My brother has gone away...
     He has been thinking about that. Reflecting on it, on what it means, on what might happen. Reflecting, too, on what has changed, and how it has changed. It has put him in a thoughtful mood, and Gwilym in a thoughtful mood is usually a brooder, or otherwise drinking gaily to cover his mood. Now, however? That has changed.
     You have led to change. It is strange to him too. Passing strange, my eyes mazed as I wonder at you. He grins a little, shaking his head where he sits slouched in front of a crackling fire in his chambers. I wonder what you are up to...
     He wonders; he rises. He puts thought into action. From man's shape to bird's he changes, from his window he flies. I will find you. Wherever you are. Gwilym soars through the corridors of the palace and then out another window, and over the market he goes. Strong black wings of raven's form flap, beating at the air, and he swoops down low to grab a shiny trinket left unattended. With madcap man's grin in the brain of the bird, he turns, spotting a shy couple sitting back to back; into the girl's lap the trinket is dropped.
     I am growing soft in my old age. I will try your inn.
     And in bird's form still he lands on the ledge of your window, sharp beak rat-tap-tap against the glass...

     It has been a home away from home, this inn with its spacious rooms and fresh fruit delivered by handsome servants. But it is becoming a memory even now, with bags and belongings packed by servants (his own). Bags and trunks are packed. Even by tomorrow, he will be ready to leave, to occupy the apartments his lover has acquired for him, his family and servants in tow.
     Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos sits in the middle of the dishevelment as relaxed as if it were a spa and not a dismantled chamber stripped bare of all its order and cleanliness. He wears a linen shirt that is more forgiving in the current summer climate -- a climate he is intimate with, coming from such environs as the desert and oases of his own nation -- and it is unfastened, let to stand open, inviting both looks and breezes. The pants are not leather -- good god no, not in this heat! -- but are rather some kind of sturdy cotton brushed soft to seem like suede. They are neither too loose nor too tight but have come to harmonious agreement on just how much to hug his legs, to rest at his hips.
     Sitting on the sofa, his side to the windows, he cradles a wide-bodied guitar in his arms, his fingers dancing over the strings and frets of the broad-necked instrument. So quick, so nimble their motions, right hand and left in rhythmic dancing, and from their labor comes a rollicking song, fiery of temperament.
     The beak of a bird beats out a sudden percussion to the song, an avian rhythm section that gets the prince's attention. He lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head with a peering, intense look of cinnamon eyes.
     He knows your predilections, and with the quirking of his lips, he rises. The guitar comes with him. From his mouth, such a sensuous, desert song. There is spice and fire in the syllables he sings, there is the rise of warmth from a sun-ripened earth.
     The song ends suddenly, and he is opening the window with one hand, the guitar held in the other. Is that you?

     Rat-a-tap-tap, let me in. I stand at your window and I wait. Will you not let me in, a weary wanderer under the sun?
     I did not know that you could be cruel...
     He is so full of shite. Diamond black eyes sparkle at you as he turns his head first one way and then the other, rapping again with his beak, cutting it short as you open the window. He flies in, circling you once before he lands and becomes again a man.
     A man with clothing this time, but you know now how he escaped without his clothes the one time without attracting notice...
     "I was thinking of you," Gwilym explains to you, eyes gleaming again, as emeralds now. "So I thought to put thought to deed and come and find you." The corners of his mouth lift, and spread in a tugging, widening grin. "Only to see that you are lost to another muse, right now. How are you?"
     He is happy to see you, plain and simple. It rolls off him like warmth, like honey, and he steps towards you with quick and sudden intent.
     He is not dressed very sophisticatedly. Jeans. Bare feet. A t-shirt stolen from Rhodri's supply from Black Jack Davy's. (He will have to get more printed up at this rate.) It is nothing of this world, to be sure - but it is comfortable. He is comfortable in it, as comfortable as he has become in his own skin. "I wanted to see you," Gwilym murmurs, his hand landing at your hip for a moment, "and I decided that I could not bear to wait. Do you mind?"

