October in fairy land is not unlike October anywhere in Britain or the northern parts of America; undoubtedly there are other places which share that October-ness. In this land, it is perhaps the essence, the quintessence of October; a fat, full pumpkin moon hangs overhead, its merry yellow-orange light spreading across the lantern-lit markets and mazing alleys of the city.
Gwilym's footsteps have been most recently lit by lanterns with a red shade. As the shadows creep across the moon and the chill of a hinting winter waiting in the winds on the air makes itself known, he has been seeking warmth tonight. Warm the mulled wine; warm the fireplace. Warm, too, the all too loving arms (and laps) of the nymph-like concubines for rent behind those red-tinted windows; warm and widely opened their arms. Wide, too, the madam's smile to see the king's younger brother in company - it's good for business. And business is good.
He is tipsy - not drunk, but definitely just a shade or three more than mellow, edging towards merry as he makes his way home. It began with cards and ended with games of a less complicated nature. Fully half his winnings were 'invested' thus at Madam's hospitality; and he is not feeling the loss. Anyone would think him an easy mark, Prince Gwilym Gwyn Garu, with his shirt poorly buttoned and even more poorly tucked, his boots half-unlaced and his hair askew. The cool air helps to sober him a bit, but it is not luck alone that keeps him safe; there is the advantage of a reputation, and the advantage of knowing where to walk and whose names to invoke. "Hoy there, Dirrim the Black. I see you there in the shadows. You couldn't take me on your best day, and trust me, this isn't," he calls out cheerily. "I'd have you down and bleeding before you drew your sword."
Eyes that are used to seeing through five dimensions of shadow make easy work of only three. The figure in shadows grumbles but does not stir, and the 'easy mark' passes on unmolested. Out of the town and up to your villa he goes, your princely lover. His hands scrape at the keys as he casually lets himself in. No sneaking around tonight! He is in the mood for nothing so unsubtle...
He rarely stays home while you are out carousing. What is good for the goose is good for this gander. But as you seem to have an innate and uncanny knack for seeing through five dimensions of shadows, likewise Prospero del Cielo de los Santos has the uncanny ability to always arrive home before you do. If even just.
The entry of the villa is a double door, cherry red, that opens into the front foyer and colonnade that leads to the main living room. Part of the living room is open air, with a fountain that runs in all seasons but winter. Hanging vines, like the hanging gardens of Babylon, run from marble column to column, feeding off the fountain's dew.
There is a fire tonight, both in the open-air portion of the chamber and in the enclosed portion. The outer hearth is huge, doubling as an oven for the crusty breads you and he love so well. It warms the entire area, making the cool October night seem far more like a mild August evening. Sitting on the hearth, wine warming, mulling and stewing in herbs.
"Ah! Buenos noches, Gwilym," the warm and light toned voice of Romero greets you from where he sits, midway between the two hearths, capitalizing on as much warmth as possible. His virginal cheeks are still as pure and rosy as the first evening you met him, even if he is slightly less virginal. "Prospero is here... he just went inside to change." He rises, smiling to you as he closes his book. "There is wine already," he gestures to the hearth. "And there is fresh bread and cheese." He blushes at you -- he has a little crush, as you know -- and he gathers his things to go. "I will fetch my cousin. I know he will want to know that you are here."
He smiles almost nostalgically, sniffing the air appreciatively - fire, wine, fresh air. "It almost makes me believe in religion," Gwilym cracks wise as he makes his way inside. He fumbles with his sword-belt, releasing it, sword and all; it is set aside, and he stretches as he approaches. "Been a while, Romero," he greets you with the airy good cheer of the mildly inebriated. "No, no, don't go running off. He'll be down in a minute, after all, oes? And I haven't asked you how you've been or any of the other nosy little questions that people ask after a while's separation."
One emerald eye closes in a wink, and he moves to collect some of the wine. You can guess what he has been up to, yes? Even if his clothes and his hair were not in so disreputable a state, there is the faint lingering scent of perfume and fragrant oils and creams such as the girls love to bedeck themselves with, the scent of spilt liqueur and the languid air to him as of the cat who's most definitely bagged a canary or three.
Collapsing down next to you, Gwilym lets himself hang back in the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. "Duw's balls," he groans out humorously. "What a night. They've this new girl, they say she's part poukha, and - well. I'll spare you the details of her reputation." He sits up, turning to grin at you wickedly. "Was your night exciting, then? Don't be shy, Romero. I only ask in the spirit of an inquiringly lecherous and absolutely filthy mind!"
