Iovis, you over-played your hand. You went all in, and your worthy opponent folded. Not only did he fold his hand, he left the table insulted! Figurative chips were flying everywhere! Si, it was a bold and risky maneuver. Let us hope the wager shall pay off in the end...
     Into shadows you left, amice, and Into shadows I followed on your heels. I feel them peeling off of me, my eyes open, a hand on my side to pull a stiletto, in case it is needed.
     Tendrils of inky, smoky shadows coalesce in that shadow-world, and as they dissipate, leaving behind the form of the Genoan, they reveal the inky dark clothing he wears. The leather pants, the leather coat, the many knives...
     Perhaps you know you are being hunted, being chased. But I do not mean to kill you, amice. Only to capture you for a moment. Ones such as we cannot be held captive forever...
     Iovis Macarelli is interrupted in his reverie by a sudden swipe of shadows. It mauls him, rips him, and even more surprising is his surprise that such should happen. For the past several weeks he has engaged in an amusing and intriguing contest with his fellow enigma. It lured him to the shadows far more frequently. Where he had traveled them sparingly (but enthusiastically) before, he had began to walk the road like any other alley.
     And as is the habit with most Genoan thieves, he had begun to take on a quiet cockiness, a self assurance that was not so certain as he believed.
     It was a surprise to him, therefore, that the shadows themselves assaulted him. He had seen terrors before, and he had eluded them. But with the distraction of this evening, in his looking for you and not for other dangers that might be lurking, iovis was not as watchful as he should have been...
     The shadows, the frontiers of the Marches, are a harsh place. They have nothing of Limbo's ambivalence, none of heaven's goodness. And here, his knives have little purchase. The creatures he fights aren't physical so much as metaphysical, and the speed that makes him famous in France, Italy and England: where is it? The shadows are a tar-pit, impeding both his escape to the material realm and avoidance of the blows that follow.
     The shadows are in a tumult. In the center of it, Iovis. Around him? Five horrid beasts of shadows and chaos, nightmares and fear. They are a conglomeration of every horrid image possible, disjointed features, gaping maws of mouths (numerous mouths), and twisting out of those gaping maws are the various limbs and pieces of Iovis' body as he wars and wrangles.

     Which way do I run, when it is myself I am fleeing? Illusions will not follow me here; surely they would not dare. Unless it is a trap. It could very well be a trap, Gwi, oes, you are a fool...
     A fool to ever think of lasting happiness. A fool to act like such a girl! Love. Bah. Why can't you be happy just to get laid, Gwi, like any sane and sensible man?
     Being a thief means always wanting more...
     He turns, paranoid, looking all around himself as he runs. His clothes flow and change as he moves, from the clothes made for sensuality (let's be honest; for getting fucked) becoming leather armour, a sword, knives. As you shift, reflecting your true self, so does he shift, reflecting his state of mind: defensive...
     Gwilym spins on his heel. There are shadows on the move, oes? Shadows on the move indeed; but these are not what he anticipated. For one thing, they are not chasing after him. And for another -
     Well, for another, you're there.
     This is not what he anticipated. This is not what he expected at all. This cannot be allowed to stand as it is! His brain will have to catch up later, shocked as he is. Altering his course at the same rapid pace - well, Duw, at least a fight will get some of it out of my system. And if I die, I die. But you shall not...

     You turn to defensive position, and in the attack he turns to his own natural defense, frenzy. He may be surrounded, he may be outmatched, he may be out maneuvered, but he will not be outdone. Though his motions are slowed by some power of the creatures, Iovis is vicious, as vicious as those many-mouthed creatures tearing at him. Though he is mauled (and being mauled), the metaphysical wounds having become physical (it's all the same here), he throws himself at them as if it were a brawl in an Italian alley. And he hurtles out the same Italian curses, drunk on fury as other men get drunk on wine. "Vaffanculo! Puttana, figlio di puttana!" What may sound as music to one is unholy cursing to another, yes? It sounds like poetry, but they are words that would send him straight to hell.
     And he is not sure it could be any worse than this. He fends off one mouth, another mouth latches on. He attacks one paw, six are there to replace it. He whirls like a dervish, regaining some of his speed, his bloody hands holding stiletti covered in his blood and in the black ichor of the beasts of chaos. They swipe, maul, bite and tear, and he fights in the center of that great, violent commotion.
     Iovis appears beneath that pile of creatures. He is covered in the inky shadow spit and in his own blood. He is spitting blood, and fury. And he is grinning, the mad fool, his canine's as sharp as a wolf's. He is slowing again, despite his heart, his fury. His fists and knives have done their damage, and his teeth, and his speed, and his brutality, but it is all taxing. And he is out-numbered. As fierce and as fast as he is, four hell-beasts was one-and-a-half too many. "Vaffunculo per rovinare il mio rivestimento, voi postule del proprio asino del diavolo, voi ho infettato la ferita! Vaffunculo e timore di scopata. Non sono impaurito, non di voi, non di c' ne di voi!"

     It does not matter if it is really you or not. He will fight. What choice has he? This, truly, is his job; he patrols the shadows. Whether you are friend in truth or enemy, here is an enemy which he must fight. He runs towards the fray, sword-blade drawn from blackened sheath. He is unaware that they have found prey; only that there is something to be done. Ground is covered at astonishing pace as he leaps from one pool of shadow to another, appearing to flicker from point to point even as he draws shadows closer to him. "Back! Filthy things, this isn't your place."
     Not that he expects to be listened to; but a loud shout can dispel more than just quiet, as Gwilym knows full well. He has a feral sort of grin as he pulls at shadows, twisting them, drawing them towards his sword. He leaps - and vanishes in mid-leap, dropping from shadow onto the back of a beast, driving his sword downwards. "Noone here's afraid of you," he carols, "and so you have no power here!"
     He frees his sword from black flesh, dragging it through with both hands gripped tight. Both feet are braced under him as he sinks the sword in through the creature's eye as it whirls round; and that is used as leverage for him to spring acrobatically from its back, twisting the sword free as he does so. "Right! Who wants some, then? /I/ rule here, not you! Get yourselves back to whatever foul master you serve!" It sounds good, it's dramatic, and more to the point, it gives him a focal point; by which he draws at shadows again, gripping their strings in a fist as if to yank on leashes, rattling the shadows violently. His sword is in his other hand, slashed vigorously towards snapping maws. Brave? Yes. Bold? Certainly. Reckless and potentially suicidal? Almost definitely.
     But then ... considering his despairing mood, are you surprised? Are you even in any position to be surprised?

     Iovis does not have time to be relieved, nor does he have time to shout with victorious glee as you join him in the fray. Let alone to thank you. "Amice!" is all he can manage before shouting incomprehensible curses -- and it's just as well. You wouldn't want them translated anyway...
     One of the beasts is a son of Havoc; the other a daughter of Anxiety. One of millions; Havoc and Anxiety shan't miss them. As you grab the shadows, forming chains out of the substantial Insubstantial, the beasts turn to you, whirling about suddenly and for the moment forgetting about Iovis Macarelli. The son of Havoc turns those many mouths full of teeth and screeches and howls to you, bellowing as the sword of shadows comes crashing down. The daughter of Anxiety does what Anxiety bids; she turns and runs...
     And from his supine position, Iovis twists, his hands coming up to fight invisible foes. His punches slow and then stop altogether. His mouth, however, remains unvanquished: "Il fallo ha respirato i cani. Il fallo ha respirato i cani, quando mi alzo, voi realmente interferir l'inferno."
     Havoc's son rushes at you, its various mouths clamping. It lets loose gargling strangles, like someone choking on blood. Its breath is worse than even Iovis can describe. It smells of chaos, fear, and disorganized guts.
     "Saro la, io aiutero, amice..." Iovis' voice is quiet, rough from all his roaring profanities and pronouncements.