     "I was going to come find you, to drag you out into these streets and into smoky tabernas." Prospero murmurs such things, his gaze steady, unrelenting, his mouth a near temptation. "Perhaps even to dance with me. You see I am packed, how I have spent my day. And where have you been," he wonders. It lacks accusation in tone, if not in meaning.
     Holding his guitar in one hand, he takes you with his other. He bends, but stops just short of a kiss. "You should have been here to see me bossing Felix around. You missed good theater." He smiles, kissing you finally. "Beloved," he whispers in your ear, the kiss parting from your lips to wander.
     He smells of almonds, of sunlight, and of oranges. His dark hair, thick and wavy, stands and sits as he wishes, the cocoa color shared by his pants. He does not speak of his muse. As he sets the guitar aside, allowing his other arm to surround you, you feel his inspiration turning. His muse is before him. "Is everything ready for me?" he wonders quietly.
     It somehow sounds like a loaded question...
     Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos leaves you to answer him as he wraps you into his hold, his mouth finding your neck. You have felt the coiling of his whip around the air, around the post at the stables. His arms capture you no less. He holds you there, even as his mouth draws away. The gaze is patient, steady, and ceaseless as he locks in on you. Such a look could follow you even in shadows, it seems.
     "So, you see me now," his lips quirk in amusement. "Now what shall you do with the rest of your evening, Gwilym?"

     He smiles, leaning in towards you, swaying a little as you speak. Will you not kiss him? "I have been thinking," Gwilym murmurs. "Having talked to my brother. He is gone now, off on the sea to go talk to someone important to him." The details do not matter unless they return together. If they do not, there is no point in him saying anything at all, and there will be time - later.
     Your kiss is welcome as rain; he turns his face up to you, his arm sliding around your waist. "I am ready for you," Gwilym murmurs, when his mouth is freed. Even as the rest of him is not. You can feel the quiver of anticipation, of pleasure that runs through him. "If everything else isn't, I will just have to move heaven and earth until it is, oes?" He pats at your waist, then bends, breathing in the scent of you.
     You intoxicate me more than the strongest brandy. I could get lost in you and count myself blessed.
     It is so strong, this feeling. Like nothing he has felt before. "I have you," he murmurs lazily. "What else do I need? But I did want to find you and talk to you. Things I thought you should hear about, oes? Before we make this leap." You might change your mind, after all.

     "Certainly," he says easily, remaining in your arms, both holding and held by you. "There is food. We should eat before our night carries us away again. There is fruit, as always. There is date bread. There are figs, there is fresh churned butter. And, of course, there is pom and other wine."
     His arms begin to loosen, but you are no less caught, no less kissed. His lips splay your own apart, his tongue lazing along your own as he moves your mouth beneath his. It seems for this moment that discussion might have to wait, and then he tugs free, setting you loose with the last tugs of that mouth, a mouth like beckoning waves tugging at your ankles, tempting you to swim.
     A pat upon your him signals the parting of his hold, and Prospero wanders ahead of you, going to the table where the food is laid out. He pours a two short glasses of red liquid, and he begins to tear off a piece of the date bread, a rustic and sweet loaf, lathering it with the softened butter. Jasper eyes lift to you as he prepares a large platter -- it will be for you both to share -- and he gestures you to the sofa.
     "I will bring something for our stomachs. One should not talk of family or politics on an empty stomach. It makes for certain nausea." His lips quirk at the corners, then spread in an amused smirk.
     "So, si...what is it you would like to tell me?" Beloved, say his eyes. He smiles at you, the heat in the look crossing the room and circling its arms around you where he, as of now, cannot.

