. He nods and begins sitting up. He does not wind his arms around your shoulders as he has done in the past, many times. He sits up and then he stands up. "Thank you," he whispers finally.
     There is one chance... one opportunity. This is it. If he blows it, he will lose what part of him is good. He will lose you.
     "I'm going to go to bed. Do you... want me to sleep in the other room?" He turns at the staircase and he looks at you. For a moment, brief as it is, he seems mortal and vulnerable.

     "No," Edward says, looking a little weary himself. He pushes himself from his seat, taking his milk with him. He crosses the room and begins the process of turning off the house.

     Valan nods and turns to head up the stairs. For five years he has toyed, played, reveled, feared, experimented, and even ignored (or attempted to ignore) the black tendrils that issue against his blood. Once, it frightened him. Then, it interested him. At one time, it excited him. At another, it repulsed him. And now, as he walks upstairs he realizes he has hit the preverbal bottom.
     The drug has begun to exact its price. And it is a price Valan Montague is not willing to pay...
     I do not know what I want to be, but I do know what I do not want. Perhaps, that is as good a beginning as any have...

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2006 07:20 PM