Colored lights they hypnotize...
     In the heart of London's warehouse district, you can't throw a tizzy fit without running into another club. Some underground, some exclusive. The clientele move back and forth, going from one to another to another. By midnight, all of the clubs are packed, bodies and lights waving this way and that way, crowding in at the bars, filling VIP areas and stairways alike.
     I came out of a two-day haze, amice, and left a message for you in blood to hover on your shadows. I have followed your trail where it has ended, in a swelling sea of flesh and blood. My nose, it is searching for the scent of your sweat, the smell of our blood that blushes your skin.
     And in the meantime, I move between dancer's bodies, sipping an amaretto as I come and go...
     Iovis Macarelli, a sometime visitor to London, moves among the thronging crowds, lifting his hand with its small cordial glass, the amaretto hiked to safety when needed. He is dressed as he's always dressed. Black leather coat over dark t-shirt (this one screen printed O Fortuna! from Orff's Carmina Burana) and tonight a pair of dark blue button fly jeans and the usual motorcycle boots. His motorcycle, as a matter of fact, is parked in an alley down the street, being guarded by booby traps and a homeless man who lives in a box and sees demons in blue jeans. His black, curly hair is the usual wild tangles, grapevines for this modern Dionysus. Those riot of ringlets create an eclipse around his face where others might create a halo...
     Come out, come out wherever you are, Amice...
     Slipping along the perimeter of the dancefloor, Iovis moves from shadow to shadow, peering...

     You are such strangeness, such madness to me. So familiar and yet so alien; you call me and I come. Not running, perhaps, no, it's more of a saunter, but the casualness of my stride is feigned, put on for your benefit. A game we both know that we are playing.
     He got your message, after (for him) close to a week spent in his other world. He has been recovering, in part. Thinking of you, certainly. Thinking, in general, quite a bit. Thinking has by now gotten old, though; he is ready to do something. Something? Anything. Already, he has been haunting the home of a certain retired historian of Human Studies in his other world, who is quite ready to be rid of the good-for-nothing prince, and would as much as say so - if Gwilym did not keep turning up with bottles of expensive (and undoubtedly stolen) wines and liqueurs.
     Tonight, he has received your message - loud and clear. And as if he were a girl, the first thing his mind went to was how he would impress you. Part of the game, oes? Head tilting this way and that, he considered - and then, decided, lips curved into a faint smile. Tonight... when you see him, you will not mistake him.
     You will find him at the club...
     Where is he...
     I am at the Center of All Things, my favourite place to be, always. Here I am, relishing the attention which others give me; I accept it as my due, my right. I could claim that I rule here, and few would argue, right now. My personality is not fully unveiled (never fully) but its force and its weight are there to be remarked upon. As am I...
     He wears tailored white trousers which gather in close every few inches with diagonal stitches, also white, to bring the material in close against his legs. They are almost snug, and of some sort of very soft cotton. With them, he wears a silver-grey mesh tank top, which comes closer to being snug than the trousers; the mesh is loose, closer to being like fishing netting in size than a football jersey. Through it, the marks on his upper chest are dimly visible; dimly only, the patterns rippling and distorting. His boots are similar to your own; black leather, dull silver buckles holding the black straps in place. Around his throat, braided black leather meets at a silver ring in front, while from his shoulders dangles a very thin leather jacket which if it were closed, would perfectly define his torso. It isn't closed now; his hair falls down in front to cover one eye, and his cheeks are flushed, giving him the look of a rock star.
     He is not hiding. He is in the middle of everything; moving, dancing first with one girl, then with two, turning then to a boy younger even than he is. He is laughing, head tipped back so that the braided leather bobs over the hollow of his throat; and then Gwilym peels off the jacket with a lazy sinuous twist of his shoulders, letting the leather dangle from two fingers as he brings his hand up towards himself, stopping just a bit above shoulder level. His lips curve in reckless, riotous glee, and then -
     He hurls the jacket from him, to be caught by whichever eager hands want it. The music is pulsing. And he? He is working the crowd. And waiting for you.

     Amice, if you only knew what hunting you meant to me. Hide, hide. I will find you out.
     Smiling, Iovis focuses his attention on the dancefloor, his tongue holding the amaretto before letting it slide down his throat.
     You send up your jacket like a flare, like a flag. He's not there to catch it, but he turned his head to watch it sail by. It might not be you, but it might be something interesting. The amaretto is finished, the cordial glass licked clean of the cloying liqueur, and the glass set aside on a table as he passes by.
     There are spaces between dancers, no matter how close together they stand or move. He can see each motion as it is happening, and moving so much faster than they he slips between them like thread through a the eye of a needle. He moves through the crowd to where that flag, that flare originated...
     Dark eyes fix on you, fix on the ones who are dancing with you, touching you. He is hidden in a forest of moving, writhing bodies, touches glancing off of him like falling leaves. He doesn't notice them, and to them he becomes all but invisible. Iovis moves as they move, but slower, then faster, between their motions, their bodies like a specter. Like a shadow.

     There are always people to dance with. Always. He is not paying them very much attention; they are there. They are puppets to be toyed with and then discarded. His attention is focused outwards from them, even if they can't see that; he is waiting for you.
     The jacket is caught by someone or other in the grip of the frenzy he is creating. It is not a frenzy such as you and yours might engage in, but it is strong; he is clever, and quick, and the strength of his personality is allowed out to play right now. A casual touch to the cheek of the boy he's dancing with, and the boy's dismissed. Someone else's turn. He sways and grinds, body rippling with the music, turning this way and that. All he needs is a chain to climb, and he would grab it and climb up, laughing, as physically out of reach as he is in every other way.
     He is teasing them, leading them on. He is getting them worked up in the same way of a dolphin trainer slapping the water with a fish. And those who can see him are responding to it, to that superb self-confidence with its veneer of sensuality.
     Where are you, Iovis? Do you see me? Are your dark eyes on me now - hunting me, as I wait for you? I could hardly make myself a bigger target. And here I stand, and here I wait. I taunt you, I torment you. I do my best to make you want me - and to get a little revenge in for the torments and exposures of the other night.
     After all, how else will I persuade you to do it again, and worse?
     Gwilym laughs as a girl stumbles into him, and briefly his arm goes around her. But it is only to steady her on her feet; then she is steered, gently but purposefully, into the arms of another man. They may not have known each other before tonight. Perhaps they had no interest in each other. But now they have something in common; Gwilym turns his back on them both.

     There is an arm around your waist -- there is nothing extraordinary about this, you are touched by many in glancing ways. And before you can turn to see who your new dance partner is, you feel the grip tighten and hear a voice at your ear: "Putting on a show?" It is Iovis behind you. As another young man -- maybe your age, maybe younger -- comes up to you, he is one-armed by the dark Italian.
     "How many men am I going to have to kill tonight?" He grins, but he half means it. "You are out here, putting on a show for everyone to look at. I'm not sure I like it." And he is not dancing. Iovis doesn't dance. Fuck them. He stands where you and others dance, decidedly different from everyone who surrounds him.
     But he is lying. He does not like it, but he likes it...
     "You like driving me mad, I see," Iovis says at your ear again, his arm pulling you close to him. "You want me to froth at the mouth like a rabid dog?" He doesn't ask you to come with him, he doesn't join in the dance. He tugs you, taking a handful of your silver mesh.

