Well, that went almost as bad as it possibly could have. It could have gone worse if there had been bloodshed, or ejection from the family, or something like that...
     Not that he's dwelling on such things...
     Much. Gwilym has returned to the city, and more specifically, to the tavern district. He has taken a table in one of the more exquisite inns, and has begun setting up rounds for the house.
     That, in and of itself, is not so unusual. That he is doing so while still garbed in his shadow armour means that while many are availing themselves of his hospitality, none are doing so directly at his table. When a prince looks like he might ride at the left hand of death, one does not tend to want to get too close.
     He loves me. I know he does. And I love him. Why does it have to be like this? But he left, and I can't blame him. I hurt him badly, I am sure. With my luck, mum will come riding in wanting my head.
     With a loud exhale, Gwilym sinks back in his seat. "Two bottles of brandy," he tells the serving wench. He does not pinch her bottom. He does not even look at her. Or at anyone else. "...and a basket of fried vegetables. Something should keep the alcohol company, if only on the table."
     Gold coins chime heavily against the wooden surface. They are slid in her direction. Yes, brandy. Keep it coming. Let it join the bottles already on the floor...

     He spent his day with his cousin in the hilly countryside, inspecting the limestone plateaux of his acquisition and outlining the plans with his architect for a villa that shall be as much a work of art as a residence. He met with his vintner to outline specifics, not theories, on the best fields for the best grapes and which part of the acquisition should be devoted to orchards.
     By mid-afternoon, with his business accomplished, he went to the docks to oversee the arrival of his horses and other belongings from Andalucia. More of his household was arriving, his servants, his trusted 'second' for duels, his business manager, and his major domo. The villa shall be completed in a year, maybe two with his latest elaborations, but there was no point in wasting time. A ship of Andalucia sits at the harbor with haughty sails tucked as if looking down upon its lowly neighbors. Such a fine ship -- only the King Himself boasts its better.
     That done, it was time for a mid-afternoon snack (tomatoes, olive oil, goat's milk cheese) and then fencing, combat, and riding -- the pursuits of the noble, or at least the nobly wealthy. By the time he showered the smell of horse and sweat from him and dressed, it was into evening and still he had not heard from you.
     Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos dressed himself in a sage green shirt, a pull-over that fits his form closely. It's fabric light, it allows the breezes to move through it despite its close fit. Black trousers fit midway between loose and tight -- a happy compromise that his body appreciates -- and over these and past his knees are a pair of black boots. The weather is warm, but starting to turn already to autumn. He does not yet need a coat, but in a week he will need both a coat and a scarf.
     He knows your haunts by now...
     He has learned them silently, absorbing the rhythm of your steps as easily as the tone of your voice to know when you are excited, sad, or upset. He moves through the city, and it does not take long until he ascertains your location. Word travels swiftly. You are something of a celebrity. Everyone knows where you are when you are in town.
     Prospero enters the tavern, pausing by the bar to take a survey of the surroundings. He sees you in your shadow arraignment, visible and cloaked all at once. He gets a bottle of mediera and approaches your table. "You have had a hard day, my prince." It is a question, but the way he phrases them -- it seems like he knows the answer to the question before he asks it. In this case, he does. That you are upset is quite clear.
     The bottle of mediera thuds on the table as he sets it down. "Do you mind my joining you?" A little deja vu. We have been in this situation before, have we not? Prospero lifts an eyebrow at the arrival of two bottles of brandy. "I will buy the prince's liquor tonight," he interjects with the waitress before she can take the prince's gold. "I owe him."
     Suit yourself, she shrugs, and taking Prospero's coins instead she sashays off to her next customer.

     He looks up for a moment, slowly; then his gaze lowers again. "You are looking well," Gwilym murmurs. A hand gestures - oes, join me, by all means, and he lifts it then to rub at the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine."
     You will hear the lie in his voice. He knows it; probably, so too do you. He pours himself a drink, lifts it to his mouth for a swallow, exhaling fumes before he speaks again. "My grandfather wanted to talk to me."
     Family matters. Well. Did you realize what a mess you would be getting yourself into, by getting in with him? Gwilym's eyes halfway close, one corner of his mouth turning downwards. How long before you decide you've had enough of me?

     "You look well," Prospero says quietly, no obvious humor in his voice but you can tell he knows something is wrong. He has an eye for bullshit. Settling back in his chair with a glass of the mediera, he looks at you. For a moment, he says nothing more. He glances around the tavern, one cirrus streak of an eyebrow drifting, lifting upward in his thought.
     "Perhaps we should take a room, or go to the palace and discuss the matter in private. You can have all the brandy you wish. Tonight, I am paying." He says it so easily as to not brook argument. His hand reaches over patting your arm. Come, he says in that unspoken way, let's go where we can talk.
     As if family troubles would keep him from having what he wants. There is no family that is not troublesome -- it is the nature of things. He waits for your reply, calmly sipping at his wine. He takes your coins off the table, handing them too you with the slightest of smiles. Though he smiles, his gaze is intense, keen.
     You can see, quite clearly, that you are going to have to tell him what is happening.