     He is no stranger to Havoc; he has been upon battlefields in this realm before and in the realms of faerie, skirmishes in dark alley and full-fledged battles in which men and elves and others have died. He has slain creatures of Shadow; and now, he has every intention of slaying this one.
     Gwilym holds up his fist with its shadows, winding them closer. "You don't scare me," he says evenly, voice going suddenly cold, eyes flashing. "I have dealt with your kind before, and worse. You understand me, don't you? Get going, before I chain you down by the caves leading to the well of damnation, where all you'll drink is of the fetid spewing sludge that comes from Satan's arsehole. You'll be gutted daily, your intestines yanked out and wrapped around your muzzle until even that stinking stew-pot seems good - go on, get going! Before I get really angry!"
     The shadows are added to with each profane word, each taunt, until they have built around his fist to half again the size of his head. And then they are hurled at one of the hellish maws of the son of Havoc, his sword slashing across ink-black eyes. He darts his retreat towards you with that distraction, dropping to one knee to get a hand on your shoulder. "Grab hold," is all that Gwilym says. He has a flash of some emotion unfathomable in his eyes, and then he averts his gaze as he bends to you. "Just tell me where you want to go."
     Suddenly, I do not care if it is really you. If it is, then I will take you where you wish. If it is not, then I will willingly walk into your lair, deflating as I am, and face my end. I am tired. And you ... you are wounded. If it really is you - then I am to blame.
     Another ha'penny's worth of coals for the fire for me in Hell, oes?

     The son of Havoc, blinded by your slashing, falls. The creature is wounded, and begins to dissipate. It will have to retreat or die at your hand...
     How Iovis can muster the energy to be sardonic at this moment may be beyond you. He glares a look at those retreating shadows as if he had beat them into a pulp and not the other way around. His body lifts as he shouts: "Quello e corretto! Abbiamo dato dei calci al vostro cula. Va il pellame e lecca le vostre ferite e sfere..."
     Iovis exhales, his hand coming up and out to grab on as you instruct. "I am sorry, amice... I did not mean to make you run, I only had to see you. See how God repays me...swift as ever, Dio, swift as ever." His hand grips tightly. "...Take me home, the brownstone... I have to get home." What difference it might make is up to conjecture. Couldn't he easily die anywhere?
     Those black eyes slant a look to you and he swallows, his tongue coming out to lick at his own blood. He makes a sour face. "I get the feeling," he swallows, "...that this is going to leave a mark..."
     His fingers squeeze where they grasp, and considering his condition, his grip is quite strong. "I will be alright," he whispers. Iovis looks at you then looks into the vastness of space ahead. His face goes blank as he prepares to feel a great deal of pain.

     Guilt crashes over him in a surging wave, and he dips his head down. You're daft, you know that? But I don't have time to argue with you. That's what Gwilym's expression says, rather than his lips. He slides an arm under your shoulders, his gaze jerking up from your face to that of the son of Havoc. It can't be that easy, can it? Just in case - leave nothing to chance.
     Shadows are pulled; he moves with you from shadow to shadow until even the children of Havoc cannot keep up, until the passage between worlds is no longer sticky and impossible to traverse. Then he passes through, muttering, "This is going to hurt you more than me, but - have it your own way. A man can damn well choose where he wants to die. Or bleed." Hopefully you will not die. It does not look good. If you do, I do not know what I will do. It gnaws at me already.
     From shadow to the mortal world he takes you - from shadow to Tours, to a familiar-looking brownstone's back alley. You are supported on one broad shoulder. He has not had time to change his clothes, even, the black leathers and archaic sword, even if the hood of his cloak is down tonight instead of up. Gwilym Gwyn Garu looks to the fire escape. He watched you through it when the night began. It seems a lifetime ago already. "I will get you in," he murmurs. "Just tell me where you want me to put you." As if you are dead already.

     Iovis laughs as you mention his dying. He supposes it's possible. But it is not likely. But he knows you do not know this. "It will take more than a couple of mangy dogs gnawing on my ankles, amice, to put an end to Iovis Macarelli." He moves as you move him, but more he thinks he is moving when it is you doing all the work. Giddy with the passing of fury and frenzy and the arrival of shock and injury, he chuckles momentarily. The damage is aggravated, deep and plentiful. He grunts as he grips you with an arm around your shoulder. Bracing there, he reaches up to grab the first rung of the ladder to pull it down past the second storey.
     He is stubborn, brave, bold, foolish, amazing -- all these things at once. He moves despite the pain, even despite better judgment, pulling the fire escape ladder down. Only the paleness of his face indicates that he is in any sort of discomfort. "You know...I am on the third floor... si... can you climb with a monkey on your back, amice? I will help where I can. And... do not worry, si? You are wearing the face of an undertaker!" He shushes himself the next moment. "I am not going to die. Just... get me upstairs... and to the bath... I will be alright, yes..."
     He repeat it softly, a mantra to himself: I will be alright, yes. I will be alright.

     "Hold still, oes? I've climbed with monkeys on my back before." Gwilym braces you, wincing a little as he pulls himself onto the lower rungs of the ladder. There are shadows here; but rather than use them to help him climb, he lets his muscles do the work. Instead, he seals the shadows. Nothing will be coming through to take you and him by surprise in this position.
     You speak too truthfully. If you only knew how much you are and have been the monkey on my back... but perhaps you do know, now. I am not prepared for that. I do not know what to say to it, what to do about it; and so, I will ignore it. Until I can no longer. Who says reality is the better way?
     "Put your arms around my neck," Gwilym orders, supporting you with one arm as best he can. "Try not to think about bad films and hold on, oes? We'll be up there as quick as can be. My da was a storeyman long before I was born," he adds lightly. "It's in the blood."
     He leans out to look for the window or trap door - whatever it is that will allow entrance. Whatever will allow him to get you to safety. He is more worried than he allows himself to look.

     You see it cross his expression -- how am I going to move an arm I can no longer feel? But then the strength, the determination follows after. Iovis shifts, using his body to move his arm. He latches on, nodding once. "I believe you," he says quietly. "I trust you, Gwilym," your name burbles from his mouth, not quite correctly pronounced with the Italian accent, but not mangled either. Iovis moves his head slightly (it is all he can do), his black eyes finding the window. "It is there, right at the stairs... I require an escape route, si? The window is open... When I threw the girl out... I was in a hurry...it is open. But who is going to steal from me?" He snorts at that, groaning quietly after. "I am such a fool," Iovis mutters. "I have let my desire banish my sense. I had to have you so much," his voice lowers another notch, "... I did not lock my window, I did not look before I leaped tonight..."
     He is not afraid of heights. How could he be and be any sort of reputable (or disreputable as the case may be) thief. He watches your progression up the ladder and to the stairs. One on the stairs, he hobbles up them, cloaking you both slightly. Though you are not invisible, your identities will be murky to anyone witnessing the climb.
     "I am not worried about falling," his words burble up on his bruised, bloodied lips. "Grazie," he whispers. "Grazie, amice..." He whispers it. He means it.