     He is reluctant to let you go, and he lingers, with your kiss, thighs spreading as he rolls himself against you as if to become your shadow. Which in a way, he has become; he is shadow, oes? And he is yours. He parts from you with that reluctance, tearing himself away, pacing behind you as you offer him food. "My tiger," Gwilym murmurs, calling you what to him, you are. "Oes, well, food and family are inextricably entangled, at least for me. But oes, I thought you should know what you have gotten yourself into." He drops to the couch as if felled by a spear, slouching comfortably.
     He is such a boy in some ways. He is already barefoot; now he tugs his shirt free of his trousers, sprawling out and occupying more than his fair share of the available space. "Well, you know about my mother and her two husbands, oes? I don't recall how much I have told you..."

     "Si, your brother is of one father; you are of the other. You have mentioned some of the complexities. Your father is the King of Avalon. Your mother the Queen of the Flowering Tree, and your brother's father was the former high king. He was the one who first contacted my kingdom and offered a treaty." You and he have talked loosely about such things. "I have heard your great affection for them," his voice drops to a murmur as he sets the food on the table in front of the sofa, the drinks upon the same tray.
     Taking both goblets, handing one to you, your tiger -- and how he smiles to be called that, how he growls his appreciation when he holds you in the den of his bed -- joins you. The sofa bears his graceful weight without much of a squeak, and his arm rests behind you, circling your shoulders.
     "I know your grandfather is unaware of your desires. You have spoken with your brother. What has he said?" His free hand comes up to move through your hair as he sits with you. He radiates warmth, and citrus as he sits flush to you. Prospero sips at his wine, lifting a leg slightly, the sole of his foot resting against the edge of the table. He looks at you, his head tilted to the side.
     "I understand the political implications of what we are, of who we are ...individually and to one another. And I accept this, Gwilym. It shall not deter me."
     Foot lowering, his arm drawing along your shoulders, Prospero leans forward, setting his wine on the table and taking up a couple of figs and the buttered date bread. "I want you to know this. Even if we had to take exile in my country, so be it. When I see what I want, I take it. Politics notwithstanding."

     "My brother's father is also my grandfather," Gwilym says a bit dryly, though amused. "Da and papa. Da's my da - Rhodri. Papa is Davydd, the former high king, and is Io's father. Mum is squarely in the middle of the two of them, and how she handles it I'll never know."
     He shakes his head, moving room for you, colour rising as you come near. Oh, oes, he likes it when you growl at him in bed. He leans up against you, closing his eyes even as he takes the wine from your fingers. "My grandfather does not know. I intend to tell him; you are in my heart and in my life, and I do not want you anywhere else, except of course in my bed. I do not know how he will answer."
     It would have made him afraid, once. It has in the past. But now and here and with you, that has moved away; it has gone. His weight rests heavily as he leans to you, swallowing wine and setting it aside. "My brother will not exile us. My grandfather cannot exile us - and I do not think he would. He will yell, maybe. Rant and rave, possibly. He makes much noise." He grins. "My family makes much noise in general. How do you think I turned out this way? There is something warping about walking in on your mother having sex with two men at once when you are five years old. And my father..."
     He is quiet for a moment. "...My father knows how I am, how I have turned out. He does not know about you yet, and I should tell him; I owe him that respect. Mum won't care as long as I'm in love, though she'll be disappointed if there are no grandchildren. That's just her way. Have you ever seen my mum and da?"