     With a sigh, he unbends - a little, at least. "Let's get a room," Gwilym mutters. "I don't feel like walking, and I don't think you're in the mood to give me a piggy-back ride to the palace." Ah, there's his humour, the flash of wicked grin aimed at you. It is his last and best defense, in some ways.
     A hand is lifted; he rises from his chair, scooping up the two bottles and his glass easily. "I'm taking the Kingdom Suite," he tells the barkeep easily. "Add it to my tab, oes? I'm going to talk to my compadre in privacy."
     He does not look around. There is only one brief glance spared for you and then he is heading for the stairs quickly, silently. His shadow moves of its own accord, indicating the depths of his distress.

     Prospero says nothing on the journey. For your moment of humor there was a warming of his studious expression, but he knows you are troubled. He can feel it as surely as a tap on his arm. He continues his silence until after you both are in the chamber completely and the door is shut and locked. Only then does his expression soften and affection and warmth displayed. "The meeting did not go well. Did you tell him about us?"
     He takes two glasses from the chamber's bar, pouring himself a glass of mediera. Prospero holds his hand outward, motioning for your brandy. He will pour you a glass. You will have a private bartender tonight.
     He remembers your cautions on your grandfather, your nervousness. Prospero stands there, steady where you are upset. No doubt he would face Davydd in the same manner -- head-on, seeming fearless.

     "I didn't even get that far." Gwilym sighs, exhaling as he hands his glass to you; he flops down into the first soft chair to come close, closing his eyes. "He knows I am in love, but not with who. Or that the who happens to possess a cock rather than breasts," he adds, rolling the words around in his mouth. It's not funny, but it is. But he still wants to sulk.
     "He ... wanted to apologize for something ... and I could not just accept his apology," he says after a moment. Wearily, he kicks off first one boot, then the other. "Instead, I laid out all the things I've been blaming him for all my life. I didn't want to accuse him - I tried to tell him that - but ... it just all fell out at his feet."
     And that did not go well, did it? Gwilym shakes his head, a lock of red-gold hair falling over one eye. "I hurt him. I did not mean to, but that's no comfort."

     Both eyebrows lift slightly as he brings a brandy to you, his other hand holding the wine. "Honesty," that word that formed our first bond, "... is dangerous. Necessary, but dangerous. In it, all our hopes and our fears. And sometimes, it does not go well." He takes a seat beside you, giving you your drink, his hand falling to your thigh.
     Fingers drum and pat there in comfort. "It does not even feel better, does it." Prospero gives his body to the sofa, turning to you with his hand still on your thigh. It is a gentle possession, and a strong reminder that he is with you. "He hurt you. Do you think he meant to? Perhaps the two of you are standing in the same shoes looking at one another, seeing a mirror's reflection. Perhaps he, too, is not comforted by what he has done or said or implied. Guilt," Prospero pauses on that term, "... really serves no purpose. You have said your peace, shared your feelings. Now, you can move forward."
     "That is," he interjects, looking to you with a question in his expression, "... if you wish to. I do not mean to presume the nature of the talk." Slowly, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos smiles. "And such a cock, si?" he teases.

     He exhales, looking up at you as you bring drink, as you sink down with him. "It does not feel better. There is relief, oes, But it is not a lasting sort of relief. I do not need some sort of close to my life. And he is important to me. He is family."
     And family is important. Some would say, all-important. Gwilym makes a face; it is tasting bad to him, this situation. "I wish it had been different. I would have liked to tell him about you. I hope he can accept us, Pros; I really do. He took my brother's truths badly."
     Did you know that the High King was into men as well as married to a woman? It will become common knowledge soon, perhaps, but it has not been yet announced. If he were less rattled, he would be saying less. His hand comes to cover yours. "My brother," Gwilym exhales, "was how I ended up finding out I was attracted to men, you know. I had never let the idea occur to me. My grandfather has always been a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to sex, aside from the entire married to a woman who is also married to another man, thing."