     The arm is glanced at, but he begins to turn. And before he can, your grasp goes closer, and you whisper to him. Gwilym does perhaps the unforgivable; he laughs.
     It is a brief laugh. "The show is for you," he murmurs, turning his head to answer you as best he can. "You wanted to find me. I knew you would be looking." He is almost preening, he is so pleased with himself. And he continues in Italian. "Ho reso questa attrezzatura giusta per voi. Li ho desiderati vederglieli e desiderarli. Ogni pollice di esso ed ogni pollice di me. Ha funzionato?"
     He moves against you, in your grasp. You are not dancing, but he is; slower now, but he moves, enjoying the friction, enjoying the chance to tease you. You are behind him, and he cannot turn with your grip on him that way. But he can reach back, his hand touching your arm, your hip. "I like driving you mad," Gwilym agrees, grinning and half-closing his eyes. "As much as you do me." There is little resistance for the tug. "Are we leaving, then? So soon?"

     "You want to stay and dance?" He does not relinquish the grip on the mesh, his fingers sinking into the net of it to graze your skin. "I am going to watch you from..." Iovis pauses, glancing up and around to get a vantage point. "From there," he points to the upstairs VIP area. And just how is this very non-VIP going to get past the VIP goons?
     Ha... as if that is a challenge!
     "You stay out and dance if you want to dance," his fingers let loose your mesh, bypassing it altogether to splay against your stomach. Iovis drags his nails against the skin of your gut. "But don't touch anyone!" he admonishes suddenly. "I would hate to ruin your dancing by breaking the arms and legs of your partners."
     The ruinous angel sets you free, disappearing as quickly as he appeared, no disruption of dancers giving his trail away.
     I do not dance, Amice. Not even as a child did I enjoy it. Maybe the tarantella. But nothing like this. It is just a riot of color and sound and motion. Nothing as organized as a tarantella...
     Up above, a dark-clothed Italian leans against the railing of a roped off section, waving away offers of drinks and cigarettes. His attention is on the dancefloor below.

     He groans quietly as you touch him, his hand coming up to trap your hand for a moment. "Who would I touch?" Gwilym murmurs to you carelessly, turning his head. "Do you think there is anyone here who could make me feel the way you do? Go and enjoy yourself from your perch, then. I'll find you in a little bit."
     It is impossible for him to remain entirely untouched, especially now that there is some evidence of rising desire. The white trousers go from almost snug to definitely snug in one area, at least, shape given definition. But he brushes people away carelessly, making it look easy the way he does it. That is his gift and his curse. What he does, he makes look easy.
     With your appearance and disappearance, though, some of the fun of teasing the crowd has gone. He would rather be with you than here, only being watched by you. Still, he is not one to leave a pattern incomplete before its time; he returns to his manipulations, his smile flashing as he dances, turning first one way, then another. When arms try to entangle him, he disentangles; gently but firmly. Better his gentleness than your roughness, oes?
     His interest has gone out of it. He mimics interest, but where before there was passion, now he is dispassionate. Energy is pushed through nonetheless, his eyes seeking upwards, scanning the railings for a glimpse of you, smile and focus on that. On you. The energy builds, crests - and then he drops like a stone, making dancers gasp in surprise. There is such a cluster. Noone is quite sure what happened. And while they are looking for him, he has vanished through shadows a short way, from the center to the edges. The confusion radiates outwards from the center, but soon enough the natural energy of the dance, the club will reassert itself, the magnetic north of it all concentrated on finding the stairs to the VIP lounge.
     Somehow, Gwilym is not concerned about getting past the security. He has names he can whisper. And if all else fails, he believes you will come for him...

     He is leaning against the railing as you come up, but straightens and waves you forward upon your arrival. The guard of the velvet rope doesn't stop you. Whether that's because Iovis told him you were coming or he watched you on the dancefloor, who knows. He may have his own reasons. "I am not a dancer," Iovis says, voice lifted, his accent even more obvious when he is raising his voice. He is smiling, teeth catching the light. "Come," he waves you forward, then takes you by the arm and leads you further in.
     The VIP area is not one area but several. There are wrought iron catwalks leading over the dancefloor to several smaller lounges with individual bars. Within these, there are pockets of shadows. He leads you to these, ushering you with him...
     In the pitch, you are shoved -- no, not over a catwalk -- but against a shadowed wall, the side wall of one of the lounges. Lights bounce here and there in a confusion of colors, but they never quite reach the shadows where you stand. In the darkness, you are kissed. You cannot see him, maybe he cannot see you. But who needs eyes to grapple in the dark?
     His mouth covers yours hotly, widely. It is consuming -- teeth, lips and tongue all joining in the fray. You feel a tug on your mesh shirt. Can you hear it? The cutting of fabric. Strand by strand your mesh begins to fall apart, cut by the edge of one of the stiletti. The coolness of metal moves against your skin, the hilt sliding with its smooth and rounded end along your chest and to your navel.
     "I could not stand it," Iovis whispers, the breath of his speech moving against your ear, his voice as low as possible. "I must grope you a while in the darkness before I let you go to dance again." He laughs, slipping the pommel end of his stiletto along your navel, dipping it just beneath your waistband.
     "You tempt me," he hisses low. "You are worse than the devil." His mouth closes over yours again, choking out his last syllable.

     You lead him, and he allows himself to be led, moving with an easy grace. "You don't have to be a dancer," Gwilym remarks, and his emerald eyes move over you; down, then up again. "I like watching you all the same."
     Ah, blessed shadows; but the push is still not expected. He prevents himself from falling down, partly by grabbing onto you. And your mouth is on his, and he has no objections to that whatsoever.
     You can hear him make sounds, breathing turning unsteady as your mouth works against his. He answers your kiss with his own heat, his own energy; and there is a quiet gasp as you begin to cut his shirt. His hands fall to your hips, one hand caressing, then squeezing, the other tucking into your pocket. It is not a pickpocket's hold. It is the hold of a man working on maintaining some sense of balance, of equilibrium.
     "So why let me go dance again tonight?" Gwilym whispers, his eyes sparkling as he bends his head a little, squirming as the cool metal travels against his skin. "You can find other things to do with me, oes?" You hiss your words, and he bends further, mouth to mouth, his tongue and teeth greedy as he all but grapples with you. He gives his weight to the wall, tugging you up against him, breaking the kiss for air.
     "We could go somewhere else..."