He pauses but he holds his book like a shield -- the last remaining barrier between his Purity and your Debauchery. "Oh... well, yes. It has been a while. I've just returned from Andalucia." His hazel eyes take a moment to look at you and his face goes all pink and red, a wash of color like paint in water. "I have had a great evening, si, gracias. And thank you... I have been very well. I have started university. So I am busy. You... look like you have been busy, too." He smiles knowingly and blushes further. "Excuse me, but what is a poukha?"
Oh, that you could be lecherous with him -- he might faint! There is a visible swoon, but he covers it by squeezing his book in his arms. He wishes a servant were nearby. With a fan!
"Prospero was humoring me tonight," Romero changes the subject, at least momentarily, "... He allowed me to win a hand of cards. But he made himself quite wealthy again tonight. In between having mercy on me." He lifts a hand and puts it to his face, trying to cool himself off before he explodes.
He glances around, wondering if Prospero is on his way. He should hate for his cousin to see him blushing so shamelessly in the presence of his lover. "I think I have had a bit too much to drink... I hope you forgive me. I cannot handle wine so much." You who are such a master of the subtle language of shadows can tell that his breath has quickened, his pulse. His mouth is dry. He wets his lips and glances down -- in between sneaking looks at you.
It is tempting, in the presence of such Innocence, to do something terrible. He can be terrible; wicked, in fact, did you but know it. He has been in the past. There have been lovers - male, female, he didn't really care; individuals who whether they knew or did not know of their attraction to men, found themselves tilting, leaning, and eventually inevitably falling in his direction.
Maybe it's his parents' fault for naming him after who they did; it is certainly one of the rare things held in common. Why question the peach that lands in your lap? Gwilym has oft fulfilled his appetite thus. And sometimes, one gives the tree a little shake...
He is aware of the temptation. It is, perhaps, as well for him that his horns have been blunted a little by rolling around with ladies of commercial virtue. Still, there is a rogue's gleam in his eye as he regards you, his head tilted at an angle. "I have been busy, oes," he drawls out, letting the syllables linger as he leans back with his wine. "Prospero has been having mercy on you? Tss. You should tell him not to. He is far more fun when he withholds his mercy until the very end." He smirks to himself, grins at you, then downs half his wine. "Besides, it is more of a learning experience, when he is being cruel and merciless, I would think. How will you learn the game, without someone to teach you?"
He can't help himself, really. He has no intent to seduce you, but to tease - well, you're simply there, and such a ripe target for it. He fixes you with a casual observation, even as he pretends his attention wanders as he shifts, readjusts his weight and distribution on the cushions, sprawling ever more relaxed. "A poukha - well, there's a kind of fairy that can take the shape of a man or woman or the shape of a horse. And if you encounter one in the shape of a horse and you get on its back, there's no getting off until it decides to let you out of the saddle again. Poukha-blooded types who go into the services of hospitality, let's call it - they're very popular indeed, male or female alike." You receive a knowing glance, and this time, the emerald glance does not move directly to your face or from it; it's a leisurely scrutiny that takes in every part of you bit by bit before it wanders back to the fire. "You should give it a try sometime... if you're so inclined."
He suspects as to your inclination. It is painted on the air with your blush. Gwilym gradually peels himself up to move to get himself some of the bread and cheese on offer, and he looks around for the honey as well. "Drink as much as you like. There's enough beds in the place, oes? If you pass out, I'll make sure you get put safely to bed and tucked in nice and warm." He grins over at you, setting down his cup as he reaches for the honey, dipping a finger into the golden syrup and watching it spool gradually and slowly down into the glass again. "So what are you doing at university? I never went to university much. Mother had us taught by a tutor. Hated his lessons at the time. After I finished schooling his lessons became more interesting, though."
"Primarily, I am studying rhetoric, philosophy, the sciences and theology. I have not yet determined what I should like to do, though I have more of a mind for letters than I do business. My mother would like me to become a priest, of course, but I..." and he looks at you, unable to look away as you sprawl. Oh my. "I... well... I do not think I want to be as cloistered as a priest."
He looks down at his book, over his shoulder for the approach of Prospero, and then he moves back to the hearth to pour another goblet of the mulled wine. He leaves his book there -- it is likely to be forgotten if the look on his face is to be believed. Another glance behind him -- no Prospero, not yet -- and he carries his goblet of wine, sipping it along his way to you.