     Prospero looks at you, sipping at the wine as he listens to you. He motions for you, his hand patting his lap. Lie down, he says without saying. You can give your pain to me, and I will comfort you.
     "We often learn such things from older brothers," he murmurs. "That is how all things learn, no? By watching others of their family. It is how birds learn to fly, and sometimes it is how men learn to love." There is no shock that you should have learned something like that from your twin brother, nor does he seem shocked that the king himself has such desires.
     "But... a second son...or in my case, a third son... is not held to the same rigors and responsibilities as the heir to the throne. Sometimes, especially when one is young, it seems... unfair. As one grows older, one begins to realize that the older was not favored more, and the younger is much more free. It is possible that your desires, which I am of course happy you have," his voice is smoky deep in his purred whisper, "...will not cause the same reaction in your grandfather as your brother's. Your brother has to ensure the line, just as my brother Ramon must. I do not have that pressure. I can live for myself. You can live for yourself."
     Prospero finishes his wine, reaching over to set it aside. He leaves his hands free now to tend to you. "Family is important, and I am glad it is important to you. It is important to me as well. I am going to hold out the hope that your grandfather will attempt to understand, despite his more traditional reaction to your brother, the King's, preferences. He shares a woman with his own son, after all. How picky on morality can he be?" A small smile quirks at the corners of his mouth and sparkles firelight within the cinnamon of his eyes.

     "I took it badly when my brother admitted his secrets to me." Your lover looks at you sidelong, almost smirking at his own stupidity - and his own hypocrisy. "The idea had never occurred to me, ludicrously so. That my adored brother could be in love - with a man! I couldn't believe it. I did not threaten him, but ... our communications did not go smooth. Nor did my dealing with his lover."
     Gwilym groans quietly at the memories. "I dealt with it - with a relative grace, even if not any sort of claim to perfection. It was a very new idea to me, and my first impulse was to reject it. But I did try, even when all three of us were living together in a flat in London. Of course, he also had me just - keeping an eye out for anything odd, in case. It is my metier."
     And there is another groan, and he finishes off his drink in a long swallow. It is a thirst of the soul, of despair - of remembered humiliation for that matter. "So of course they came home early and I was stuck under their bed all night," Gwilym recalls, cheeks burnished ruddily, "while they went through as many positions as you might care to imagine. I've occasionally wished I could revenge myself on them in like fashion. Keep in mind - this was before I had ever been with any man, or even thought about myself in that connection. It damn near destroyed me."

     Sometimes, even Prospero's subtleties peel away, revealing emotions and reactions in grand display. Such happens when he smiles at you, his legs stretching wide, his body sinking into the embrace of the sofa. He grins at you, sympathetic but silent laughter all the same. His almond complexion goes golden with his humor, and his smile is broad, immediate, and fiery.
     "I can imagine many, but I will endeavor not to. You... beneath his bed... all night. A very active bed. And ... what did you think? Was it this alone that made you wonder what it would be like?" His humor enfolds itself in his curiosity, his interest and attention once again taking center stage, his grin a flashback memory. "Did you have feelings, hidden feelings, that were brought to the fore," he murmurs, "...when you heard what could happen between men?"
     He has his own stories, no doubt, but he is focusing on you, asking you about your own experience. "Destroyed you... in that it revealed something about yourself, caro? Or because the force of the bed shaking overhead threatened to smother you?" Prospero's eyes twinkle in the grin his mouth only hints at.

     "It made me uncomfortable." He smiles at you, though without really seeing you, the blush firm on his face. "My brother is .. a very .. active and - rigorous lover. His lover and he .. it sounded more like pornography than pornography does. It affected me, oes - how could it not? I was surrounded by the sound of it, the smell of it, the thudding vibrations of it. The sounds of my brother's voice, his lover's voice, in emotion and passion. For days after, I just avoided them. I left while they were asleep, tried to come back while they were gone, to get my own sleep. I left notes which my brother could not begin to comprehend - not on the couch, I put my arse there too, you know. Not on the counters, I have to eat there."
     He shakes his head, rising and beginning to pace, humour sliding away again. "I was difficult to live with," his voice drolls out, "which I'm sure you simply can't imagine. And ... oes ... it planted seeds. I ... could not stop thinking about it. What I had all but seen, all but experienced. It ate at me. And then - well, my brother got mad at me for avoiding him. He hadn't figured it out, you see. So I tried to wiggle out of it," he waves a hand from side to side, indicating, "but my brother, ah, well, see, he's stubborn. We're alike in that. He got angrier and angrier, and finally - threatened our relationship."
     All trace of humour vanishes at that, a bleakness remembered in his eyes. How badly that hurt; how deeply that cut. The one person he did not want to lose, who he most feared losing. "I started out jealous," Gwilym admits quietly. "I was afraid of losing him. My brother - my twin. In some ways, my other self, oes? And here he was, changing, a stranger to me, admitting things I ... I couldn't understand, wandering paths I had never even thought of following. And worse even than that, it was with another man. If it were a woman, my place would be secure. If it were a woman, I ..."
     He shakes his head, letting his gaze fall to the ground. For a long moment, he does not speak, only listening for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Or perhaps for your footsteps receding.
     "I ended up having to tell him about being trapped under his bed," Gwilym finally acknowledges. "It ... did not put things right between us, but he stopped thinking that I was just out to destroy his relationship. And he admitted to me who he had first been with, man with man. And, I, well, I seized on that. I was half shocked and half jealous, I suppose. I didn't understand why my brother could have been with men for so long and never told me. I didn't understand either why ... well." He glances up at you, and there is that slanting half-smile, the green eyes filled with the mockery that tries to hide the pain. "I didn't understand why not me, I suppose. Vanity is a destroying thing, isn't it."