     That quiet laughter. If you did not know him and you heard that sound in the dark, your instinct might tell you to grab your wallet and run. "Si, we could. But it is so early, amice. It seems almost cowardly to just leave." He twists to escape the hand going into his pocket -- a thief's reaction. What are you doing there, you sneak? He laughs again, his laughter strangling in your mouth as he attacks it, fighting it tooth and tongue again.
     "I like torture, do you notice this?" he teases. "It is an act, no? To pretend I can't have what I want," his fingers press against your stomach, slipping past the tightness of your own trousers to tease against you. "You like it," he whispers, his mouth clawing its way across your mouth to your ear. "You torture yourself all the time. I see you. Deliberately not taking what you want just so it will be better when you do. This is how the thief keeps himself hungry. He...passes by the window of a shop a thousand times before he breaks in to take the thing he wants."
     You feel his mouth at your ear, his tongue toys with your earlobe. "I want to fuck you. I want you on your knees with your mouth full." His voice is hoarse, his breath moving against you, his lips brushing your skin as he speaks. "You have a place here," he knows you do. "Show me where."

     Your mouth is kissed; half embrace, and half fighting before the kiss is again broken in his need for air. "As long as your torture doesn't leave me broken," Gwilym murmurs to you, eyes gleaming as he grins. His hands settle at your waist, one hand rubbing across your belly. "I do not heal so quickly as you, oes? Be mindful in your torture."
     It is a teasing reminder, but a reminder all the same. One leg comes up a bit, winding around yours to pull you in and hold you against him so that you can feel his erection trapped under your hand, between your body and his. His eyes warm from behind them as you speak. "I don't always deny myself what I want."
     And I want you. Duw, I want you more than I thought it possible for me to want anyone or anything. You are so filled with vitality. I could finally get warm, with you...
     He drops his head, tilting his ear to your mouth with a low exhale. "I have a place I use," Gwilym murmurs, his hands moving along your spine. "But it isn't mine. I have ways here into the place which is mine. Do you want to go there? It is never far for me..."

     I know, Amice. I have tasted pieces of what you are upon your blood. That you have other abilities, I have also tasted. I do not yet know what they are, but I know that beyond this you are as mortal as anyone else. I am mindful, especially when I am torturing you. Especially when your blood passes my lips. You taste so good, I must guard against the reflex to suck you dry.
     "I know, do not worry, si? Iovis understands," his hand pats you in the darkness. Not on your back or your side where you might expect it, but against the erection that your pants can't help but show, clinging as they were before you hardened. He squeezes you there, and takes a half step back.
     "Si," Iovis answers simply, easily. He smiles quicksilver in the shadows, a trace amount of light easing in to show it. "Show me, Guillermo," he croons out against the music. The black leather coat settles on him again, his stiletto put away for not. And he waits on you to lead the way.

     He is unaware of your thoughts, his hands still on you; you get a hissed exhalation of breath as you pat him there, of all places. Impossible not to react. He sucks in his stomach, the muscles tensing and then releasing. As if he were not already willing to go with you.
     "Follow me," he murmurs, moving slowly at first away from the wall. Your hand is caught at, tugged lightly for a moment, and then released. And he is heading down - down the stairs, ignoring the crowds, ignoring any looks he might receive from those who long or those who lust or those who loathe, alike. En route, he spots his jacket, and without a word, he reaches out, plucking it from the grasp of whoever's got it. He doesn't care. He is faster by far.
     And then there is outside. The cold air mingles with the smoke from those clustered outside the door, and he smiles like a departing rock star, shouldering his way into his jacket, ignoring the obvious erection he sports. "This way," Gwilym murmurs to you, confident that you are nearby, even if not right there. He turns, he lopes down the street; turns again, down an alley.
     How much time did I spend when I was first here, memorizing these alleyways while miserable with jealousy and envy and loneliness about my brother's affair of the heart? But at least it was time put to good use. I could have been writing bad poetry and dying my hair black. Ha. Riot. Down a little further, another turn - we are not being followed, of that I am sure. I would hear it. I would sense it. And if I did not, you, my friend - you would. I would rather have you at my back than any rabid leopard.
     "Here," Gwilym announces suddenly. He has come to the center of four alleys meeting, a little courtyard-crossroads filled with mouldering garbage and rats. He looks to you, the beginnings of a grin forming on his face, and he holds out his hand. "Are you ready?"

     He is on your heels, and with instinctual sharpness his senses are turned to the surroundings. There are eyes everywhere -- he is not deceived -- but tonight, right now they are turned elsewhere. "Si," Iovis says quietly, his breath hitting the air and lingering a moment. It is chilly at night now in the transition from autumn to winter.
     So this is what they mean when they say one comes at a crossroads. The leather-wearing, cherub-faced Iovis glances around, then looks to you, nodding. I am ready, Amice, for whatever you have to show me. And the curiosity has captured me as surely as a cat. Lust is set aside for the start of a new game, of sorts.
     Iovis looks at your hand a moment, then takes it. With a grin and a wink, he kisses it, bowing with all the artifice and grace of an Italian courtier. His Renaissance is showing.

     He laughs quietly, a certain frisson of excitement for your gesture, for your presence. Gwilym turns, grinning at you, then - looks away. From somewhere, he pulls a piece of chalk, rolling it across his palm before he holds it properly with a toss to his other hand. He plants his palm firmly against one wall, and begins sketching rapidly, the outline of a door. There is the clicking of the chalk; and the shadows seem to encroach the closer as he draws.
     It isn't any great work of art, but then, he's working quickly, with an eye to speed. "Some areas, I don't need to do this," he remarks to you, "but here... this makes it easier for me, oes?" He finishes, tossing the chalk down and grinding it underfoot. Then he puts his hand on the chalk doorknob with the hand covered still with chalk-dust, grasps - and turns, as if he holds onto something solid. And a door opens where there was no door before.
     "After you, if you like," Gwilym murmurs to you. "I'd swear on my mother, but I don't know if you'd believe me; so I swear on my arse, it's not a trap."

     His expression had gone quiet, so still when you began drawing. Night upon night, the shadows thicken. Iovis perceives them not as the gathering of shadows, as you do, but as the decrease of street lights and other lighting. His other arm folding across his chest in interest, he gives your fingers a slight squeeze, his dark eyes lighting on you as he cants a smile. "I am not worried, amice. If this were three months ago, maybe. But not now." Not after such worthy games. Not after you saved his life. Not after you and he have clawed and clung to one another like desperate beasts in rutting rage.
     "Mother's are sacred, si? They become saints when they are no longer here, though they harangued us all our days." He winks at you, his cherub face alighting with curiosity, with study. We are going to walk through that? "Draw a bowl of figs and a pitcher of red wine too, amice. I am starting to get hungry."
     This is magic, this is how you do what you do. What creature are you. I still must find this out.
     He watches the door open and he moves forward after a moment, letting your hand go. There is still a limp to his motions, the effects of his last journey into the unknown. But there is no hesitance in him. Apart from the natural, thieving sort of hesitance. Iovis slips through the doorway you created, slipping into the Void...