Spider, you have your fly...
Romero sits beside you, blushing as he looks from you to his cup. "You must be quite tired. I am sure that Prospero will be disappointed to hear that." How tired are you? he visibly wonders, the question writing itself over and over on his expression.
You can see him catch himself: I am having impure thoughts. But he looks at you again. He sips his wine for courage.
"It is good to see you," Romero repeats himself. "Prospero knows my nature. He is kind to me." His heart quickens again, his ears even pinkening. "And I should be ashamed of myself," he whispers between you. "But you are ... so..." So. His lips part but he does not speak after that. He just blushes, his hands trembling. He at least has the forethought to set aside the wine.
"Forgive me," Romero whispers.
"Theology!" Gwilym laughs a little at that, shaking his head as he pops his finger into his mouth, sucking honey from it in a lewd display. He grins at you, then resumes fixing his plate of bread and cheese with just a dollop of honey, refills his goblet and returns to his seat. Plate and drink are placed where he can reach but will not easily be knocked about, and he sprawls again, shaking his head. "I live a life which avoids the spiritual save in rare moments. I have never been able to linger in among thoughts of god. I am a poor one to give advice, Romero, but I would tell you this : if you intend to lock yourself away from the pleasures of the world, then I believe you deny the gifts that god - whichever one it is," he speaks blasphemies easily, "has given you. But I am a pagan, you know; probably best not to listen to me."
He snags his goblet and drinks deeply, then sets it aside again as he watches your sudden restlessness with a hint of predatory amusement. Priest? Poor fish, the only part of a cloister I can see you finding fulfillment in would be the constant company of other men. And yet, would you take up such a life if it were not for my lover's meddling interest in your life? I would not be surprised. Your mother finds you malleable, most likely; and he intends to save you, perhaps, from her, and from yourself, if you are willing to be saved. Or perhaps I misread the situation entirely. I do not know.
"You shouldn't torture yourself," Gwilym tells you, suddenly seriously, and he sits up. For all his languid design, he shows no sign of true fatigue. He leans towards you, tilting his head as he regards you, scrutinizes you. And with a sigh, he lifts his hand to your bowed head.
I should be ashamed of myself...
I should be, but when am I ever? Time for self-loathing later, perhaps. Time to fix what's broken, oes? Brawd, brawd, what would you say if you could see me now.
He does not draw you to him. Instead, his head rests on your head as if in benediction. "Listen," Gwilym tells you gently, his other hand lifting to touch graceful fingers to your cheek. "There is nothing wrong with your nature, oes? Who you are or what you desire. My net is very wide. I catch many fish when I cast it. But I am a thief and a villain and dangerous to know." His smile is quick, but with a sharpness behind it, meaningful in its lending of intent to his words. "But," and thieving fingertips move unhurriedly from cheek to lips, as if to hold your silence in, "you are mistaken. I won't explain that now; ask me later, oes? It's too late at night and there's been just too much wine and not yet enough wine for me to justify it with an explanation. Accept that I'm an arrogant knowing sort of arse and let's move on."
You do not want or need me. If I were to let myself loose, you would long and long, and though you might find your flesh fulfilled, in the morning, I would be gone. And you would wonder what was wrong with you, when the truth is that there is nothing wrong with you; you simply are not what I am looking for. You think you need me, but I do not need you - I would consume you and move on. And I do not want to do that to you.
Gwilym smiles faintly as his hands draw away, and he pats you on the shoulder. "You've had a bit of wine, have some bread and cheese. Tell me, are your classes going well or d'you find yourself struggling? If you need help, let me know, oes?" He strolls to his plate and puts it in front of you, bending over you to guide your hand to the food on it. Your need, it seems, is greater than his.
Duw above and below, don't tell me I've picked now of all times to develop a conscience. The thought occupies the part of his mind in the back, where it is not readily displayed. He is half-humorous and half-panicked at the thought. A thief with a conscience is not very useful. No, no, probably just mother's lessons on etiquette. It's piss-poor manners to seduce your current lover's cousin in his home, entirely aside from anything else. And the first lesson of a thief is in not getting caught. There, that's better, Gwi. No going and giving yourself credit, now, that wouldn't do. You might end up putting on airs...
"Forgive my delay," the voice that issues is that of an approaching Prospero del Cielo de los Santos. His steps are quick but quiet, but his energy precedes him. "Oh good, you have not waited on the food." An eyebrow lifts. For two reasons.