     You see his look. He had already gone there and is waiting for you to join him by the time you actually say it. Though he is not sure what it has to do with your grandfather -- no doubt you shall circle back to it eventually -- there is no move to recede. There is no retreat. That word is not in his vocabulary. You have removed yourself from him. He would rather you were lying on the sofa as he asked, your head on his lap. But you have your own reasons for putting space between you.
     You are trying to protect yourself.
     Prospero watches you as it sits forward. "You do not have to be afraid, Gwilym." That is all he says for a moment. He looks at his hands where they are loosely joined, and then he looks at you, his hands on his thighs. He is in motion. Prospero comes to stand before you. "I will not pretend to understand what that must have felt like," he says quietly, evenly as he takes your hand. He looks at you with the intensity of wanting to solve the puzzle you have handed him. "I have never felt that way for Ramon or Alfonzo. But, I was not a twin, hmm? A twin of a different father sharing the same mother. Your circumstance is not like any other twin's, any other person's that I know of." He pauses, his hand freeing you. His arms circle your hips. "Do you think that if you tell me this thing between you and your brother, these things about your family, that I will leave you? Is that what you are afraid of? For I can see the shine in your eyes." He leans in, his mouth brushing your ear, "...and I can smell the salt on your skin," he breathes there.
     "You wanted your brother's love. You wanted his respect, his admiration, his love," Prospero rolls his shoulder in a shrug. "This is not so unusual. Even sexualized, caro," his mouth shifts as if it will become a smile -- it does not quite make it for his intense study. "But the past is only important, only, in terms of what is in the Now, and what is in the future. What do you feel now? How will this impact where you want to be? Who you want to be with?" His arms retract, freeing you. His left hand remains on your shoulder as he looks at you. "That is all that matters. How your relationships are now, how you want them to be. The past has no significance past the fact that it has led you here, to this spot, standing with me now."

     He half laughs, half sobs, moving to lean against you. And you have seen through some of his story; penetrated to the heart of the problem. His problem, which led him to such self-revelations, which even he did not realize. "My brother is and only will be my brother," Gwilym tells you quietly. "That is enough for me, as I am now. And as long as you are here with me, I cannot imagine wanting anything more. I don't want anyone but you."
     Which has changed him - more, perhaps than you know. He leans in against you heavily, his arms around you, tightening. "My grandfather," Gwilym says after a moment, "did not handle Io's ... relationship ... well. At all. It more or less ended Io's childhood, in more ways than one. And I don't think papa's ever talked to Io's lover, not one on one, not - made any real move to make him part of the family. That's been left to mum and da to do, really." He shrugs a little, sighing quietly as he closes his eyes. "Which - is papa's choice. But damn it, I want better than that for you. For us. I want him to be happy for us. I have gone from pillar to post to avoid falling in love and much of that has been my own problem, my own failing, my inability to commit to anything but my own destruction - but how much of what I have done has been because I have been so sure that any admission of who I am made to love and how will earn me my own blood's hatred?"
     He looks up at you, a hand patting clumsily for a moment at your shoulder. He needs to pace. He is restless, caged. Only it is not you who is caging him. "I want to repair things with him. But ... I won't give up on you, Pros. I don't think he'd ask it. But it tears at me, to think that he might - or that he might decide I am no longer worth his blood because of it."

     "At the risk of speaking ill of your blood," he inclines his head as you move to pace some of your energy away, "...were he to do so, he would be a fool not worth your time or your energy. Or your love, Gwilym. I say this as someone who loves you, so perhaps my opinion is suspect," he smiles a little, "...but as someone who loves you, I know how special you are to me. If he wishes to give it up or away, I will be only too happy to relieve him of your care."
     He is not one to mince words or meaning...
     Prospero does not follow you as you walk your energy off. He pours another round of drinks, setting a brandy out for you to take. "I hope he will make another choice. I hope he will choose to love you. I have, and I am the better for it."
     Sipping at his madeira, your lover makes his way back to the sofa. His expression is couched in his own thought. "I do not like sitting back and waiting for something to happen. It is not a good strategy. Why do we not meet him, together? And tell him... together. You and he have already fought, so there is no reason not to go in a show of strength. You... on your terms. And me... on mine. Unlike your brother's lover, I shall not simply sit back and allow indignity. No," he shakes his head after another swallow of wine. "Bring him here... or we shall meet him there. In either case, we should take our fates into our hands, make our choice, and deal with it. His hatred is not an inevitability."

Posted by rowan at March 12, 2007 03:45 PM