Why take the direct route when indirect routes are so much more fun? Tonight upon his return to the villa, Gwilym is bypassing doors. Doors. Pfft! Anyone can walk in through a door. Windows are so much better. Evading your estate guards just adds to the fun; though what would happen if one accidentally shot or stabbed him probably doesn't bear thinking on. Obviously, Gwilym does not think it is a real risk.
     Why should he, with the power of Shadow at his command? Right now he is on your roof, dressed in black, with a hood pulled over the bright shock of Celtic gold hair. A hefty pouch of gems and coins are slid into his shirt. He slides down a gabled ledge to a balcony - shh, his lips form, and he grins, jade green eyes sparkling as he lets himself down onto it. Are you within? Are you even at home? Will he catch you - or will you catch him? Patient fingers feel for the tumblers of the latch and lock. He is soundless, quiet as a ghost; the door is eased open, and he is sliding inside. It is one of the bedrooms. He pauses, one foot in and one still out, his head cocked to listen. Unobtrusively, he finishes entering, a small, self-amused smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.
     I wonder if you are here...
     I do hope you have not gone out. If you have, I will have to track you down and find you...
     The thoughts are not transmitted to the air. Gwilym instead pulls the hood off, nudging the balcony doors closed again. A shake of the black cloth and it is turned into a sparkling white silk handkerchief, which is tucked into the pocket of his jacket with aplomb. He turns rapidly into a glittering gentleman, only the pouch full of coins and jewels remaining to be dealt with. This he eyes speculatively, and deft fingers unwind the knot from around its neck.
     Of course, you might disapprove, if you are home. What punishments do you devise, my caballero, while I commit the crimes...

     The villa is quite large. It boasts over twenty rooms, with open colonnades, atriums with fountains and pools, with marble floors and columns, and painted and mosaic ceilings. It sits on the edge of a coastal high point, with its vineyards rolling outward. The green of the vines has come and gone, the fruit already picked and crushed, the juice fermenting in limestone caves.
     In one of the bedrooms, certainly not the one you are in, a tall gentleman with short, dark and curly hair stalks through his room. He is half-clothed, black pants but nothing more, and a recent shower clings to him, along with the scent of cinnamon. Marks are fading on his arms, the residue of a day's exercise, and his barefeet barely make a sound in his motion. He walks like a fencer, on the balls of his feet.
     Servants have changed shifts, the evening staff quiet as the breath of a thief. They come and go unnoticed. But your absence is most noticed. It walks the halls, slapping its hands on marble and stone, making itself known.
     The bedroom that is his and yours is more than a bedroom; it is a suite of apartments. There is a sitting room, there is a bath, the bedroom, even a library. He sits in his sitting room, at a small desk that sits nearest the window. Outside the glass, the view of the ocean, but it nighttime and there is only darkness and moon.
     The pen scratches ink across the parchment. A letter to his family, perhaps, to business associates. Somewhere a servant is playing a violin, the sound drifting softly downward, subtle, almost haphazard. Cinnamon eyes wander over the scrawling of his script, but he does not see it. His mind is elsewhere.

     The pouch is drawn closed, the coins and gems allowed to fall back into its depths as he does so. Where are you? His eyes are warming with anticipation. It has been years. And it feels, still, like only days. That this anticipation can still burn in me so brightly, glows in me with such heat. I am not yet done with you. And I feel...
     His footsteps are quiet on your marbled halls. He is looking for you, now, sniffing the air, looking for traces of your passage, signs of your presence. A servant playing the violin; that is good, it means you are probably home. I feel alive, more than I did for so long before I found you. If I can claim such credit; really, it was you who found me. Who - saw, and still sees, something that I cannot.
     The door to the suite is eased open silently, soundlessly, and those jade eyes skim his surroundings, taking notes. Are you here? Are you there? Where are you...
     I try your patience every opportunity I get. I love to see you react, my Spanish prince; even when it is to my possible detriment. And for all that, I am fanatically jealous. Do you know how green these eyes really are? Gwilym peers into the library; no sign of you. But there is the scent of cinnamon on the air. It leads him, beguiles him, tempts him as you surely know it would. His pursuit is of your path, and so he is led to your sitting room; to you.
     Do you know how the sight of you catches at my heart? It rakes sharp claws and I tremble; I feel my mouth twist, wanting to smile, wanting to sigh. I must remind myself that I am a man when I am with you, when I first see you. The weight of those eyes is on you from the doorway now, though he has made no sound, no announcement of his presence. He is torturing himself, you see; he stands apart, watching you from that gulf of space between the door and your chair. Duw, I want to touch you. Prove to myself again, oes, this is real. It could be taken away from me any day now. I will wake and find it has all been a fantasy, a dream - a fairy tale.
     The fear of this fairy tale prince... that story hour will end, and the book close, and it will all be unreal. And if you are not real - then where will I be?