The first, Romero is blushing. Ah, you must be flirting. That leads him into the natural segue to...
Reason number two, you are disheveled and smell of perfume. The perfume is cheap and cloying, your clothing put on with disregard, or perhaps haste.
Prospero does not stop. He goes to the hearth, glances to his cousin's book as he ladles out heated wine. "We have only just returned ourselves," he mentions. What is not said: But I at least had the decency to bathe.
Romero smiles, hiding his stammer with a swift rise to his older and more royal cousin's arrival. "I was just heading upstairs to find you." He glances to Gwilym, his smile wavering slightly. "I had better return to my studies, if you will forgive me. I have a treatise to complete by Sunday."
"Of course," Prospero offers blandly, "We wouldn't want your studies to suffer while you are in my care. I shall never hear the end of it from your mother." It is a phrase oft repeated. "Have a good night, my cousin."
"And you. And you as well, Gwilym. It is good to see you again," Romero says. He retrieves his book and hastens from the living room, his quick steps just as quickly fading in his departure.
Sipping spiced wine from the golden cup, Prospero del Cielo de los Santos saunters to the sofa, his slow stride equal parts purpose and nonchalance. "He has a crush on you, you know this, si?" With eyebrows lifting slightly, Prospero blandly smiles. "We should take him to your cathouses and sit on him until he finally sets his inhibitions free. He has one foot in the cloister and another in an orgy of confusion."
His jasper gaze turns finally upon you, and he inclines his head, his gaze assessing between long, dark lashes. "You smell of cheap perfume. And I would say shame, but we both know you have none." His mouth spreads in a luxurious, amused smile. "You were beneath silk and lace while I was playing the patient and penitent prince. It hardly seems fair."
He moves back without the haste that guilt might add, watching your cousin speed off with a bemused shake of his head. "Oes, well, it's not easy being me," Gwilym answers you airily, his attention lingering on Romero's departure. He turns to face you once he is well and truly gone. "With such a body and such a face, what's there not to love at first sight?"
His grin spreads. I am full of such shite. He reclaims his plate, taking a bit of cheese and popping it into his mouth as he circles back in towards you. "I think sitting on him might be dangerous. His contents are under such pressure. He said you know his nature." An eyebrow quirks at you, and the plate is set free. "As it happens, I agree with you - but only from a slant, of course."
In other words, not quite as you say it. Gwilym meanders towards you, his smile going skew as he looks you up and down. "Patient and penitent? What were you doing, going to church? Your cousin already told me you made quite a bit of money at cards. And anyway, I would have changed, but I got home and found your cousin here all by himself. We need to do something about that one, Pros." He looks you up and down. Already he is almost forgetting that you have a cousin. "You look good. A little too put together, but give me ten minutes. Does he know about us?"
"He knows. But a young man's folly is as it is. His nature? Si, his nature is one of being sheltered and shy, and prone to sudden attachments. And I'm not going to respond to your desirability. I believe some things do not require explanation. But, si, Romero needs help. His mother has filled his head with notions of purity and priesthood, of shame. It is much to work around that. I am trying to ... augment his education."
Setting his goblet on the table, Prospero rises. "Come, I can't bear to smell that perfume another moment." He doesn't say what he was or was not doing. We're talking about you now. "Si? And what do you suggest regarding Romero? I am curious." He does not take you by the hand but nevertheless leads you to a corner of the open-air atrium. There is a gate, and through it a hidden garden.
"Remove your clothes," he quietly commands. In this garden there is outdoor shower, one of the many secret delights this villa contains. "How many women were there tonight? Any of note? Anyone I know?" He stands at the silver pull cord, waiting eagerly to pull it and drench you and wash away the scent of your earlier debauchery.
"Just making sure. My brother lived in secrecy for years - duw, years before even I knew about where his heart was laid against. And while I have introduced you to my family," he shrugs casually, carelessly rising to follow you as if he just happened to be going in that direction anyway, "...I would not want to jump to conclusions as to what he did or did not know."
Green eyes glint in your direction. He appreciates the view, even if you do not appreciate the smell. "Trying to augment his education, hmm? I do not think you left him alone for me to find deliberately, but who knows." An eyebrow cocks upwards at you interrogatively. He is obedient, though, for all his attitude, all his smirking mischief. Already, his hands are beginning to undo his clothing, boots kicked off out of the way of the water.