     The door opens for you, and he moves in quickly behind you, pulling the door closed again. And behind him, it's gone, nothing but some vague chalk lines on brick. Ahead, there is a long corridor; flames light the way as you approach, candles flickering into being to cast long shadows.
     You keep walking, and he is still behind you, though he does not speak. The corridor opens up; there are archways to either side, dark rooms not yet lit. And ahead there is a central chamber, colorful in comparison to grey stone in cold shadows. A table, with gold and jewels spilling across it almost symbolically, a stale loaf of bread into which a knife has been thrust and left. A bed, unmade, its scarlet blanket slipping velvety half off to hang towards the floor. There are chairs, and a deck of cards is sliding across the table's surface. Doorways lead off in various directions. A painting of a group of nymphs bathing around a pool sits on the wall; though the artist is unfamiliar, the skill is exquisite. Stolen, no doubt.
     "This is where I go," Gwilym murmurs from behind you, "when I am at the Center of All Things. I'm not much for housework, you'll have to forgive me. Please... make yourself at home. Would you prefer the grand tour now or later? I would not be able to show you everything, as there are rooms even I have only seen once and then lost again. But welcome all the same."

     His stride is slow, and his gaze moves everywhere. He has been transported. To what, he is not sure. A palace? A dream? A hallucination? It seems endless. For a moment, Iovis halts his stride, his dark eyes looking here and there to attempt to absorb everything he sees around him, like a tourist setting foot in his own Genoa for the first time.
     "What is this place?" he wonders. His voice is quiet, as if speaking in his normal tone would cause the images to shimmer and dissipate. He looks to you with an expression of quiet awe. "Where is it..." Questions crowd his eyes, stumble over one another as they make their way to his tongue. The normally fleet-tongued Iovis is ... almost speechless.
     "I would like to see more... si," he gestures around. "Where do all the archways go? Did you ... make this? Find it... or steal it?" Iovis grins, his eyebrows opening up and a flame of humor flickering in his dark eyes. He suits this place of archways and corridors. Perhaps all Italians would.

     "It is my Center," Gwilym says simply. He moves past you to the table, clearing away coins as he reaches for a candle in its holder. It flares into guttering life, and he looks over his shoulder at you, smile faint. "I found the first bit; from there, I added on. Every city of any substantial age has bits which have fallen off it, you know?"
     He turns, selecting an archway more or less at random and heading for it, expecting that you will follow. "As cities spring up and grow, things are destroyed, built, built over. The older the city, the more people have been through it before us; the more places which are in the end, abandoned, left alone, forgotten. Wars come through and add to the rearrangement; sometimes uncovering what has been hidden, more often leading to more rubble to hide the old passageways, adding to the confusion. But all these places have their shadows. And through shadow, they are all connected."
     The hallway he's selected is dark; lamps do not spring to life in his progress, but you and he must make do with the single candle he carries. The thin flame flickers off of dusty oil paintings, scarcely recognizable in the half-darkness. "You follow these paths," Gwilym murmurs, "and in the end, you reach the center of the maze, of the labyrinth. The problem with finding the center is then you've still got to find your way back out - oes?" He glances over his shoulder, casting you a quick smile. And then it's eyes forward again. "Sometimes that's easier said than done."
     At the end of the corridor there are three doors. One directly ahead; it is locked and barred, heavy rusting chains and enormous padlocks holding it closed. The other two - one is to the left, the other to the right. They show less signs of locks, but little more sign of passage. "Pick a direction," Gwilym suggests. "Left or right? But those lost places are what formed the nucleus of this. The rest, I added to it; it sprang up, largely on its own. My mind ... it is mine. As much as any place can ever belong to a person; if I think of a room, I will find it, eventually. But though I always return here, I do not spend much time here. So. Which way?"

     He will admit that he only understood about half of what you said. But he does not question your theories about old places. He is an old thing from an old place himself. "So, even some of my Genoa, you might have in here somewhere?" That idea seems to amuse him. Fascinate him. He is fascinated. His mind is engaged where his body had moved him before. Earlier thoughts are forgotten for the time being.
     "Normally I would choose the one that has the most formidable locks," he smiles cat-like, "...but if a house is a mind, you are not ready for me to see what is in there." He looks to you. Though he considers himself uneducated, he is certainly not without intelligence. "The door on the right," Iovis says, inclining his head to make himself taller. He turns toward it, taking slow steps, waiting for you to lead the way.
     You notice he keeps his distance from the flame. While he is not afraid of it (not as much as he used to be), it does represent his greatest enemy. Iovis is content to walk on the fringes of its light. The shadows suit him, he them. But in the low light, how like an angel he seems, the golden hues picking up the olive in his skin, the depth of the darkness of his hair and its shine. He glows like a religious icon.
     "It is a place without a place," he thinks about what you say outloud, tilting his head as he speaks. "But it exists in all places at once. All alleys you say?" Twisting, Iovis looks to you. "It is not stealing, no? If you rescue something from Obscurity." He smiles then, faintly but warmly, and then his full lips spread.

     "Oes, probably." Gwilym smiles, that slight smile, and he holds the candle as he looks to you. "And Rome, and London, and Wales, and - all sorts of places. My bath is Roman, though touched a bit by the world in which I was born." You smile, and he colours faintly, shaking his head. "The locks are ... they have always been there. I do not think it has anything to do with me."
     He is lying, perhaps, but if so - he is lying to himself more than to you. You choose the door on the right, and he nods his assent, turning in that direction. "It is both stealing and rescuing. What I take, it becomes almost impassible for anyone else; few can enter without my leave, and they cannot leave without my consent. They will remain lost here, until I permit them to find a door through which they might make escape."
     The door opens before he even reaches it, as if opened by invisible hands. On the other side is a glowing chamber; it has an unfinished look to it, rocky, and water flows through cracks in the stone wall to the farthest side, running down to pool among lichens, disappearing down in a sort of internal pond. The walls sparkle with the firelight; pyrite, maybe, or quartz, throwing light back at the source. Something flits by on gossamer wings, and Gwilym smiles. "It's my home," he says simply. "It's the one place where I can ever be alone and feel safe."

     Iovis says nothing for a moment as he enters the next room behind you. His captivated look turns inward a moment as you speak, and then he slides that look to you. It is the one place where you can be alone and safe. And you have brought me here. He holds your look for a moment, and then he smiles. "You have a Roman bath? It is big enough to swim in, si?"
     He glances around, shaking his head slightly in thought. "I do not have words for this," a hand gestures to what he sees. "Everywhere... I have never been to a place like this. Not even in old Venetian palazzi. Are you tempted never to leave? To just explore? If I had a place like this, I do not think I would leave except to eat...I might not see anyone for a hundred years!" He laughs, it is a warm sound, free, without forethought of keeping quiet, or of hiding his amusement. When he laughs, which is frequently, it is always with warmth, with feeling, and with freedom.
     "I think I would like a swim," he offers, walking through this strange room. He looks at you as he wanders, his grin trailing. "We can swim, have a little wine. Can you... have food just appear like this place. Anything you want? Are you a genii?" He chuckles suddenly. "No no... I know you are not. But...you are something... I don't know what... but something."
     "Venuto, troviamo il bagno romano. Possiamo ottenere nudi e nuotata. E sguardo intorno a piu, s?" Iovis grins, rolling out of his jacket, showing the t-shirt beneath it -- black with a white screen print of the 1920 Nosferatu movie ad.