     Do you see the colour rise in his face? Perhaps you hear the blood moving in that direction. "Don't let's talk about that now," Gwilym mutters. Ah, you've embarrassed him; flustered him. He doesn't know what to do about it, so he goes all British. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand.
     He carries you without letting the strain of it show in his face; nor the stress of it in his eyes. What you call him, it is insignificant; no, not insignificant. It is just more than he can process right now. His heart still beats too quickly from the fight, from the flight; and he concentrates on making limbs work rather than shake with adrenaline. With conflict borne of emotion. He has a task to do. He cannot turn and flee.
     The window is seen; made use of with care, you propped in the windowsill like some errant bride halfway through an elopement, and quick as a wink, he slips inside, a hand on your waist supporting you. Then you are brought inside, brought down with as much tender care as anyone could hope for.
     "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," Gwilym mutters. "You," he adds frankly, "look like hell, you know." The light tone does not mask the concern still in his eyes. How will he pull you through this? How can he forgive himself? "Is anything missing?" Yes, let's talk about your possessions. Not your feelings. Right!

     You recognize the flat. It's a basic brownstone. The building was constructed originally in the late 19th Century, and it has received a few modifications since then -- a toilet and bath for starters. The brick exterior leads to plaster wall interior, and what embellishments there were in Victoria's age have become cracked and worn.
     There is not much to it. The living room, dining room and kitchen are all one room. A short hallway leads to the bed and bath. It is sparsely decorated. It has the look of a space that is seldom used. There is a sofa (you remember that), its rickety springs and dirty, used mattress still unfolded, and one chair, both were abandoned here by the previous tenant and show it. The kitchen would be miniscule were it not open to the rest of the room. There is a stove from the 1950s, a small sink and few cabinets.
     He looks as though he has just moved here from Genoa and has not yet had time to furnish or make a home of this place. It has been, truthfully, a few years now.
     "And I am sorry I wasn't there later," the Italian lilts as Iovis is set on his feet. Even torn to bits, his sardonic wit is unshaken. "I don't want to see what I look like, then it would start to hurt." Beneath the blood and the blood-soaked and torn clothing, unseen wounds are already beginning to heal. Everything, every ounce of energy left must go to this task. A hand on your arm, Iovis begins to limp toward the hall. Beaten, but he does not give up. If it will take him all night, he will get there.
     He holds still for a moment and looks at you. "After... the way I have acted tonight...it seems rude of me..." he struggles with such things, such intimacies, even in near death, "... to ask you to linger with me. A month ago," Iovis lilts on in that slow, soft voice, "... I did not even know you. And now... you are here with me, you have saved my life." I have tasted your skin. How strange we are here, yes? He pats your arm before he grips it (he has a tight grip). "Would you stay..."
     I ask it, and I know you want to run.
     Iovis swallows. It is more painful to ask that question than it is to move. "...I have lived my whole life, no one has entered my home as a friend, no one has been in my heart. No one has ever shown me tonight what you have shown me." In a long life surrounded by kindred, there has been no one who would have saved me but this man I barely know, am coming to know. You are in my home now, amice. And now, the door is open for you to come and go as you please. How strange that after so long it should be so easy.
     "I would like you to stay," Iovis repeats it, this time without the pained expression (though as he is in physical pain such a look is not without its own difficulties).

     He is inside, as are you. He is firm in his stance, doing his best to brace you without causing you further pain; and tries not to look at you. Your wounds hurt badly enough that looking at them makes him ache in sympathy. "Remind me to get you a subscription to Good Housekeeping," Gwilym quips, "though then people might think y' have something worth stealing."
     The path is a slow one, and he tries to make his footsteps as smooth as possible. He is concerned, unaware of how quickly you may heal beneath all that blood and torn cloth, and mangled flesh. And then you make your request, and he has to struggle not to start in surprise.
     Why would you want me here? Why? When I have been nothing. I am nothing. But - even though it is on the tip of my tongue to refuse, I can't. You are harmed, you have come into harm's way because of me. Such a rapid surge of such mixed emotions...
     Colour rises in his face; he is touched, in a way. Uncertain, too. But not uncertain as to his answer, his reply, however reluctantly he admits it. "Of course I'll stay if you want," Gwilym says promptly. "As long as you need. But let's concentrate on getting you fixed up, aye?" Emerald eyes glance to your face and then away again. It is awkward. "Cleaned up first," he declares, clearing his throat, "and sewn up where needed, aye? Before y' bleed to death, and then what'll I do? Can't redecorate your place without y' being here to make faces at me for it."
     He has to make light of it. He does not dare wear his heart on his sleeve. If you see his heart, you might cut it into pieces, oes? It is easier to hide it away than to risk it being destroyed. But he wants to stay. And that is why he almost refuses.

     Iovis laughs, not in sound but in the slight tipping of his head and the rolling of his eyes. Any more than that, and he would probably go to his knees. "Now... you see why I don't lock my window," he says. "I keep hoping someone will come and take that chair out of there, but no luck. I am cursed to keep that chair. Don't sit in it... unless you want a spring up your ass."
     He nods to the rest, a short motion of his head as he limps forward. For what must be a very painful process for him, he does not complain, and he seems to be making pretty good time. The bathroom is just ahead down the hall, at the end of the hall. The bedroom is the door to the left. "I usually booby trap the place... but ... tonight I was in a hurry...see what good it did me." His lips twist and he sucks at his flesh with an indrawn breath as he hobbles to the bathroom door and flips the switch.
     The bathroom is better than you might have expected. It is larger than it should be but it is a recent addition. There is the sink basin, nice and deep. There is a bathtub, quite large. "Do not worry," Iovis assures you, pointedly not looking at himself in the light, "... I am stronger than a pack of foul-smelling dogs." He pats your arm again, smiling, and he turns to face you. "Now... I am not going to look at myself, not even down at the remains of my clothing. And try not to give it away!" He teases you with mock lecturing. Gritting his teeth, Iovis holds onto you with one hand, and begins trying to peel himself out of his jacket (what's left of it) and his shirt (what's left of it). "Don't worry, eh? If it looks bad. I'm not bleeding anymore." He's the one who's hurt but yet he's worried about you looking like that. Or being horrified.

     "Did y' a lot of good, actually. As difficult as this is, imagine how much harder it'd be if we had to stop and undo your traps on top of it all." Gwilym grins, a brief flash of white teeth which vanishes as the bathroom is - finally - reached.
     You ask him your next favour, and his face is a study as you speak. He is not horrified; he has seen battlefield injuries in the fight against an accursed queen's dark and twisted army. Worse, he has seen the remains of her victims in her personal torture chambers. This is fairly straightforward and clean in comparison.
     No, the look on his face is something else. He's embarrassed...
     "Uh, aye, oes, I can do that," Gwilym says awkwardly. "Here, let me help you with that, it looks like it hurts." He is actually blushing, now, looking anywhere but at your face. "Here, the blood's started drying by now, I'd imagine. Easier t' cut away what clothes're left." He has a knife (of course) in addition to his sword. It appears in his hand as if by magic, though actually it's skill; he moves round behind you to get the jacket and shirt. "Once we get y' out of this, we can get you cleaned up better as well, oes?"