     His head does not lift, but the edge of his mouth begins a slow upward curl, just the slightest twitch of muscles. Cinnamon colored eyes, those tiger's eye jasper stones, peer beyond his words and behind him, casting their gaze to the vision of you in his own imagination. Dark lashes are long and they sweep his cheek in a lazy blink.
     His hand lifts and he dips his quill in ink. "When you are not here, I can hear the silence like a band of minstrels." Remember them? "But when you arrive," Prospero turns to look at you, "... there is the sweetest silence. It is perfumed in solace."
     He rises slowly, no movement is wasted, and he slowly crosses the space between the window and the door, from his desk to you. "And you know how I love your stillness." He says this. He does not say he missed you. That is implied.
     The scent of cinnamon moves ahead of him as he walks, the breeze of the window and of his motion carrying it forward. It winds around you, and then so do his arms. "Almost as much as I love the feel of you in motion," his voice is a hush between you, and his mouth holds its mysterious smile. "I keep the windows and doors locked for you. I know how you enjoy picking them."
     Even if they are your own windows, his gaze seems to say. This villa is, after all, your home.
     There was no prelude to the kiss. It simply erupts from his mouth to yours, and like a burst of fire it evaporates in the next instant as he inclines his head. You do not smell of perfume as you do on some instances. An eyebrow raises. You... not causing some mischief?
     "I trust your business is complete for the night. I prefer to wake with you than wake to find you gone..."

     You captivate him so thoroughly and so effortlessly. Words - thoughts - touches - kisses. And you leave him so casually tongue-tied, so stymied and ready to stammer if he were to dare to attempt speech. "Bah," Gwilym mutters, arms folding over his chest as if to defend himself from emotion. "Me, still? Only when hoping for a score, as you know."
     His cheeks have gone flushed, and his gaze dips downwards and then returns to you, softening as it does. There is a slight tug of a smile that wants to be set free, at the corner of his mouth; oes, I love you too. His voice is husky when he speaks again, arms dropping to open to you. "Better to lock them. Keeps other thieves at bay, oes? I ... would not want anyone in what is mine..."
     The kiss affects him immediately, implicitly. One hand lifts to cup your face, and for a moment, all Gwilym does is look at you. How he tortures himself; as his grandfather before him. Longing of a love-sick nature, and he is the first to kick himself down with mockery for his mooning after you. "I was out getting you something. Nothing special, I'm sorry to say, but oes, well, can't manage the Kohinoor every night, oes? Though if you ever feel a need for it, let me know - I'll just have to hurry to pinch it before da pinches it for my mum. What're you up to?"
     His thumb brushes your chin, and then he drops his hand; that's enough, he can't indulge himself for too long. Gwilym's eyes never leave your face, however. Without words, without so much as a flicker of an eyelash, though, there are volumes being written beneath his skin, where the words cannot escape. He cannot let them free; only through other means are they ever freed, as much as with his letters to his brother, his silent thoughts and prayers. They shine there, glitter with a life of their own...
     All it takes is for me to see you, and all the longings are revived. I could not be cured of you; if I tried, the process would kill me. Being apart from you gives me a delirium tremens of the soul, where I sit here, shuddering and shaking and imagining horrible hallucinations that consume me, whether it is night or day. I have slept and more than slept with every manner of fabulous creature, my prince. I have been a vampire's dinner. I have loved an elven general. I have had and been had in darkened corners by faceless men and women from here to Bangkok, and have banged cock into fragile nymphs and sturdy farmers' sons. And found nothing in all my effort and all my spent seed but more shadows and more emptiness. And here I am...
     Feeling as if I have nothing to offer but these few tawdry crumbs...

     "My correspondences," he answers quietly. The answer is given easily, without further explanation. He has many family members. It is not unusual to find him writing letters at the latest hours of the night.
     "What have you gotten for me?" There is a smile hovering in his gaze, the corners of his mouth tending upwards in slow, subtle degrees. "I should have tribute, should I not?" His laughter is a brush of sound, no louder than the slide of skin to skin, but it can be felt most profoundly. Prospero inclines his head, tilting it this way and that, as if he can discern where you're hiding this gift, this treasure.
     Though he knows you would not be so obvious.
     His hands curl at your hips and just behind them, bringing you every so subtly toward him, and leaning forward he brushes the lobe of your ear with his mouth. His lips part but for a moment nothing but his breath is issued. Warmly, against your skin. He breathes you in.
     "If it is from your fingers and from your heart, then it is something special to me. Though you will make your same insistences," his smile tugs against your flesh. "I will insist otherwise, amigo."
     Full lips seize the tender flesh, sucking it between and into the warmth of his mouth with sudden savoring. A flick of his tongue and he frees you with a grin. "So... where is my tribute, thief? Hmm? Can it fit in the palm of my hand?" His hands slide from your hips to your rear, cupping you.