     "Oes, of course," Gwilym laughs, the sound quiet as he looks to you. He shares the look you give him, smile wandering for a moment, and then he looks away again. "You could swim laps in it if you wanted. I never have, mind. I get my exercise in other ways."
     "I always leave, after a while," he says simply. He slides his hand into his pocket, other hand still holding the candle aloft. "I could get lost in here, if I stayed too long. And then, maybe bad things might happen, oes? Bad things can come out of shadows as well as good. To dwell too long in safety is to make oneself unsafe."
     I might meet myself coming around a corner, like some erstwhile Dorian Grey, oes? Or worse...
     You ask if he is a genie, and he laughs, shaking his head. "I can reach through shadows and steal food, and I do. I cannot simply summon food and have it appear, though my brother can; his appetites are even more prodigious than mine, so it's just as well, oes? He is the only other who I have brought here, shown it, other than you." He turns, leading the way out of the chamber. Half-closing his eyes, he is rearranging the patterns, the paths; exiting, you and he do not exit in the same corridor, but instead directly into the Roman bath.
     The ceiling is high, and water flows over the back wall in a rippling gentle cascade to fall into the pool itself, the bath. The streams of water are issued from the mouths of carved carp, or maybe salmon; flowers and grape vines are between and under the stone fish, all waxen-pale marble. Candles are set into niches cut into the walls, shallow openings just large enough for flame not to burn itself out. Low benches are to either side of the bath, and shallow stone steps lead the way into the shallow end of the warm water. The tiles are set below the rippling water, a mosaic of blue and white, gold and silver; along its bottom, Hermes steals the gold of the sun while Apollo sleeps. It is a lost master-work of art that never existed.
     Gwilym sets the candle down on one of the benches carefully, and reaches into the shadow cast by its single flame. From there he draws with a conjurer's flourish bottles of wine, Venetian blown glass goblets, and - the piece de resistance - a tray, on which cheeses and salamis rest, paired with olives and capers, roasted peppers and fresh figs. He turns to you, slanting a smile. "If anyone ever asks - oes, the light does go off when the refrigerator door is closed."

     He laughs with pure delight. Though most else about Iovis could never be called pure, the delight is honest and true. As soon as the bath appears, he tosses the jacket aside and starts wrestling himself out of his shoes. His eyes go wide at the sights of the marble, the vines, the mosaics, the salami! Genoan salami of course -- what else could it be?
     "I would become like one of those hermits, mad, shrieking about fish in my walls spitting streams of gold!" Iovis chuckles. He grins at you, his eyes flicking over to the food and drink. The magic of this place seems to make him giddy. The earthy darkness remains -- that is essential to his character, that wickedness -- but he he could be any young man from Genoa. He does not seem like he is 444 years old.
     Maybe it is freedom...
     He is unfastening his pants, his eyes on you. With the slant of a ribald grin, he leaves them unfastened, dangling at his hips as he stops to remove his shirt. Shoes, shirt, jacket, socks, stiletti -- a Iovian pile is starting to collect on the marble and stone floor. His pants thud heavily on top of the many knives. He makes a naked spectacle. His body still shows the evidence of the shadows' carving, but far less than even a few days ago. A few days more and it shall be a distant memory, no evidence of the event left behind.
     The chamber echoes his cackling laughter and the whooping shout he makes as he runs and leaps into the water. What a sight. What a leap. He is from a coastal city, a natural swimmer, a bather in the Mediterranean, and he dives like a dolphin.

     He grins at you, flushing a bit as he witnesses your delight. The tray is set down, and he steps away, watching you as you undress. And then he follows suit, albeit more slowly, pulling off his boots and then tearing away what is left of the mesh shirt.

     He steals for himself an olive, tucking it into his cheek before he then draws loose the strings holding up his trousers. They go slack, then fall; he steps from them and moves into the water more slowly than you. He is watching you.
     The olive pit is spat into his palm, then tossed through the shadows to somewhere else; maybe in a few years some botanist will be stymied by an olive tree growing where no olives have ever been seen. And he moves through the water up to his waist, settling himself along the wall of the tub. "You look happy," Gwilym remarks quietly. "I'm glad."

     Surfacing, Iovis shakes his head, spraying water all around him. The inky darkness is even more so now it is wet. And for now, it is straight with the weight of the water, showing the length and thickness that is actually there. The curls shorten it by more than several inches. "Si?" He smirks. "Maybe ... it is the company... and the big bath. It is enormous! How could a man with a huge bath ever be unhappy?"
     With a twist of a smile, Iovis submerges quickly, sending a slap of water in your direction. Under the water... he is so fast!... you feel the quick slap of his hands against you, and then he is gone again. He pops up just a few feet away from you, close enough for you to splash, spitting out water like a cherub in one of those Italian fountains.
     "I think we should come here," his quiet voice plays on the marble, whispering to you from all angles, "...when we want to be alone, not bothered by anyone or any thing. I have been thinking... where could we escape, we two thieves... when we wished? Sometimes, I do not wish it." His gaze fastens on you. "A lot of times I do not wish it, safety. But," he exhales in thought as he comes to you, "... it is not safety I want. It is... quiet. Freedom. Here, what could we not do?"
     Buoyant, Iovis lifts, his mouth taking your own in a lightning strike kiss. His teeth scrape your tongue, lips, even your teeth, and then he is floating away. With a kick, he is at the pool's edge. And then he is lifting himself out of the water. The water beads and drips from him. He belongs in a place like this. He looks like the statue of Mercury brought to life. Dripping, he strides over to the tray of food. He takes some cheese, devours a few olives, spitting out the pits as you did before, and he pours a glass of wine. Two glasses of wine.
     "What do you think, amice?" Turning, Iovis looks to you over a shoulder. His hair is starting to curl already, even though it is still quite wet. Those curls will not be vanquished!

     There is a laugh for your quip, and Gwilym shakes his head a little. He squirms - too late, you have been and gone. And you rise and he looks at you, across at you, his smile small but present.
     It is strange. I do not know how I feel; I am mostly at ease, but not entirely. No, not entirely, Gwi; I feel partially at peace and partially not. I do not know what to make of it, and so I intend to ignore it. But not you. Never you. How anyone could ignore you, I do not know; you would make yourself known, I think...
     "I'm glad you like it," Gwilym tells you, his voice quiet again. "I -" And there you are. In his space. In his arms, with such strength. There, and gone again, and he blinks once, almost owlishly, watching you quizzically as he moves to follow you at a slower pace. "I do not mind. Where will we meet to come here?"