The buttons of his shirt are undone without much attention, the white fabric pulled off so that he is twisting, bare-chested and barefoot, to keep you in his field of vision. "He needs to spend time with someone unattached. Either someone to whom he can form an attachment, or who will ... let him wander off again. He needs for it to be good for the heart, not just good for the body, or he will retreat into shame," Gwilym cocks an eyebrow at you. "He seems to me too easy a mark, too easily led astray in his current condition, unless it is someone who will take proper care. But, of course, he is your cousin. You know him best."
And now he is rapidly losing interest in the topic of Romero. Poor Romero! Forgotten so soon. But he is focused on you, the fox-foolish smile lingering and glimmering at the corners of his mouth and his eyes as he with deliberate slowness begins to roll down his trousers. "Four ... maybe five women. I forget. They run into one another, oes? After a couple of hours. I was at the Briar Rose's house. She keeps a very nice kitchen, and even nicer bedrooms. There were some very exotic specimens. You would have liked them." He smirks. "And they would have liked you."
An eyebrow lifts and his hand tugs on the silver cord. Like magic (very unlike magic, actually), water falls like a rainstorm over you. It is an effort not to smile. "I should think so. It is a pity you are so used. I had thoughts of using you myself. After a night of babysitting, I could have used several hours of your undivided attention."
Another tug of his hand, another drenching of water. The water is thankfully warm, warmed from the springs from which it originates.
He chuckles suddenly, his laughter quiet, held in his throat with a pleasured, even slightly drunken sound. "It is as good as dunking you, si?" Another pull. "Only I get the fun of making you wet and watching the water run against your skin. I suppose I'm due this pleasure. After all... you have already had sex. With four or five or more partners." Another tug.
He is enjoying it immensely. He is dousing you and a touch of jealousy as well. You can see the flint of it in his jasper eyes as he douses you again. "It may take me all night to get the smell of Desiree," a famously cheap and pungent perfume, "... out of my nostrils tonight."
He lets a low sound thrum quietly in the back of his throat as he blinks water away from his eyelashes. "And who is to say that I cannot yet be revived, oes? The market of my mother's kingdom is justly famed for some of what is sold there. And some has made its way here as well." Gwilym regards you from under his eyelashes, deliberate in his allure. The smile he gives you is not one which just everyone sees - though whether you believe that in your jealousy, who can say. "Mandrake oil. Essence of apples. All sorts of things.."
More water falls from the sky, and he shakes his head, splashing water against his chest as he scrubs his hands against himself. "They enjoyed it. They enjoyed me," your lover tells you, teases, taunts, eyes glittering as he flicks droplets of water at you. "But they do not get to see me as you do, oes? Come join me. I can be a male water nymph, succoring a knightly traveler. Only I would think twice before trying to drown you, I think. You look as if you could get nasty."
"I have already had my shower," Prospero evenly explains. He drenches you twice, once for enjoying them, and twice for them enjoying you. "I cleaned myself for you, washed away the stink of the tabernas, dressed myself. Turnabout is fair play."
Prospero is able to dodge the water droplets with a deftness that would impress even the most jaded thief. He tugs the water cord again, holding it down as the water rains down on you. "Next time, I will come to you stinking of whores and you can dunk me in the pools of remorse and regret." He laughs at that, letting the cord go.
Would you like it any more or any less if he showed up as disheveled as you, as debauched as you? He wonders but he does not ask. Prospero reaches into the recessed cabinet of carved marble, taking out a towel and tossing it to you.
"You will succor tonight," Prospero promises. "It is a good thing your mouth is never weary. I will let you make it up to me before the sun rises."
He laughs, catching the towel and wrapping it around himself. "I would have showered, but that we had company. And see, now I am clean again, oes?" The towel is knotted, and he makes his way towards you, emerald eyes fixing themselves on your face. All cheer and amusement seems to fade, replaced by something solemn, something contemplative.
I am tired of the jokes. Tired of making noise, when ...
Even the thought fades out in the confines of his own head, his own mind. Gwilym smiles, the corners of his mouth tugging up, and he lifts a hand to your shoulder, letting it fall there in a rough squeeze. "Let's go have a glass of brandy," he murmurs to you, "oes? And look up at the moon. I want to spend some time with you before I am busy with kissing your sword. I want to talk to you. And remember," his hand lifts, his voice lightens to almost a laugh, "I don't talk to women, except my mum."