     His swollen lip pulls in a bit of a grin. "I am armed, be careful." You can see where some of the stiletti are with the clothing ripped away. But he has them all. He was talking about the knives, wasn't he? Iovis can't help the laugh, even though he regrets it as soon as it makes him move. He closes his eyes, a hand going to the counter to steady himself. "I loved this jacket," his voice sounds as if he is about to weep. "The shirt, who cares about the shirt, but the jacket was Italian leather. I do not spend money on myself," he admits. "But this... this I ripped off the model's back!"
     You hear the rattle of metal against steel. Two of the seven stiletti are put into the bowl of the sink. They will have to be cleaned too, but he will do that himself.
     Black eyes look at you over his shoulder, his swollen lip pulling again in a grin and then he looks away. I have not let anyone come so close to me. Even when I am fucking whores, they are never this close to me. I might as well be in another room, mi cazzo acting on its own! I close my eyes.
     As you peel the clothing from him, cutting it where the blood has congealed or is congealing, his lean body is revealed. In this light, its strength is better seen. And now without the attachment of a moaning girl. His physique is like yours -- a thief's physique. Climbing, jumping, propelling, twisting, tumbling -- all things things in his life formed him. You can also begin to see the damage. Claw strikes, teeth marks, some of the deep, criss-cross over and into his form. But he is right; he is no longer bleeding. Some bruising has started already where healing has already begun.
     You have your magic. He has his own...
     "I spend so much time... not being seen," Iovis murmurs. "I do not even want to see myself at times. To... just disappear in a shadow... sometimes it is comforting, this thought. But... the lesson to this? Even disappearing comes with a price." Opening his eyes, he looks down at himself, his body tensing in his reaction. It is bad. I will recover. But it is bad.
     But at least I am whole...

     "I will buy you a new one." It's said quietly, with the sound of a promise, and self-consciousness creeps in to make him turn it into a joke. "hat way you can feel you ripped someone off, oes?" The colour is high in his face, but he is ignoring that. "Y' can relax, they're still there," he adds, half-humorously. "No matter how many whores are relying on you, though I've rather gone off them, myself."
     Two dark eyes in a sea of pale olive...
     He doesn't explain. His gaze is intent upon your skin, tracking the marks with a detached eye - purposefully detached, the effort made to distance himself from what he sees so that his reactions will give him away no more than they absolutely must. Your belongings and what is left of them are set carefully aside, and then he turns from you, running warm water into the large tub.
     "It will hurt when you get in," Gwilym says finally, "but then the pain will lessen." He sounds as if he speaks from experience. "When you try to get out, though - that will hurt. It will be sore, unless you're able to heal entirely by then. I know what you mean," he adds quietly. He sits on the edge of the tub, adjusting the slant of his sword and reaching over to put his dagger on the edge of the sink. "As if you might disappear, and the weight of existing just - slide off. Like rain from a window-glass. But things like this remind us of our own weight."
     He smiles crookedly, the corners of his eyes tightening. "Anyway, let's get you into the water, oes? I'll add some salt. It will draw away any impurities. Toxins in the bites, you know." And Gwilym looks away. He has to, you know. He must always torture himself, unless someone else will do it for him, and maybe even then. He must deny himself that which he most desires. He is his mother's son.

     "I am going to give them up," he says softly, his body shivering not in cold but in the reaction to the injuries and to the healing. It will be slow. He will not heal so fast as to step from the bath unharmed. Yet, he will be improved. A pint or two of blood would go a long way to aid this improvement...
     "I do not have other involvements," he admits it to you, his voice airy quiet. "That girl... tonight." He exhales a moment, looking to you and then away. "When I found her in a club, I needed to spend some energy. I was...going mad. I ... wanted someone else." Dark eyes find you. "But I was impatient... when my blood gets hot, it is hard to remember to be patient. I ... pulled from her and ... finished myself off. And then... I went looking for you. It was you I was looking for, amice. I did not know I was going to find you." At Grunt. Iovis slowly turns, stepping out of the remains of his shoes. One by one the stiletti make their way into the bowl of the sink until all seven are accounted for. "I ...do not want you to think ... that I am...an ungrateful friend." He is a horrid, strangely beautiful mess. The blood makes him seem a monument to the feral energy of life. But his slow voice, his quiet demeanor makes him seem as cherubic as his face suggests as he looks at you. "That I would follow you...to taunt you. I... was not following you to do that. I was... I wanted to see you. I wanted to give... my energy to you...I am sorry for... causing you any embarrassment. And... none of this, tonight, rests on your shoulders. I ... was not thinking right. My blood was on fire... it ...consumed me."
     "I have never had someone in my life," he goes on to admit quietly, seemingly without realizing the profundity of that statement. Iovis speaks so it so plainly, confesses it simply. "I have lived a long time ...solemente..."
     And feeling he has perhaps said too much, suddenly he makes a bruised and bloody smile. "I am going to yell at you, si? But do not be offended... no matter what I call you, my friend. Jove alone knows what that will be. Toxins in the bites," he notes. No wonder I am talking crazy.

     It is awkward. He does not know what to say to you. He does not know how to address this. Even acknowledging it seems so filled with pitfalls. He starts with a small amount of truth. Maybe it will make it easier...
     "I used to spend time with whores. It gave me somewhere to put myself," Gwilym admits, tells you, his voice as quiet as your own. "But - whores are still women, oes?" He grins at you lopsidedly, rising from the edge of the bath. From somewhere else in shadow he draws a packet - sea salt, greyish white crystals packed into a rough cloth bag, tied with string. "Women are noisy. So what begins as a comfort ends by maddening me further, driving me further into shadows rather than drawing me out. So," he shrugs, "I had to mostly give that up."
     "I ... have had involvements. There are people in my life," the knot is picked loose and undone slowly, though you know by now his fingers are more clever than that, quicker too. Emerald eyes flicker onto you for a moment, and then dart away. As if he looks to you for meaning - but remains afraid of finding it. Fascinated by the flame, but fearful of being burned all the same. "There are people who care about me, oes? Even a few I care about in return. But no - there's noone who has the noose slid round my neck. Noone who both could and would."
     Would you...
     Would I let you...
     Would you want me to ...
     How much will this reiterate, like the girl on the Shaker box of salt with its picture of a girl holding a box of salt, down onwards through the mirrored glass of infinity...
     And that seems too much confession on his part; he turns away, picking up one of your stiletti and slicing through string and cloth with a jagged rip that sends a few salt crystals scattering, rattling on the floor and in the sink basin. "Yell all you like," Gwilym says carelessly, without looking at you. "It won't sting right away, anyway - takes time for salt to dissolve, oes? But it will sting. And it'll hurt less than alcohol would." He chuckles. "Worst torture I've ever felt," he murmurs, confides in you. "A thousand shallow cuts and then being tossed into a bathtub full of raw brandy. But it wakes you up."
     He says nothing more, returning to lean on the edge of the tub again, bending over and past you to dump the salt under the rough flow of warm water. There is a sudden remoteness to him, as if he is looking at something else - somewhere else. Even from himself, he would hide his thoughts if he could. They are so much in turmoil.
     "I do not think you ungrateful," Gwilym says finally, his voice soft. "I ... did not think you were real. I thought it was illusions, sent to torment me. I - have made enemies, oes? It's the sort of thing they might do, if they somehow glimpsed inside of me."
     I hint to you at my feelings, without being able to openly confess. Things have to be dragged out. It adds to my shame and my guilt. Even if this were what you wanted, you are in no shape for it now.
     Gwilym looks up, seeking your gaze with his own. "Is there anything I can do? To ... help you, I mean. I ... do not want you to be in pain."