     There is that steadiness again, and immediate understanding in his eyes. These are things he has heard, perhaps, from his own family, his own mother. Inclining his head, he then shakes it. "No, I have not seen anyone in your family as of yet. But they do not live here. I am not surprised by this." He knows that your parents have kingdoms of their own and do not take residence in this one. Not yet anyway. "I would be only happy to meet them. I will admit to curiosity."
     His mouth opens and shuts as he thinks of a five year old you walking in on such a scene. Finally, all he can do is raise his eyebrows in resignation. "I do not think my parents still have sex. It is what all children say, si, until they, like you, are suddenly, and even horrifically, contradicted." He grins then. "I do not think you are warped, Gwilym, though perhaps you had a head start on some others of your peerage."
     He chuckles, that smoky sound captured in his throat and on his tongue. "I will be there," Prospero continues, amusement trailing off for serious candor. "With you when you tell them. If you wish. My place is by your side, and I would not have you being brave alone. You cannot hog all the glory," he teases.
     Leaning in, his mouth finds your mouth again. Tasting of honey, butter, dates and wine, he rolls his tongue along your mouth, around your tongue in a slow spiral. "I am not worried," Prospero whispers as he parts from the kiss, "... about how your family will react. Is it bravery, stupidity, or arrogance? I do not think it is any of these things. Merely the confidence of knowing I love you, and how you feel for me. I do not need to worry so long as I know that."
     His finger presses upon your lips, his eyes lowered to look at it trailing the soft, blushed flesh. "Do not worry, Gwilym. I am here with you." His finger trails over your chin, down the center of your throat, and to the middle of your chest before drawing away. He takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with your own. "So... when shall we go to meet them?"

     He is touched by your question; it shows in his eyes, as he leans to you, mouth still slightly parted from your kiss. "When would you like to? Mum and da I can have meet us any time. Papa's a little harder, and I would like to talk to him first. He does not handle surprises well." He grins at you. "And let's face it, oes? You are surprising."
     But in a good way. You are what I want, what I need, what I love. My brain and my body and my spirit hum with it, like well-machined pieces all coming together at last. How will I tell you everything? In bits and pieces, I suppose.
     "You are so distracting." Gwilym grins, rolling across you to straddle your lap. He likes being there - entirely too much. One hand slides affectionately into your hair, and he leans to kiss you, a brief, thorough kiss. "...You can divert my mind from almost any topic, any purpose with such ease. It is just as well your ambitions are not globe-shattering. My family is - diverse, in its way. Loving, tightly knit, but intense. Mother will not know what to make of you. Da will be happy to meet you, he's always been mellow. Well, in my lifetime, he has, anyway."
     His mouth moves to your ear, kissing, tugging lightly with his teeth, then whispering. "You fill me with such confidence, Prospero Maximo, Tigre Negro. I was lost, you know. Wandering in shadows. Now ..."

     "Now," he murmurs in reply, "...you have a tiger who walks alongside you. In the shadows, you walked by yourself, and at first you were startled at the sound of my approach, an unexpected thing in your world." He looks at you, smiling in that quiet way you have come to know, that way that means he is very pleased. He likes the nickname, and how well it suits him. "But now you know this creature means you no harm. This tigre negro," the Rs trill fantastically, ending their roll in a kiss, his words muffling in the joining of mouths.
     The jasper color of his eyes shimmers between the shadows of his lashes when he is close to you. His hands slide around you, beneath you where you straddle him. "I do not wish to divert you from something obviously important to you." He says this, even though his mouth is dangerously near your own and though his right hand slips around the curve of your rear. "I would like to meet them as soon as possible," Prospero murmurs, his head inclining, tilting to look at you. "I look forward to meeting them. Even your fearsome papa. You respect him, even fear him, you love him, and so I must meet him." His fingers press at the cloth of your trousers, as if they could circle your flesh and slip within.
     Having conversations such as this with hands such as these -- that is the challenge he always offers. But it is a part of what delights him about you. How your skin goes red, how you lose your gift for words at times, how beautiful you become.
     "I am only distracting," Prospero teases, "...because I am distracted. I look at you on my lap, and I can't keep from touching you. You are beautiful. I cannot be faulted for falling for the trap so well baited." A dark eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his full mouth lifts.
     Where you redden and turn burnished and golden (no matter your shadows), Prospero smolders and darkens. "My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to build something worthy of you. I want to make you happy, and I wish you to be proud of this life we share." His fingers quicken their pressing circle.
     "So... shall we venture forth tomorrow? Your brother is indisposed or I would give him the obvious deference," to meet him first, since Prospero is loving his chief courtier. "But as he is unavailable, I should meet your parents. This he would forgive, I am certain. I am curious, to a fault perhaps. I want to see what they are like. I want to see if I can find you in them, and see them in you."