His arms surround you and he kisses you in greeting long delayed. "A brandy would be good after so much sweet wine," Prospero mentions. Another brief kiss and he is stepping away from you. The teasing done and revenge enacted, he is as content and even as ever. "I do not mind the women, Gwilym," he says simply. "It is the perfume I do not like." His tone is so even, it is difficult to know, even now, if he is kidding.
Prospero leads you back to the atrium, the open-air living room adjoined to the enclosed living area. There is a selection of alcohol. He lifts a bottle of brandy, inspects it, then uncaps it to pour. "What do you wish to talk about?" Not more on Romero, certainly. Or at least he hopes.
He brings a wide-bowled glass to you, containing a generous portion of brandy. His is filled to match. He touches his glass to your glass, and his full lips form a spreading smile. "I would not ask you to kiss my sword. Your lips are too useful to me to wish them harm."
He is far beyond thinking of your cousin. He follows you, shivering as he moves to warm himself between the fires. "Oes, well, I was not thinking of the sword with which you duel, exactly," your lover cracks wise. But he turns to you, moves to take the glass you offer him, and then moves to lift a hand to touch your cheek.
It is a moment of strong, searing emotion, for him. It is there in his eyes, where they land on you and show no sign of looking anywhere else. You are fully dressed - beautifully so. He is wearing only a towel. Your servants will find his discards out there in the morning, no doubt. He does not feel naked, though. Or ill at ease.
"It seems a strange time to talk of this, in some ways. But it is what is in my mind and in my heart, and - well, I suppose I just want to say it because I can think of absolutely no reason not to say it."
He sips the brandy without looking away, one corner of his mouth quirking up at the edges. "I suppose I'm changing, in a way. It's a little hard to get the words out, and duw knows, the impulse could've picked a better time, but here I am and here we are, and, well, the hell with it. D'you want to get married?"
He had taken a sip and your question surprises him. The brandy is saved but the swallow is hasty and he coughs. A hand lifts to his mouth, his other balancing the drink with the grace that his coughing fit lacks. Suddenly, all of his evenness, his quiet dignity, is disrupted.
"Me disculpo, amigo," Prospero apologizes, his voice hoarse. He sets his glass aside and he takes your hands in his. He bends to kiss them. "No signifique estrangular en su oferta." He straightens, his hands still on yours, clasping them in his own grasp.
His thumbs move over the skin of your hands and he looks to you levelly. "Te amo. Me placera tenerle como esposo. En mi mente, en mi corazon, me han casado con usted ya estos muchos anos. I do not need a priest to tell me what I already know," he continues in English. "But I would stand before your family and my own and I would pledge myself to you. The vows we make to one another need no sanctification."
What has brought you to this point, to this question? A cirrus cloud eyebrow lifts above the horizon of his gaze. But it is not a quizzical look. It is simply how he conveys emotion. Prospero chuckles suddenly. "Do I have to have your brother's permission? You know I do not like to ask leave of any man to have what I want..."
His relief is clear - both at your agreement and at not receiving a mouthful of brandy to the face. His expression for a moment is almost one of good, that's settled, then before he joins his hands with yours. "I do not think you need to ask my brother's permission, no. He knows I will give my heart when and where I see fit, and I have no intention of giving it anywhere but to you. I just ... would give you your due, oes? It is time to come out of the shadows."
Six months ago, a year ago, those words would not have been uttered. They would not have even been formed. He squeezes your hand, and one hand parts from yours to cup your cheek with poorly restrained emotion and affection both. Where would I be, but for you...
"It's not the most romantic proposal," Gwilym murmurs after a moment. "But this way, you know it isn't acting, oes? It isn't something I'd do for someone else. But I would do it for you, and I do it for myself. If you want to invite your family, I'll invite mine - but let's keep it simple. The romance and glitter belongs in our bedroom, not in front of the rest of the world. We are busy men."
Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos laughs. When he is tickled, his normal, quiet, bemused exterior melts like butter in the sun, revealing something rather cavalier beneath. His eyes sparkle and nonchalance fades into delight. "What is romance, hmm? Here we are, in our villa, speaking plainly as we always have, you fresh from scandal. For us, amigo, this is romance." He chuckles still, his laughter trailing like clouds, hovering over his expression, the sound lingering for moments more. "What romance should there be?" he wonders quietly, and he turns his head to kiss the palm of your hand.