     He glances back to you as he finishes pouring the wine. Turning he brings the two glasses forward, returning to the pool. This time, he will not dive! Iovis' fascination is still firmly in place, but the giddiness begins to withdraw. He has jumped in the pool -- he got it out of his system.
     Walking, wading forward, he bears the wine to you like some pool-boy of Bacchus. His smile winds its way slowly across his expression. "I do not know, amice. It is your place, si? Your door to open. We will meet as we have been meeting. And what we want to do in that Moment, we will do. I live in the Present, like you. But when we want to escape, when we want to hold our secrets and cards to our chest, why not come here. It is better than taking an apartment in another city, even. You do know that where I go, I am watched. I live with this. It is my world. But there is no reason for you to have to suffer because of it."
     Your goblet relinquished to your grasp, he takes a good swallow from his own. "You have opened your home to me. And it is more than a home," he recognizes this. "Grazie, amice," he murmurs. He touches his glass to yours, listening to the chime as it sparks, echoes and then fades away. Those dark eyes hold an understanding. It is no easy thing you've done, and you have let him into your world. Though he must keep you at an arm's distance from his own, for his protection, other things will he give of himself.
     "I am ... very touched," Iovis says after another moment, another swallow of wine, "...that you would open your life to me, your home to me. To welcome me," his gaze lowers slightly in his thought, "...into your safe haven, Gwilym." He nods, his eyes to your chest before lifting. Yes, say his eyes, he is aware of the significance.

     Gwilym accepts the wine, lounging back against the wall as he watches you. His long fingers curl gently around the belly of the glass, carrying it to his lips for a sip; and it is lowered, and he is watching you, that half-smile, speculative and wandering, still intact.
     "I don't mind," Gwilym murmurs. "I think you need a place where you can be without eyes on you other than my own. Oes? And I would like to give you that. As much as I would like to spend time with you myself. There is no need," he lifts his other hand, waving it away, as if to minimize significance and make large things small, "no need for you to thank me. It is not as if I am giving you my firstborn!" He laughs, showing his teeth, and then his gaze is lowering to the tiles, as he sometimes does.
     "I trust you. I have trusted you. I ... do not know how to be other than as I am being."

     Iovis takes a long drink of the wine. He drains the glass as if it is the first thing he has had to drink in nights. Like an Italian of the 17th Century, he puts away wine like it was water. He sets the goblet aside, his body coming flush to yours. A thigh insinuates itself between your own. He does not need the water's buoyancy to make you light to his lifting.
     He grins as you mention firstborns, laughing to think of it. "I won't ask you to write all your promises in blood." He nods to what is unspoken between you. "I trust you. You have shown yourself worthy of that trust. That which... I have given to no other."
     Between thieves, trust is just as good as love.
     The consuming kisses you have shared in alleys, in his apartment, in the shadows of club lounges, even here in this very pool, fall by the wayside for a more intense, and slower study. There is no need to rush, no need to suck all the marrow out of the experience before tossing it over his shoulders. Dark hair coiling damp, Iovis tilts his head, his mouth parting at your neck. It wanders from crook to ear, lips just brushing the surface of your skin, his tongue sliding out to draw spirals on it here, suck it wetly there.
     For your opening of yourself to him, your life, your home, your haven, you are given in return amorous intimacy, one that speaks less of sexual immediacy and grunting primal force and more emotion. You have stripped yourself bare, and he has followed suit.
     Iovis takes in a breath as his mouth crawls its way to your chin, your lips, before his head tilts to the other side. There is a time for torment, and a time for something simpler, more genuine.

     You come close, and my blood reacts. I can feel it rise in my throat, in my temples; I am made giddy by such a little thing. And when you touch me - I want you to touch me.
     He whispers it as your thigh slides between his, as you lean in, as you speak. "I want you to touch me." And now your mouth is moving, and he sighs. His hands move to your waist, the glass held clumsily; shaken once, then dismissed, sailing across the stones to vanish into shadow without landing. It will land somewhere else, far from you and he.
     He makes room for you, sliding down a little and curling his longer frame towards you. And he reacts; oh, yes, he reacts. His skin goes pink where your mouth travels, his arms enfolding you, tension there in his muscles, keeping him from holding you too tightly.
     As if to grasp you so tightly would make you disappear...

     All thieves fear figments, the shimmering oasis that promised wealth, the satiation of hunger or thirst that disappears for a mouthful of sand. In all the noise of previous entanglements, this comes in silence. Powerful, the energy is left to resonate without further commentary. Wandering, his mouth closes over your own, takes yours, tastes yours, drinks the flavor of wine from your tongue.
     Amice, my heart is like a fig left to dry in the sun. It is shriveled and small. You could serve it like pesto on a cracker, it is nothing. Flavorful but then gone in an instant. And yet, in it is pumping new blood, humming with the power that is in your blood. I feel something. I do not know what it is. But I feel it like pleasure and I feel it like pain. It is a confusion, a puzzle. What is it, what is it -- it beats with that question.
     He takes a breath between you, stealing one of your own, as his mouth twists and tangles with your own. His thigh lifts, spreading your legs beneath the water, pressing up and circling. The water splashes as he bounces you slightly on that thigh.
     Beneath the water, his hands light on your hips. His mouth descends, lips open, his tongue stroking a line of humming fire down the center of your throat before closing around a nipple. His teeth scratch sensitive skin, his mouth smoothing over the pain of it, his tongue swirling to tease the nubs higher.
     Amice, were my world not so dark and damned and annoying I would bring you with me. I do not dare change you to open the doors to my world. You would be altered forever. But you have opened the door to you world, and I have willingly entered. We have passed a threshold into something else...
     Something else, like you, I don't know what it is...
     Dark eyes look up your body as he gives his body to the water, his thigh sliding away, his tongue swirling at your navel before dipping inside. He flits, he thrusts it.

     He would not be able to feel this way, if you were small and weak. He has been humbled by emotion before, but the only woman who changes his world is his mother (and isn't that true for most men?). You, though - ah, your strength affects him. It moves in his eyes, in his smile as your mouth moves to claim his.
     I find you beautiful. All lithe dangerous creatures are, I suppose, but you - you move me where noone has moved me before. Even the only other in the world with whom it has been so close, so under the skin, he sees my shadows and wisely does not tread there. I would hate to hurt him or bring him any grief. I will need to tell you more about him, someday, though not everything. I do not think even you would understand our depths.
     His hands slide up against your spine, and he exhales slowly, doing his best to keep calm where it would be all too easy to give way before sensation. One hand lifts, sliding into your dark curls, tugging a little. "I still have so much to tell you," Gwilym whispers. As if the shadows themselves, in lieu of other audience, might be listening. "So much to show you. It crowds in me, do you know? I cannot leave off thinking about you."
     It is a compliment, if you only knew it. So many have moved through my life and left no trace, like ships passing across the ocean. They cut a furrow, and magically, it smoothes away, it is gone, vanished. No mark left to show that they have been there, that hands have caressed, lips have kissed, voices sighed. But you - you I feel under my skin, prickling with your stiletti.
     Gwilym leans his weight against the wall again, one hand still tangled in your hair. He looks at you, and he smiles, still that small, curious smile. "Do you want to stay here, or go find a bed?"