     Iovis watches as the crystals pour into the bathwater, dissolving to be tiny spears and lances against his skin in mere minutes. But will it be any worse than the burning he has felt in his blood all night? "I have enemies who would do the same," he whispers. "I was... out of my mind... thinking what hands might be against your skin, all those undeserving men, who could not fathom your complexity, your spirit," it rises up in him again. "I... could not watch others do what I wished, to try to steal what I wanted to hold." His jaw tightens, his expression going blank as he moves, sliding into the water after such admissions.
     The pain of a thousand cuts in salt water are preferred over the pain of such an admittance. "I do not have the strength to beguile you," Iovis groans as he gives his body to the water. Arms resting on the sides of the bath, he slowly and finally lowers those in as well, submerging himself up to his chin.
     He must be in pain, for Iovis is very rarely quiet unless he is throwing his knives. Blinking his eyes open, he stares forward. The salt is hitting him and the warmth of the water. Stinging pinpricks cover him. Is there a part of me that is not wounded?
     "I could use a brandy to drink... and I do not usually drink," he lilts roughly, his voice edged as he shifts in the water. The water was once clear; now it is growing red. A part of him enjoys it, bathing in blood. If only it weren't his own.
     His right hand lifts, it shifts beneath the water, feeling out his various wounds, their depth or shallowness, their soreness. "No one but you knows me," he notes. "Knows any part of me. Not even the one who brought me into this world," whatever world that is, "... knows me. I am shadow and enigma, mask and mirror. That is all. It is right I show my face to one who is as much of an enigma as I... to the one who bested me in shadows... and saved my life. I owe you this much. And so... I give it to you."
     Suddenly there is a stream of Italian. Beautiful in sound, but vicious in meaning. "Figlio di puttana! Va funcuolo Dio e tutte santi!" Lolling back his head, Iovis closes his eyes, the back of his head resting on the porcelain of the bath.

     "It is complicated. I ... you don't owe me anything." Gwilym's eyes widen, his colour going high again, and he rattles off his retort. "Owe me! You wouldn't have gotten hurt in the first place if it weren't for me, oes? I am here because I care about you."
     The words are said, and Gwilym flinches. It is as if he has just uttered words that will trigger some geas, in some way leading to his downfall. Why is it that he associates the potential of gaining his heart's desire with his downfall? Why...
     Why do I guard my heart, this worthless piece of rubbish? Why do I not let it be what it is? How do people get through this? Da said - but I don't know how to open these locks. He snorts, a quiet sound. Imagine, me, not knowing how to open locks. I should be ashamed of myself. Shame - maybe that's the problem, really. "Do you want me to get you some brandy? And I have to admit, one thing puzzles me about that," Gwilym rolls out, "and that is why you pay for sex. Prostitutes, male or female, they're just looking for money, oes? There's plenty looking for pleasure instead. It is what I do." As you know. Perhaps that was tactless of me.
     He slants a glance at you sideways, where you sit in the tub, and he slides to his knees next to the tub, leaning forward to cradle his hands near your bicep. "When it gets to me," Gwilym admits quietly, "when it is all too much, I have always headed to the clubs. For a year or two, now. Since I ... admitted to myself my interest in men." He shrugs. He will tell you. That does not mean he will look at you as he tells you. "Leave myself open to whatever happens, oes? It never lasts longer than the night, if even that long. But I can get out of it what I need to. Something, anyway. Marks on my skin. Things which noone will see but me, in the mirror, if I choose to look. Noone knows that I do it. Except now you."
     It is confession. It is vulnerability, and he squirms at that, having difficulty with the taste of it. For a moment, emerald eyes meet your gaze; then slant away again. "You don't owe me a thing," he says quietly; and then he is pushing himself up to one foot, still down on one knee. "Shall I go find you some brandy?"

     He looks at you, black eyes set in a pale olive face. He nods, his left arm reaching out and grasping yours for a moment. His blooded and bruised lip, swollen above and beyond its normal fullness, makes an odd, slight smile. Perhaps he, of all, understands how difficult confessions are. "Si... you would not be here if you did not care. I know. Grazie," he whispers.
     "They are handy informants. I pay them for information more than I pay them for sex. But... then I sometimes fuck them, so... maybe I am paying for sex." He grins, even though it hurts, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The salt is starting to set in. Even a vampire would feel that, though a body's chemistry changes with immortality. It is like being sautered together, a creature made from pieces. The salt draws out the toxins. It is the blood that heals itself.
     "I think I have a bottle somewhere. Maybe it is in my bedroom. We will check, si?" The vampire thinks to say: Do you want to get in? It is only I who stands between you and a darkness greater than what those shadows held tonight. There is such temptation, more than I have felt in a while, to let my tongue shake off its sorrows and curl around a stream of steaming red. Do I breathe? I forget sometimes that that, too, is a mask. Does it quicken in my focus, or deepen.
     Iovis catches your look, and in moving his hand to brace upon the edge of the tub in preparation for his standing, he makes sure to slide his hand against your hand. It is not subtle. He does not mean for it to be.
     "I have been with both. To me... it has little to do with gender." It has everything to do with blood. "What difference does it make, in the end? Ha! Well, the ends are different," he grins at that. "But to quote a friend: when the lights are out... who's cares?"
     We are both naked, both scratching ourselves to reveal our wounds to one another. We are becoming our own pack. Two wolves is all it takes.
     His hands gripping the sides of the bath, Iovis struggles to rise, and though he struggles, he prevails. The water has washed away the excess viscera, revealing the wounds on his side, his legs. But his vitals, his organs, where protected. He knows how to brawl, and his wounds reflect it. The wounds are serious, aggravated, but not fatal. His face is still bloody. That is the next to be cleaned.
     A hand reaches out for your shoulder, to brace himself so sore and wounded muscles can stiffly move without him tripping out of the tub. He seems not to care that he is on display. There is neither discomfort nor shame. Virility is unvanquished. It should be shredded but for his speed and his understanding of protecting the body's core. Using your shoulder as a wall, Iovis climbs slowly out of the tub. He heads for the basin of his sink, turning on the water and letting the blood rinse off the stiletti as he splashes warm water on his face. Some wounds have already scarred over, others converting to bruises, still others working to close. In a week it will be as if it had never occurred.
     "It is as they say: confronting death makes life all the sweeter," Iovis murmurs. The mirror over his sink flashes his features at you, his gaze fixing on your own reflection. His cherubic mouth, though bruised, spreads in a full smile, the flesh swollen. It is making his already hard to understand English all the more muddled. "As long as I live," he murmurs, "...your secrets will be safe with me, Gwilym."

     I am high-strung. Too high-strung, maybe. If I am not careful, I will unlock all my doors and unbolt all my windows with this man. Why not just tell him, help yourself to the treasure chests? Oh, and don't forget the coin collection hidden in the bedframe. I will be a fool if I do not guard myself from myself. Because it is nothing he has done; it is my own impulse, foolish things...
     He reacts to the touch as if stung, stilling the instinctive jerk of his hand by force of will. You pull yourself from the suction of the water, and he looks to you - not so much to observe you but with a hand out to help. He does not yet know fully of what you're capable; how healed you might be, so suddenly, so soon. He is trying not to look too closely at you. He is uncomfortable with himself; it curls in the pit of his stomach, embarrassing him.
     "All the more reason for me to make sure you stay alive, oes?" Gwilym smiles faintly, but it never reaches his eyes. They are serious, for once, looking at you and away; always his eyes dart away from you, but always, they keep stealing back, they keep returning.
     You move to the sink and he rises to his feet, reaching past you to take his dagger, checking it for signs of blood or other muck. "I'd best clean my sword," he murmurs, settling against the edge of the tub again and pulling the scabbard across his knees. He pulls the sword from the scabbard, grimacing as he peers down at the blood, and then into the scabbard. A pass through shadow brings a dull white cloth; he begins meticulously polishing the sturdy metal, head bowed to his task. "I don't tell other people's secrets," he says quietly, not looking up. "Only mine." And I have told you several of mine. More than I should have. And I want to tell you more. It is absurd. I want you to find out everything. Not just to tell you, though I want to confess, but -
     He has to stop. His thoughts have turned vivid, graphic, and they bring colour high into his face again. He is sure that you can tell what he is thinking about, and it makes him all the more self-conscious. "Let's change the topic, oes? You're wounded, the last thing you need is to hear every random thought crossing the sink-trap of my brain."