     Your correspondences. He accepts the answer, loses interest. The only member of your family who he has any real interest in is you. "You write too much," Gwilym grouses at you, his hand reaching to tug at your hair. Short as it is, he loves to do so; loves how it escapes even his clever grasp, springs back away from his reach. Just like my heart.
     You draw him in, and he is suddenly impatient with want. "Nothing good enough to tell you what I mean," Gwilym murmurs. He is distracted from speech; his voice is quieter, his eyes closing as you suckle at him. "Tribute, oes, tribute due the emperor of my heart."
     His fingers slide against your chest, and where they move, if you wore a shirt the buttons would be mysteriously askew. But there is no such confining layer between your skin and his hands; he sighs for it, sighs with longing though you are right in front of him. "I should not tell you where it is, oes? I should make you find it for yourself. Or better, drag you out for the evening until you are thoroughly impatient with me and drag me home by the scruff of my neck."
     It is in him, yes, that warmth. He leans to you, drags his mouth against your shoulder, scraping his teeth gently against your skin. His tongue soothes it a moment later, a broad swathe of wetness gliding as he sucks at your skin. "...I saw my grandfather today. And then I was in the mood to try my hand at various things, and I bring my prizes to you. As always, my Prospero, this alley cat with his scruffy soul brings his tawdry kills to your door..."

     "We can go out if you would like. A night of cards and of carousing," he turns his head to watch you as you begin to gnaw at him. He chuckles softly, his hand coming up to your hair. "Shall I call you Tybalt, prince of cats? Come... show me your prizes and then we will go out. We should breathe the crisp air, see our breath linger, get cold, so we can warm one another."
     His hands free you and he steps to the side. "A drink. I have warm wine," it is an offer he will not let you refuse. Prospero heads into the chamber's center, to the silver pitcher that rests upon a table, steaming. He pours heated red wine into two cups. The flavors of clove and cinnamon color the air.
     "How is your grandfather? How is your family?" He glances to you with a lift of an eyebrow. There is no such thing as writing too much...

     You suggest going out and he suddenly wants to stay in. Perverse, like any cat. But he does not argue; his hands stroke against your back as you turn to go to the wine. From his boot he pulls the palmed pouch, and it is tossed to the table to spill its contents in gold and rubies, emeralds and sapphires and opals. "A modest gift," he murmurs, "not worthy, really. But enjoy them, oes? Do with them as you like."
     Wine. He is seldom one to turn down wine. He rests a hip against the table, his gaze never leaving you through every movement, every turn. "He is depressed. Problems with mum and da. Their threesome means sometimes somebody's left out, and, well," he shrugs, "I don't really know what to tell him, oes? And I think mum and da would tell me to mind my business if I took it to them - it's not my business, really." He cares for them. But he is not in the middle of that. And he thanks god for that.
     His hand moves to touch yours, light-fingered the touch to the back of your wrist. Gwilym falls silent, looking at you. Words I wish that I could say. How can I tell you, without it sounding simply stupid...
     "Io is well. He is actually planning on taking a vacation with Tiernan. Shocking, innit? And about time. I think Tiernan is getting ready to bean him with a logbook..."

     "I do not understand such arrangements. I could never share the one I love. I am not so great a person, not so giving." He holds forth a cup for you, the steam wisping upward. "He has more patience than I. But they say patience comes with age." There is a cat-like smile for that. How many years will it take for some of us to become patient?
     Sipping the heated wine, he heads for the sofa, his finger tugging at yours. It is a simple, subtle sign for you to follow. Settling in the corner of the large velvet sofa, Prospero turns to you. "The High King taking a vacation? That is not like him," he drawls. "I suppose he is not announcing such. Or it will not be much of a vacation," his mouth puckers in its political grin. "Either there will be hordes of attendants and guards or every pirate will turn his guns for him. This is why it is better to be the second, or the third," he gestures to himself, "...son." Long lashes downsweep as he looks into his cup and finally takes a swallow of it.
     "The gift is lovely. I can always find a use for gems. Buttons for a shirt, the wealthiest shirt in all the kingdoms. I have a pierced ear, I can wear the ruby there. It will burn like your heart, hmm? Always on me, like a jewel I get to keep."
     I could never share you. I know that you sleep with women. I, too, indulge. But with another man? Never. I could never share you. I would kill that man for daring such a thing. His thoughts are more than audible, they are edible. And his tiger's eyes gleam with an inner fire, lapping there at the cinnamon. They give heat and light like tiny flames. I shall never give you up. I am greedy. And I love you.
     Those feelings of jealousy, of keeping the secret of you to himself, flares. "It is good I am a master swordsman. I will not hesitate to put others in their place."