     "I live forever," Iovis remarks, his mouth returning to your mouth, your chin. He smiles. It is a slim smile, but it is deep, resonating with his dark humor. "Unless someone were to set me on fire. Then, it would be ... not half so long as forever." He looks at you. For a moment there is nothing said, no kiss follows. He looks at you. "Whatever you will say, it will follow as it should. You will say what you can, when you can, no? I understand. There are things I do not even know how to express. What to say." He shrugs slightly. "So I will leave it up to Fortuna and to my tongue."
     His mouth pulls in a wicked slant. "Of course, my tongue has been busy with other things lately, so maybe I haven't given it time to speak." He laughs at that, lips pulled in an easy grin. "Am I getting pruny?" He lifts an arm and looks at his hand suddenly. The skin has begun to pucker a little. He shows you his fingers. "It is not a pretty sight. It makes me look as old as I am!"
     Iovis looks at you a moment more before moving. He listens to what you say. "I am not used to emotions, I will say. The heart is a muscle I know now. And like all muscles if it is not used it becomes shriveled and weak. You... put blood into it again. You make it want to pump. It ... wants to come out of my chest. The thought of ... following you, moving with you in shadows, fucking you, drinking you. You... are in my blood," Iovis whispers again. "You are burned there, amice. And I get no rest from it."
     Floating back, Iovis drifts out of your grasp. He moves to the side of the bath and pulls himself up. His hands go to himself, even as they did that night you caught him with that girl.

     "I find you beautiful," Gwilym murmurs. It is difficult for him, to open his arms and let you move as you will. Not that he could stop you, if you were determined. "It is strange to me, too. I have ... feelings for people, but not like this. Never like this." Emerald eyes land on you, squarely for once. And his smile tugs up at the corners, and he grasps your hand for a moment, running the tip of his tongue over your fingertips where the skin puckers.
     It feels like falling, to me. As if I have taken a step out into the darkness, and found nothing under my feet. And so I go on falling, falling forever.
     You pull yourself up, and he follows, moves towards you, between your thighs. His hand intercepts yours, and with eyes on yours, Gwilym sinks down in the water until his mouth brushes along your length. "Some day," he murmurs down there, "I will take you to my mother's kingdom. I will show you things - the things which have made me who I am, what I am. And I will hear from your lips, I suspect, answers to riddles which plague me. You are a thief, as I am, but you are my philosopher's stone."
     His lips part, then, warm against your skin, closing over the head of you with tongue swathing broadly against that. Tongue-tip twitches, and he sucks strongly before backing away, off of you, straightening to lean between your legs, his hands bracing himself at either side of your hips.
     "I want to show you something..."

     As your mouth moved over him, his hand squeezed around his own member, moving it against your face, stroking himself as your lips and tongue surrounded him. Eyes became veiled in the shadows of his lashes, and his mouth parted for a great sound, a sound that thundered in its echo around the marble chamber.
     And now you are pulling away...
     His eyebrows lift, his hand moving over his length. He rubs, his fingers toying with his skin. A thousand tiny torments. He does it to himself as well as you. "Show me, amice?" he wonders. What else do you have in store for him. "Other than this palace of wonders in the heart of shadows? Your roman bath? Your mouth on my cock?" Iovis chuckles softly, a hand going to your head as his laughter fades to a slight (and curious) smile. "I will be happy to see whatever it is you want to show me. I know it will be worth it, si? Always, there is something more than I could have imagined. A treasure around every corner with you."
     Iovis does not remark on your finding him beautiful. He seems to accept it as a natural thing. He is beautiful, a cherub-faced killer. "Show me... and then show me to your bed." His hand grips himself, sliding against skin and flesh. "I want you," he whispers. "I do not know how much longer I can wait..."
     He grins, knowing it was a lie when he first spoke it. He can wait a while longer yet. But just because he can doesn't mean he will.

     He smiles at you, watching you with those sparkling eyes as his hands slowly drift back from the marble, along your thighs before peeling free of you. And then he is gone; there is a splash, and a silver-scaled salmon swims in the pool. Swims vigorously, leaps, lands in the water, and becomes something else upon sinking into its depths.
     A woman surfaces, full-breasted and with long red-gold ringlets dripping with water. The eyes are familiar, as is the smile for all that she smiles with fuller lips than you might remember. She moves towards you, and in the process of movement, becomes a young man, younger, somewhere in his mid to late teens.
     His hair is longer than normal; curling down a bit in front, but long overall, a little untidy with the water and movement. "This is what I looked like," Gwilym tells you, "when I was nineteen." He is shorter; between nineteen and twenty-one he went through a late growth spurt, shooting up half a foot as if overnight. He grins at you from almost the same height as you; half an inch one way or the other isn't a very big deal, is it?
     His body is as fit in this form as in his normal form, despite the youth. His was a childhood of swinging swords, climbing walls, scaling buildings, riding horses - there was little time for growing fat and ungainly. He takes a slow step towards you, one hand coming up to push his hair out of his eyes, and looks at you expectantly, the grin of hopeful mischief tugging at his mouth.
     "Shall I change back, and then show you - us - to one of my bedrooms? Or ... do you want to talk about it first?"

     His hand moved away when you began transforming. His eyes narrowed. A fish, a young girl, a younger man. Who are you? What are you? "I do not know what you are trying to show me. I do not care about what you looked like in the past. It is right now that is important. You were a handsome young man," he notes. "But you are handsome now. I was once five. But what difference does it make? It changes nothing. You can... tell me about your past, whatever you like. I will listen, amice. Happily. I just say this to tell you... you do not have to be anyone else... yourself or anyone or thing else...to interest me. If I were not interested, I would not be here, si? Following you into a portal that goes Who Knows Where. I could be in hell for all I know and you could be the devil, shape-shifting as only he can." His lips twist at that -- he would follow the devil himself, most likely. It would be his luck.
     Iovis leans back, his arms bearing his weight, his palms to the marble. "This.. thing you do... how is it you do it? Your blood... it says that you are mortal with... other abilities. To say the least, this is true," he laughs shortly, briefly. "But... what is it that lets you do what you do. It is... magic or... I do not know what else." He is not afraid, nor is he put off. He is as blunt, as matter-of-fact as he has ever been, dealing with that which is in front of him.
     "Yes, please change back. I like the amice of today. I do not want my amice to grow breasts. I can get those anywhere." He grins at you sidelong.