     Were his blood not being consciously shifted to heal himself, more of him would be on display. It is in his gut, barking at him. He reaches up to a cabinet above the sink, taking a towel or two and rolling the stiletti in them. They will have to be oiled and cleaned thoroughly. He does not have it in him to do so tonight. He wraps them up tight, the water pulled from them, their blades protected from the air.
     "This is no place to sit and ruminate the night away, I agree." Iovis starts to laugh but thinks better of it. He comes to stand in front of you, his hand going to your shoulder. "Bring your sword," he smiles, his mouth less bloody now but no less bruised. By tomorrow evening it will still be swollen and sore, but much less blue. "Only help me to get prone with a drink. You will not have to play nurse for much longer."
     His motions are stiff, even as you warned and he expected, and his naked form is rigid in his own discomfort and in his own need for sustenance. It will not let him be, this need. And it makes its presence known to you in the black pitch of his gaze as he looks to you. That look. It is like music to the ears of a snake. He can hear your blush as well as see it.
     "Hearing your thoughts, amice, keeps me from having my own," his swollen lips tug in amusement. "It will be easier to listen when I am on my back. I do not think it matters what side I sleep on." He has a wound on pretty much every surface. "Come... I think we could both use a drink. I know... I need one..."

     "My sword can wait." Both of them. The metal is dismissed, tossed to his own as he rises to his feet again, looking up at you as he begins to rise. Your gaze and his collide, and yes, his blush remains - to his own chagrin.
     I blush like a bloody girl. It is ridiculous. Past ridiculous - you are a grown man. You do not need this.
     "Oes," Gwilym agrees aloud, lending you his support. That he is willing to do; he can do that without thinking about it too deeply. "So..."

     How it is I move under my own power is a testament to pure will. I cannot feel my legs -- and I think this is a good thing -- and my balance is certainly not what it should be. But I hobble all the same. I hobble and struggle, my hands braced on the walls of the narrow hallway.
     The light of the hallway casts a dim glow upon the interior of his bedroom. Unlike the sparse and meager living area with its one used sofa and chair, the bedroom is comfortable, well fitted and filled with Italian design. The bed frame is upholstered leather over wood, black of course, and the bedding is red (his colors, apparently). The windows are covered over with thick curtains, striped Italian damask in red and gold and black. There is a rug fit for a palazzo on the floor, and Italian furnishings add a strange touch of Old World regality to this one-bedroom Touraine flat. He has even replaced the original light fixture with a chandelier of Murano glass, jewel-tone red. The door is heavy, not original to this structure but likewise brought from Italy. It has several locking mechanisms on it, from the fanciful to the modern.
     "Ah, old friend," Iovis croons to his bed, the limping, hobbling cherub all but singing, "... how I long to fall into you and not bother coming up for air!" He puts a hand to the leather headboard, his other slowly lowering to the bed's surface even as he starts to bend. His muscles, his skin are tightening, and he winces with the effort. "I am not going to want to get up, I know this," he murmurs to himself. "Gwilym... if you could go into the closet there... pull out a shirt and the trousers on the door... they will be easy to pull on for me. Grazie," Iovis breathes as he slowly comes around, turns around to sit upon the edge of his bed. Thankfully, his mattresses are thick and set high -- he does not have far to go.

     "Oes, of course." You need help, and he is only too willing to help, right now, quick on his feet and moving rapidly. There is contrition there. I am selfish. I am thinking my own thoughts - reading so much into every word and every nuance. And you? You are in pain. I must be less self-centered.
     He obtains the clothes you've requested, moving back to the bed with them laid across his arms in the manner of a valet. He will play the clown, if you let him, joke away the seriousness, joke until you have forgotten that he has hinted as to his thoughts, his dreams, his visions. Why discuss his sexuality, his fantasies, when he is being such a funny fellow? He is constructing the part in his head with the finesse and speed of a juggler already. Defense mechanisms.
     "So," Gwilym drawls as he holds the trousers out, then the shirt, "about that brandy."

     Brandy. He is looking at you as he painfully pulls on the shirt. Brandy is not what I wish. You can see his body straining, you can see the energy, feel it draining from him as it is redirected to his own healing. There is so much to heal. So much to do. And he needs blood to continue to have the energy to do it.
     "I do not want brandy now," Iovis whispers, his black eyes lifting, fixing on you. "Your magic is shadows, Gwilym." He pauses momentarily as he steels himself to pull on the lounge pants. "Mine is blood."
     My mouth must be numb. It must be critically wounded to burble up such things like blood, like choked air. But I want it. I want to taste it, your blood. It moves in me. I want what I want. It is the curse of a thief. And when the object has presented itself, the thief cannot be turned from it.
     "I want you," Iovis admits it. "And I want to taste you." And that desire moves through him. His gaze is intense as he stares at you through the pulling on of the pants. "You are in my blood. You burn there, Gwilym," he whispers, repeating his earlier, passionate confession.

     Close, so close -
     He was on the verge of perfecting that facile mask, and now it spins away like straw before Rumpelstilstkin's wheel. You are clothing yourself, and he is staring at you, listening to your words and swallowing with mouth gone dry. It is not the talk of blood. It does not matter. Shadows, blood, magic - it all ties together in the end, oes? It is your repeated confession. And this time, there is the faintest crack.
     "I want you."
     That wasn't a small crack. Gwilym lifts a hand, covering his eyes. Subtle, Gwi - very good. You come across with all the charm of a rugby fan who's had six pints on an empty stomach. No way out but through. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed, turning to look at you.
     "I do not know what it is, or why," Gwilym begins. His hand skirts towards yours, brushing it but not maintaining the contact. "But ... I do. More than I should. More than you would want, if you knew the thoughts that go through my mind. I am ... wanting very much to tell you about myself, to show you who I am, what I am. It is hard for me to do this thing. The more I want it, the more I resist it, the more I fight it. It takes more than just me."
     He flushes, colour again rising, and his breath skips shallowly as he leans towards you. "I ... don't care if you are into blood. If you want to taste me..." Gwilym hesitates, then slowly, he folds back the cuff of his shirt, looking at you. And slowly, with an air of sheer disbelief at himself, he brings his hand up, gently cupping your cheek.
     I want you to know me. I am on the brink of telling you too much...