"I do not need to ask your brother's permission, but I am going to tell him personally." He looks at you, his arms lifting to rest along your shoulders. "Before any announcement is made, I should like to take you to Catalonia. In our years together, it is hard to believe that we have never gone. It is far, but now... I want to show you a piece of what will be yours in law, what is yours already in heart. I will make the arrangements to travel. It will take some time to get there."
He looks to you with that level stare, that bemused expression returning to its normal, rightful place. "You know that getting married, bound in law, changes nothing of how we feel. To me, we are already thus. But it is a declaration. A declaration we have already made to one another that we now make in front of those we love." A hand goes to the back of your head, to cup the nape of it and draw you to him and into his kiss.
"As for our bedroom," his mouth stretches against your own, a writhing form stretching in morning sun, "... we can use glitter if you like." His mouth rolls against yours, within yours. It is a tangle, tasting of wine.
"Tell him, by all means." Gwilym grins a little. I only wish I could see the look on Io's face. What will you think of it, Io? Will you be surprised? I hope you will be. What is left in life if I cannot surprise you, brawd? Ah, well. "I enjoy shocking my brother, as you should know by now. Though hopefully he will not think I am merely copying him."
He pulls a face at that. "All the more reason for ours to be anything but a royal wedding. Besides, we are nothing like them. I am not a king, for one. Though I suppose I need to start facing the possibility that someday I may have to be one." His hand lifts, squeezing your shoulder as he leans in to answer your kiss. And he takes his time about it.
It is strange, feeling this confident. I am not used to being confident about my decisions, oes? But this time I am. You are you, and I am where I belong. I am on my path. What is there to be afraid of?
Gwilym grins as he pulls back, closing one eye in a wink to you. "I will be happy to call you my other half. I am willing to go with you to Andalucia, oes. Fair's fair. You've met my family. Time to inflict me on yours, oes? Will they scream? Or do they already know about me, even if they have not met me?"
Resonant, the cinnamon color of his eyes warms the space between you, changing the fragrance of the air. "They know of you. I write letters once a week. My mother is quite pleased that, while I have chosen not to give her children, I have at least procured a prince for the family." His arms unwind from you, but not for long. His hand slides against your own and leads you with him from the atrium and its fountain to the interior living room.
"My sisters will scream," Prospero speaks softly, as softly as he walks, leading you past the sofas and pillows to the grand marble hall. "One is thirteen, the other is fifteen. Screaming is what they do. Oh, Prospero!" he exclaims in a falsetto, "... he's so cute! Puedo trenzar su pelo? Puedo llevarlo a la danza?" The chuckle that follows is different from his earlier laughter -- less tickled and more wicked. "Romero won't be the only one who has a crush. What am I to do," he mulls. "My sisters and my cousin, and apparently all the working girls in Crescent Kingdom want mi hombre." Jasper eyes look to you aslant, their Tiger's Eye color shifting in the amused look.
"Are you sure you are not already tired, amigo? Shall we get you to bed so you can rest from your busy evening?"
He laughs abruptly, as if you have caught him by surprise with that. You lead and he willingly follows. "Remind me to get my hair cut before we leave," Gwilym murmurs to you. "The only one whose fingers I want in my hair is you." His hand creeps up to tug at your hair in echo of his words, eyes glinting with amusement and affection both. "Bah. Let them have their crushes. You know where my heart is. It is with you, not some other else. Besides, I try to avoid virgins these days."
He would not assume that your sisters, at their tender age, are anything but. He bumps up against you, his mouth brushing your shoulder. "Tired? When I have just proposed to the love of my life, the light of my life? I will be most disappointed if I propose to you and I don't at least get sex out of it!" He cackles, his arm stealing its way around your waist. "Tired," he says. "I am not tired. The working girls may be skilled, but all their efforts do not move me half so much as one of your smiles, my Prospero. Though I want to propose something," he adds suddenly. "For Romero."
He smiles as you come behind him, your arms around his waist and your mouth moving against his shoulder. Glancing back to you, he lifts a gossamer brow. "One of my smiles... truly?" His lingering smile spreads, slanting as if he does not quite believe you. "Is that all that it takes? And yet, I expend so much effort. How much I love you."
An arm reaches back, holding you to him as you move slowly together down the hall where it turns into a colonnade. Your suite of chambers is at the end. Somewhere at the other end is poor Romero.