     He resumes his natural shape; it is to him as easy as breathing. Easier, perhaps. Being something other than what he is comes too naturally for him, it is one of his dangers. "Magic," Gwilym says simply, his lips curving upwards at your comment about breasts. "That is all it is, Iovis. Just - ordinary, common, garden-variety magic. Where I am from, magic is an ordinary thing. Most people have a sprinkling of it. Some people have more than a sprinkling. Magic tends to beget magic, oes? The way it is not unusual for two intelligent people to have an intelligent child, but it is unusual for two ugly people to produce a beautiful one." He shrugs a little, pushing his hand back through his hair again. "In my family, there is a lot of magic."
     He moves up next to you, lifting himself out of the water, sitting there and looking across at you. "My brother and I," he whispers to you, as if he is confiding a secret - and he is, "have done this before. Starlings crossing the sky, or mice along a skirt-board. I use it more than he does. It comes in handy, as a thief, as a spy, as whatever it is I am being. I don't know what my blood tells you," he adds in a more normal tone of voice. "But ... I am mortal, oes. I think some would call me god-touched. I don't know if that is the right word for it."

     "I knew you were different when I was following you, when you were following me. The way you called the shadows to you, the way you traversed them. Faster than I. I could not shake you. I thought to myself: maybe he is the embodiment of Shadows, Iovis. I can see where it would lend itself well to spying, thieving. Escaping." He nods in thought. "The only magic I know is making myself invisible. Disappearing.... pulling shadows over myself. It is... an inheritance of mine, as yours is for you. It is passed down, one to the other in blood. I would say I am touched," Iovis grins, "...but not by god. Not me. You maybe... but not me."
     His feet dangle still into the bath and he kicks them back and forth slowly. He listens to you speak about your brother. Dark eyes look to you as you speak of him fondly, as you should a brother. You tell him of your transformations. He listens as easily as if you were discussing futbol or opera.
     "It tells me... different things. It shows me things, of your past, of your present. I have seen fields of apple trees, meadows, hunting, the thrill of chase and blood. When I drink you," he whispers, speaking of a solemn thing, "...I remember what it was like to be in the sun. The place I see... it reminds me a little of Tuscany. And there are... sparks in your blood. Small comets. It is... like a soda? It is powerful... but with a frothiness. That is the magic. And it ... is ..." Iovis shakes his head, his hand going to his length again. It shudders to speak of your blood. "I cannot get enough," he whispers. "But I have to protect you from that hunger. It never ends. I just... want you... and want you. And I want to fuck you... to fuck your sunlight and join you in it."
     His olive complexion reddens in his sudden confession. He does not take it back, he does not sully it in sudden dismissive gestures. He looks forward across the water, his body tight and tense.

     "Magic is my inheritance," Gwilym murmurs. His hand moves across the tile to yours, touching you and pulling away. "Shadows, speech, transformation - maybe there is more that I can do, or will do. I don't know. Maybe I will know, someday. My mother built her kingdom with her magic. There was nothing there but fallow fields that had lain unused after an epidemic of curses. She conjured up town and castle with her power; but it was her personality and her choice of followers which led to it being peopled."
     He turns towards you, moves towards you, and his mouth brushes against yours. Once - twice - and on the third pass, he presses in, tugging at your mouth before he pulls back again. "The apple trees of Avalon," Gwilym murmurs to you, confides in you, "are my heritage and my birthright. They are in my father's kingdom. I am apple-bound, as, I think, all the men in my family must be. It is our curse and our blessing, and the women are the bearers of those apples. I wish you could share my sunlight without harm, but," his smile glints for a moment, "I prefer you intact, my friend. Health and long life to you, oes?"
     He slips into the water, moving to face you, hands going to your thighs and guiding them around his waist. He leans up, kissing your shoulder with a light scrape of teeth against your skin. "As long as you leave enough for me," Gwilym whispers, "I do not mind you tasting me, taking me. As long as you leave enough, blood is something that I can always make more of, oes? But I want you. I want to feel you; I don't know what this is, Iovis. But you have opened doors in me that I was afraid," he tenses slightly, then finishes, "I was afraid could never be opened."
     He reaches up with one hand to touch your face, a stroke of fingertips along your cheek. "Let's go to the bedroom," Gwilym murmurs. "If you like, I will let you choose among them, or I will let my subconscious choose. Tell me what you would like."

     "Luck... fortune... the draw of the deck," Iovis murmurs, a hand going to your hair. Fingers tug the red and gold, tipping your head back even as he tips his own back to meet your gaze. He brings his mouth to yours, his tongue sliding, curling against and around your own. It waggles wild, his kiss a sudden, primal thing. "I leave myself to the whims of the deck stacked in my favor," he speaks against your mouth, grinning in it.
     His other hand curls tightly at the small of your back. You are pulled against him, and his body is in motion, letting you feel him, the heaviness of the blood that tightens his erection. "Let your subconscious mind choose," Iovis whispers against your lips, his tongue tracing it. He tilts your head in his hand, his mouth closing over yours again.
     Suddenly he breaks free with a groan. "Scopilo, ma faccia esso presto, o vaffunculo di volonta su questo marmo. Non mi preoccupo se lo facciamo ad una stanza oppure no." Iovis looks at you, his hands going to cup your face. His dark eyes are pitch black -- it is nearly impossible to tell pupil from iris. But in them smolders a growing fire. "Sto andando a vaffunculo fino a che non possiate pi non levarseli in piedi. Mi perdo in voi. Io ritrovamento io stesso in voi. Devo essere in voi..."

     The kiss leaves him without breath, gasping, even as his flesh responds by bumping your thigh. The closer you pull him - the more he is drowning in it. Luxuriating in it, like some great cat, his back arching where your fingers touch. His hands lift, go to your shoulders, squeezing you tightly.
     You look at me with those dark eyes, and I fall into them. I fall, and I fall, and I go on falling. I wonder, when I run out of secrets, will you be done with me? Duw, I hope not.
     His arms move around your neck, his body rocking against yours. You are not the only one tempted. And it would not be the first time that he has been taken on these tiles. But he gives his consciousness over to transportation, letting his mind wander until it seizes upon likely shadows. The bath vanishes, left behind with the remains of olives and cheese. Instead, a large bedroom replaces it, high-ceilinged and with a bed that borders on the enormous.
     The walls are pale grey, almost slate-colored, the floor covered by thick brown carpeting : fur of some sort. A fire burns low in the hearth, shielded from the room by a screen. And the bed? The bed is massive; carved wooden four poster, scrollwork telling the tale of a hunt. Heavy iron rings dangle from the posts, the bedclothes white and deep navy blue. A wooden wardrobe stands in one corner, an oriental dressing screen to the other side.
     You and he land at the edge of the bed - you on it, seated as you were before, he leaning against you, as before. Gwilym murmurs, "I'm no djinn, oes? But your wish is my command."

Posted by rowan at November 16, 2006 09:51 PM