     "I know what it is," Iovis whispers. It is life. The want of it, the beat of it, the desire for it, the lust after it. It is all there is. Some call it hunger, others sexual urge, thirst. It has many names, but there is only one cause for it all. I will not tell you to fight. You will do what you have to do. I will not tell you not to care, not to want, for that is yours to do. But I will not pretend that I do not know what this is. No, I know what it is.
     Everything becomes quite still, quite focused, quite slow. It is the same feeling when he is in the middle of fighting, of throwing those knives. It is the center of a storm, the eye, the center of everything. Iovis covers your hand with his, as he had on the chain in the club, now against his own skin. His tongue traces a vein beneath your wrist. His bruised and swollen lips part widely at your flesh, tasting the salt on your skin, the residue of battle, the tastes that are you -- a combination of everything you are. Iovis closes his eyes, dark curtains veiling his intensity. Seeking to veil it, but the lids and lashes fail.
     He bites into you like Adam biting into the apple...
     Your blood runs over his tongue, against his lips, a fountain of Life in its most essential expression. For him, there is a surge of energy. Your blood is a well-spring of power, of magic. He can taste magic like a spice. He can taste your past, smell it as it fills its nose with the aroma of your life. Of who you are -- that identity that is stamped on every cell. The more trace wounds heal themselves even as he drinks. His lips go from cut and swollen, to merely bruised in seconds. The deeper cuts congeal, and while it will take several more days for him to completely repair -- without a single scar -- he will be healed.
     Your taste, the burn of it is as ecstatic as he imagined. It is everything he imagined it would be -- dark, smoky, with a coppered edge like a blade -- and many things he couldn't have imagined.
     And for you?
     The bite has its edge, but for every sensation of pain, there are ten sensations of pleasure. Orgiastic, ecstatic pleasure. The height of spiritual or sexual intercourse that slaps against your skin and your nerves and writhes against your brain. It lasts longer than the bite. It rolls over you, reverberates against you, makes the bite itself forgotten as he is swathing his tongue over your wrist and lifting his mouth to kiss you elsewhere.
     His blood-warmed mouth is at your neck, even as it was in the club, lewdly, roughly sucking, his tongue sliding over you. He takes in a breath he does not need to breathe as your blood moves through him, its magic... so much, magic... moving in him, though him. Shadows, blood, sex, magic. It all becomes one entwined creature. Iovis groans at the line of your jaw, his mouth feeling its way like a blind gigolo to your own.

     It is not as if apples do not have their own unique form of meaning to the men of his line. The simile is more appropriate than you might imagine, though in this case, he is the apple and you are the one consuming him. There is the low exhale of sound and breath as your mouth moves against his wrist, followed by the choking, stifled gasp that becomes a groan as your teeth sink into his flesh.
     Falling ...
     It is exactly like falling, buffeted by cruel and merciless winds that tear at his defenses. He could deal with pain better than this unexpected, unanticipated pleasure. For a span of moments - he cannot think. His brain, his mind has been turned off, as he twists and shudders upon the gibbet of ecstatic experience.
     Do you taste in his blood, the sum of what he is? There is sunlight as counterpoint to shadow; almost drowned in darkness and in despair, but it is there. A halcyon and green youth, spent in rolling foothills and pleasant meadows as much as grimy alleys and soot-struck shadows. He is filled with such contrasts. They are tastes, rather than sights and sounds; the taste of sunlight dappled onto the skin of an apple, the taste of the sweet and tart juice of a strawberry; the crispness of bacon hot out of a pan, still singeing at the lips, the taste of slow-cooked stewed rabbit, and of venison fresh-caught, gutted and blooded, cooked bloody-rare on the inside and burnt on the outside by over-enthusiastic and underskilled boys at the hunt. The taste, too, of something matured; wine in skins, fevered lips, brandy by a fire in winter. Contrasts...
     He is shuddering as your mouth lifts, barely aware that you have moved. His eyes have rolled back a bit in his head, mouth opened as he struggles to catch his breath. Oh - you are moving. He is first aware of it when you pull at his throat, Gwilym's breath hissing out sharply, and one hand clutches weakly at your hip. You can't possibly expect him to talk, can you? You could ask him anything right now and he would not be able to dissemble. Faster-acting than sodium pentothal; more effective than bribery or torture. He squirms as you press, his mouth resting against yours for a moment before a kiss.

     All these things, amice, I can recognize. When I was a boy, I stole for my food as much as my mother ever prepared it. There was little to go around. An apple was a treasure to be stolen, worthy as any gem. And the best tasting apples were always the ones that were stolen. The sacred and the profane, my childhood in Genoa was that, and for the rest of my life it has been such paradox.
     They are memories, moments on your blood, now in his mouth lingering with the elemental taste of You on his tongue. He does not wonder, he does not take even a moment to ponder whether the flavors in his mouth would sicken you. His blood is there from his injuries, salty, dark, shadowy in its power, power so different from your own -- yours is there, on his breath, now becoming a part of him.
     He groans both in pleasure and in pain as his mouth covers yours, takes it, rends it. He pulls you down to the surface of his bed -- this bed that no one but him has known. The covers are fine, everything that the rest of his house is not. Soft, unlike the kiss that in primal roughness is as much a battle as the battle you and he have fought in the shadow realms. You can feel his teeth, the sharp canines that retract just short of biting, but they scratch all the same, pinch like the edges of his knives. His full mouth, his tongue soothe away such stings.
     Suddenly, your mouth is freed as his trails widely over your skin, your neck. "If you lay with me, I will not be able to keep my hands, my mouth, my teeth from you," Iovis exhales at your ear. "What I cannot say to you, you have witnessed yourself. I am of the Night and Shadow. Unlike you, the light of the sun would kill me." True to his word, his hand is pulling at your clothing, his tongue is circling at your earlobe before his mouth sucks it as if blood shall drip from it. "Well... first, mm... it would hurt me very badly, and then it would kill me." His chuckle eases against your skin and then a hiss of pain as he removes his mouth from your skin and suddenly pulls off the shirt that he took such pains to put on. " I cannot tell you much more than this, for your own protection, amice. Know only that when the sun lives, I die. It will seem as sleep, but it is deeper than sleep. Saying this... I know full well you could decide to destroy me yourself. I give this to you, this knowledge to you, this understanding to you despite the risk."
     Now, we are even, amice. Secret for secret. Essence for essence. We are bound by what we do not say.

     He recognizes the taste of blood on your mouth - but only in a dim sort of way, somewhere in the back of his mind. That taste which is sharp, a bit acrid, like the taste of new-minted copper pennies, a hint of electricity to it. His attention is given to the kiss itself. The taste ... well, it's there, but that's all there is to be noted; instead, he is caught in amber by the kiss, struggling feebly to respond as it swirls about him.
     I am so easily overwhelmed by you. You are dangerous to me; I should run. But my legs do not want to obey. You pull me to you, and I let you, I do not resist. I should resist, I think. But it only occurs to me, and then I am leaning in against you instead. Insistently, at that.
     It is so strange...
     His hands go to your hips as you whisper into his ear, and he pulls you close; pulls your hips sharply against his own. He turns his head to find your eyes with his, his voice raw even if still kept quiet. "I am not a vampire slayer," Gwilym tells you plainly. His gaze remains on you, intently; he keeps you against him. "I am not a Christian, either. I do not hold with other people's morals, do you understand? Be what you are. We are not in opposition."
     His mouth comes to yours, brushing, then tugging at your lower lip. Gwilym exhales, pulling back, releasing your hips. "I have ... wanted to do that," he whispers, admission given. He remains there, hands no longer on you, looking at you. Denying himself again, that which he wants. "I want to tell you ... everything," he whispers. "That which is mine to tell, anyway, oes? But that is difficult for me to do. I can be asked, I can be tricked, I can be tortured, I can be bribed. But a box cannot open itself."