     "It has been hard enough for me to give up to one person. I don't think I could do for more than one." Gwilym grins, as if to make the words flippant - but the truth of them is in his eyes, in the sudden duck of his chin downwards. I am my mother's son, oes. But I am not like her. I cannot help but love - but I ... do not want more than you. Even though I battle with myself, because I do not deserve you. You deserve better, Prospero...
     Gradually, he looks up again, following you and sprawling onto the couch. He ends with his head in your lap, impudent, cheeky thing that he is, looking up at you from half-closed eyes. "Oes, well. I am first-born, but my father has no need of me, and my papa's efforts to turn me into something more useful have all met in failure; he says he loves me anyway, but you know how it is. I have my regrets. But you are not one of them."
     It is painful honesty, briefly spoken. He has such difficulties with honesty, with intimacy. With depth. Gwilym grins sidelong, then turns, burying his face for a moment against your belly before he returns to his position. "You do not challenge me enough. How am I to properly spoil you as befits a master thief if there is nothing you want? Pfah, you won't even let me ruin your business rivals!"
     He laughs a little, sitting up again. He is so terrible at staying still. He turns to you, biting at his lip for a moment in thought, meeting your gaze. My tongue is locked; I try and try to unlock this, but this lock alone seems too much for me. I want it open more than anything. What am I to do... Aloud, he murmurs, "You ... should hold out for something finer than me, Pros. You could have any man or woman you really wanted, oes? And yet, here you are," he quirks a crooked smile, "letting vagabond princes with sticky fingers into your bed and into your life."

     "You seem to have the mistaken impression that there could be someone finer. I am not fooled by your self-deprecation. I know what I have. I know what I love. It is as it is, and I would not change it, not even at your insistence. I see what you do not see; I know what you do not know. As for what use to put you to... you should design your own life. Be your own master, master thief. Is that not the benefit of being your own master? Deciding your own fate."
     One hand holds his cup, brings it up and down as he sips. His other rests upon your head, his fingers moving through your hair and against your scalp. "Regret nothing. Do as you like, amigo. You will be happier, if you allow yourself to be. It is in your hands. The world is merely waiting for you to make your move. As for my rivals," he smiles a little, "...perhaps a little adversity now and then would not be so terrible. Corporate espionage... might come in handy. How are you at stealing information? Things I have. Things I can get. Information is worth more than gems and gold."
     As you sit up, Prospero inclines his head. He lifts an eyebrow. He stares at you. He does not complain about your restless nature; he simply puts it to good use. Turning slightly, he sets his cup aside. His hands pluck at the ties of his shirt. Without a word, he opens himself to you, baring himself. It is like he is unpacking his own gift to you, the gems of his skin, his form.
     Cinnamon eyes gleam as, wordlessly, he plucks free the ties that bind his leather trousers. "You have no idea how brightly you shine. How ...tempting your energy is. How to tame it, for an instant, is one of my greatest pleasures and delights. You are like holding lighting. Like putting one's head in the tiger's mouth."
     His clothing unpacked, his body revealed, Prospero lifts his hand to your face, his fingers sliding against your scalp. "Put your energy to work. Let your light shine on me." Gentle pressure of his fingertips gently command your head to bend and your mouth to find employment.

     "I once spent six hours under a bed listening," your lover drawls, the color rising in his face. "Information? Just tell me what you want. Anything you want, if I can get it, I will, or die trying." And that is one of your concerns, isn't it? The risks he takes. Less, perhaps, than he used to; less often as well. But they are still taken. Leaps across rooftops. Dealings with dangerous individuals in darkened alleys. Wretched hives of scum and villainy...
     Gwilym smiles as he looks at you undress yourself. It is a spreading, brilliant smile that shows how thoroughly and immediately you have captured his attention - and his imagination, perhaps more difficult. "In you," he murmurs, voice dropping in volume, "all my needs are met at once. If I have any complaint, it is that you are not cruel enough to me. For the sins I commit, you should not be so forgiving..."
     He does not speak again. Lithe, your lover is; he eels himself down with a soft sound for your fingers against his scalp. He nuzzles against you, eyes again closing. And perhaps I should get myself drunker, that I can unpack more words at a time. But right now, all I want is to adore you.

Posted by rowan at September 20, 2007 11:56 AM