     You speak, and if the words came from anyone else, there would be the immediate and even snappy rejoinder made. He has slanted off such comments so many times in the past; and now, now he is silent as the grave. His skin reddens, flushes, colours a bright magenta hue. He is both touched and pleased, embarrassed and aroused. The things you say and how you say them...
     The way your hands move against him...
     The way your mouth hovers...
     It's almost too difficult for him to absorb what you mean. But he manages. He manages, somehow. "You will meet them," Gwilym promises. "My brother won't mind waiting; he's busy with his own things."
     How fast it has come to this, my wanting you so much. Not just sexually, although my appetites there have remained undiminished. Sated - but undiminished. I want you in my life, in my heart, all the way in me as much as when we roll around in a bed, on the floor, against the wall. I have been drawn successfully from what once was my center. Now, you are my only center.
     His hands draw through your hair, his mouth moves to yours for a moment, voice low, teasing. "And I have yet to tell you even the half of it, oes? We have time, and I am glad for that time. A hundred years would not be enough of you, Tigre. Prince with a Tiger's appetite and Tiger's eyes..."
     His hands drag down against your chest, a groan escaping him. "Tomorrow," Gwilym agrees, distracted in truth. "I will call my parents and ask them to meet us here. I am sure that they will find the time. If for no other reason than that I have never asked."
     None of his friends, acquaintances, lovers - not one person has he brought home to meet mother. His brother, oes, but his brother is his other self. "Iowerth has met one other than you," he thinks to contribute, "but ... I would not say that he had a ringing endorsement."
     There was no fight. There was just neutrality. If it makes you happy is not good enough for Gwilym anymore, especially with his happiness not truly on the line. "If they do not like you - and I cannot see that being the case - then we will make our own life," he breathes, hands rucking up against your shirt. "I am done with caverns of anonymous men. Watching you practice with your whip is more erotic, more fulfilling than any hundred men in leather, bach. You mean to me... more than I can put into words."

     His hands slide easily from one act to another, fluid grace in all. And now he holds you lightly, his hands moving up your back and then resting there as your hands move against the cloth of his open shirt. The two of you paw at one another no less than the first night, though that first night has been two months in the past. But what is two months to a lifetime?
     "Your brother no doubt had your best interests in mind. I will have to thank him for his lack of an endorsement to that other," he smiles a little, kissing you gently through your emotion -- his kiss is like a steadying hand, a supporting grasp to anchor you. "It has been to my advantage."
     His mouth moves against your skin, wandering to your ear. "I love the way your hands grip me, mio. What could be better than you on my lap?" His whisper comes with the smokiness of his desire. "You do not have to find the words. Your skin tells me all I need to know. Your voice, even when it cannot form a coherent word, reveals your heart to me. And mine... you hear mine in the crack of the whip, in the whisper of my hand to your skin. Listen to my hands," Prospero breathes, his mouth capturing an earlobe as his fingers skim the skin of your arms, trailing slowly to your hair, to the nape of your neck.
     "I will ask you to tell me more once I have met them. You do not need to say it all in one night, for I will be here tomorrow night," he kisses you, "...and the next night," his mouth brushes against your forehead, "...and for all nights after that," comes the promise against your other ear.
     "Le adoro," Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos whispers at your ear. Tugging it with his lips, his teeth, he sets it free to do the same to your lips. "Soy el tuyo pues tu es el mio." His arms wrap around your waist as securely as a whip around its target. "I have spent all this day without you. Cruel punishment," Prospero smiles slightly, "...and for what crime?" The lifting of an eyebrow marks the humorous inquiry. "The only sins I have to confess are the ones I wish to make with you. Shall you put an end to this torment?"
     Such torment you can feel beneath you...

Posted by rowan at March 05, 2007 10:48 PM