     He understands. It is recognized, your statements, and held in the darkness of his eyes. "I will ask. But not all in one night. Where is the fun in that?" Though you grab him where he is wounded, and though muscles and skin are drawn tight, he does not resist being grabbed, being moved. When you pull him against you, you can feel his arousal, prominent despite his injuries.
     "I was a Christian once, a Catholic. For a few years, I might have even been a good boy, but that was many years ago." His eyes partially close, squint as he feels the sensations of your blood still on the move, of you tugging him. The pain reminds him he is living. He does not mind it when you tug upon his bruised lips, swollen still but a little less than before. "At least you are as amoral as me, si?" He grins there, his mouth parting to let his tongue tease against your own.
     You do not touch him now. "You want... but you resist. You are in a box of your own making, amice. Why do you deny yourself the pleasure and the pain that is living? Is being a specter any more easy?" He does not think so. Grabbing your hips, he pulls you against him again, even as he did in Grunt -- now by your hips instead of a sling's chains. "That is the prison you fear," he speaks at your mouth. Widely and with a great sound, he claims it again, he steals it outright and then shows it to you. "You have closed yourself in, si? Now.... you wait for a thief to pick the lock."
     Half rolling onto you -- you can feel the roughness of where he is scarred, the wounds at least closed over -- and his hand presses at your stomach and steals its way beneath the waistband of your pants to grasp you. "Your lock is in your mind...no? In your heart? But the tumbles of the lock ... those are easiest to hear, si," his mouth covers yours again, his hand moving over you, stroking, "...when the oil of desire is used."

     You speak, and though from him you have taken a measure of his blood, still colour rises in his face. He is embarrassed, yes; caught, revealed, perversely enjoying it despite his discomfort. You speak, you touch him, and through words and deeds you reveal him, whether or not he is willing. It will always be like this with him; he has to fight before he gives in to the inevitable, no matter how pleasurable an inevitability it is.
     "I could never be a good Christian," Gwilym mutters, his mouth pulling free from yours for the words. You are grasping his hips; he can allow himself a touch, then, his hand moving to your shoulder, grasping and then running down along your side. "Too many rules. I am what you would call a pagan. But then, I come from somewhere else."
     Somewhere very else. You roll against him, and he groans loudly as your hand finds him, as you tug at him. He is prodigious, this Celt. Blessed by genetics; perhaps his namesake smiled by mischance when he was conceived. His eyes close, lips moving in some silent Welsh prayer as his hips urge upwards against your hand before falling once more away.
     Abruptly, he sits up. But he is not fleeing; instead, his hands move to pull you closer, one arm sliding to push your discarded shirt off the bed entirely and to the floor. "I want you to see me," Gwilym whispers, as if someone might be listening at the window. "I want you to pick my locks. But there are so many." His mouth moves to your shoulder, opening to gnaw lightly at your skin. "...You should heal before going through such dangerous tasks," he murmurs, mouth tugging wryly at the corners as he glances to your face, "but I don't want you to wait, either. Oes? I am selfish..."
     The smile dies by degrees as he meets your eyes. Dark eyes in a pale olive sea. One hand slides slowly against your hip, and then he leans forward as abruptly as he had sat up, mouth hard against yours for a moment. He pulls back with a tug against your lips. "I want you. But I should be sleeping across your doorstep tonight, not in your bed."

     Iovis laughs, and then he regrets it. "Too many rules," he chuckles, his face contorting with a devil's smile and an expression of pain. You are right, he does not have the energy for what he wants to do, how he wants to do it, no matter how much he wants. He leans in as you sit up (he will regret that later, too), and teeth capture your lips, showing themselves to you. The teeth of a wolf, of a shark, of a serpent, of any predator one can think of. They curve there and press just to the point of breaking skin.
     He grins there, like the serpent likely smiled when mouthing the apple before handing it over to Eve, and then retracts, sitting back. He gives his body to the leathered headboard and pillows. His olive complexion slightly deepened, even as your complexion is slightly more pale. "You are saying no to all of this?" He chuckles as he waves to his beaten and bruised, his battered and scarred body. "I do not believe it!" His mouth forms a triumphant and wicked grin.
     But he knows the wisdom of what you speak. It shows clearly on his face in the following moments. "I should put the blood to the use it was intended, si. To make myself spry and handsome again. It will take a lot of work, no?" He laughs, then winces. "But... no... not at my doorstep no," Iovis shakes his head slowly but emphatically. "You sleep on this bed. You deserve to sleep on the good bed, si. Not the floor. Not for the one who has saved my life. Not for my amice, no."
     A moment of stillness was all that was needed for your blood to do its rapturous work on him. It is in motion, he is healing even as he is lying here. He will need more before the week is out. More even tomorrow, before the wounds to become scratches to become healed. "You... are from someplace else. Someplace I have not been," Iovis mumbles. "Someplace where there are still fields... your blood... whispers to me. I can hear it, taste it." He rolls his head against the headboard, his arousal no less than it was when he was on you like a sucking fiend. Closing his eyes, Iovis shows it, the intensity of it. "I want to move in you... explore you like the last alley on this earth. Tasting you... only made you more enticing. It answered nothing," his lips twist in a smile. "Only more questions."
     Opening his eyes, he looks to you. "If you are not here when I wake, I will be looking for you. Don't make me limp all the way to Lebanon..."

     You receive a quick grin for your laugh, and Gwilym pulls his mouth against yours, tongue stealing quickly against those flickering white points before he pulls away. "Work," he murmurs. "Rest, more likely, oes? Healing is not my magic, I am afraid. I can do much, but for shattered flesh - little." Only battlefield triage, and he would prefer not to have it required of him.
     You argue your point in favour of your bed, and for a moment Gwilym looks set to dispute it; but he calls the words back, presses them behind his lips, behind his teeth. "I will stay with you until I wake," he compromises. "I will need to eat, then, oes? And it doesn't seem likely you keep a well-stocked kitchen."
     He rolls his hips against the air for a moment, watching you as you speak. As you move. And he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, then shakes his head bullishly, throwing himself down on his stomach, on the bed but next to you and not on you. "Someplace else, oes," Gwilym tells you quietly, rolling on his side and looking at you, his smile sudden and sweet, like his mother's, like his father's, beautiful and both of this world and not. "But not Lebanon. Where I am from, there are still wild places. There will always be wild places. We'll not speak of it now, oes? You need your sleep. I promise you this much." His hand comes out, rests for a moment lightly on your own. "If I go, I will return by sunset. When the shadows come back, so will I."

     "I am not good at resting," Iovis warns. "But at dawn," he rolls his head to look at you, "... it is not far off, I will have no choice." He twists a smile, his mouth contorting around his injuries there. "And there is food in my kitchen. There is a bottle of wine in my kitchen," he chuckles, then groans. "Maybe some bread... si...si... so it is not a cafe, but... I do not usually stay here except in this room to sleep. See... all my comforts of home are here...stolen from other people's homes...only the best for Iovis Macarelli."
     He gives your arm a pat and allows his body to sink into the bedding. There is no part of him that does not hurt, but he cannot lie on his side as he normally would. "Make sure my windows are all shut. No light, amice, no light." He turns his head, closing his eyes. His face is turned toward you. "When the shadows come back," Iovis murmurs.
     For all he claims about not being good at resting, he rests easily when he stops talking. But breathing is becoming an afterthought. Sometimes he does; sometimes he does not. Eventually it will stop altogether and he will be very still. More still than he is when a knife is in his hands.

     "You will rest for now," Gwilym murmurs. He watches you intently. Panic has not yet had a chance to return; there is no real thought of flight. "I'll eat when I wake up. And I will return, as I said, when shadows do."
     He nods to your instructions, without surprise; accepting the facts of your existence without concern or alarm. Perhaps that is strange. Perhaps it is just the strangeness of his own existence which makes him so blase. Whatever it is, your rest will be safe. He watches you give yourself over to sleep.
     When you are asleep, when daylight has come, he will be gone; returned to his own home, to take advantage of the difference between those spinning worlds. He will rest there and heal, eating and spending time thinking; he will have time in which to think. But he will come to no conclusions. And when shadows begin to creep long upon the streets of Tours, he will return as he has promised.
     Whether it is wise for him to do so or no...

Posted by rowan at November 11, 2006 07:16 PM