"My poor cousin. How weary his wrist must be tonight." He chuckles with an awful sort of delight. That serves him right, for throwing himself at you. "So... what are your thoughts? I should like to find a solution that will not end up with him sneaking into our bed."
"Keep expending effort," Gwilym murmurs, teeth grazing against your shoulder before he lifts his head, his smile wicked. "We shouldn't let ourselves get complacent, oes? No matter how ridiculously under your thumb I am. Ha!" He barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he closes his eyes for a moment. Here I am, admitting it. My weakness. And I do not care. I glory in it, because I love you, and there is no reason why I should not.
"He needs to learn about love and life. Not from me, though, no. Even if I were not attached to you, as I am, I would not be right for him." Your lover smirks wryly at that, acknowledging what tacitly is already known by you and him both. "I would destroy him. It would be a very enjoyable night, I am sure, but in the morning, he would not find me, and all doubts would set in. So instead I propose sending him to someone who can help him with his schooling, and if I am not mistaken, may be able - and willing - to help him with more than just that. Someone a little more constructive than me."
I intend to build, and I will build, but not in your cousin's bed, no, no. The thought amuses him, and he bumps up against you again. "Send him to my mother's kingdom. He seems to me to fit well there anyway; the spirit, the motif of the place seems to me one harmonious with poor Romero's trusting spirit. A very bad fit for me, but I have never been so innocent. There is too much darkness and smoke in me for that. So! Will you help me build up a kingdom of my own, Pros? When we are not busy tangling in one another's arms."
"Of course," Prospero answers. First and foremost, there is the matter of building a kingdom, as much as a life, with you. The subject of Romero can wait for a moment. "That is what a marriage is, is it not? Building an existence, one with another. Or in this case," a smile traces over his expression, "... an entire kingdom. It would be both a pleasure and an honor," he quietly remarks.
You and he arrive at the double-door that leads into your suites. He does not turn around fully, but he does turn his head, leaning back to kiss you. An awkward position, but a delightful one. "I am glad you resisted the urge to take his innocence. I am certain it was not easy." His lips pucker in amusement. "He is like a gem just waiting to be plucked. And I know how my thief likes his shiny objects. But it is good you do not. I do not think it would be good. For any of us."
He opens the door, leading you into the living area. The marble floors are softened here by layers of rugs, with large cushions that are beds as much as sofas and chairs. Painted arches lead from chamber to chamber. The one leading to your bedroom is painted in scarlet and gold leaf. Your arms still around him, he begins to untie the folds of his shirt, the fabric wrapped around him intricately. It loosens and begins to fall.
"I will consider your offer. I do not like the idea of him being so far away. I do not think he would go. He will return to Andalucia with us and will likely stay there. Let's talk about it tomorrow, over breakfast. I would have to know more about this teacher before speaking with my cousin."
Slowly he turns, wrapping his arms around you, his shirt unfolded around him, still clinging to his arms but revealing his chest and torso. His dark curly hair stands up where your fingers have run through it. Leaning forward, his lips steal your lips, and a kiss. "I like your darkness, and your smoke," Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos murmurs there. "I like being the fire that inspires you."
You know him so well. You pinpoint the temptation and reactions. You receive a smile for it, and he tugs loose his towel - the only adornment left to him - and tosses it aside. "Tempting," he agrees, "but it wouldn't be good for him. He needs at least the possibility of a heart for a heart, and mine is already spoken for. Even if it were not, I doubt mine would lean in that direction - and it would not be fair to him. My destructive tendencies are tempered with mercy these days - or at least, a desire to see less waste."
He watches you undress, as he moves to the cushions on the floor, standing with a foot on one as if he were some bizarre conqueror of the bedroom. His interest is immediate; rampant, in fact, lifting upon the air with his excitement. "No matter the temptation," Gwilym murmurs, "I do not want to hurt you, Prospero. Or us. I try to funnel my temptations into what you will not be harmed by, even if exasperation might occasionally make your eyebrows lift at me." He smirks at that. "Mine is ultimately a kingdom of finance," he remarks, "of currency and of wealth, in the various forms it takes. It is ... a kingdom of shadows as well as sunlight, but of the vagaries of people's nature. There is no point in pretending otherwise. I watch over the shadow roads, but it is people who walk the roads, those people who make up a kingdom and not the roads themselves. It took me long enough to realize it, I suppose. But a kingdom is not made up of land. Its borders can change. A kingdom is nothing without those in it who need direction, to learn and to grow. Wealth ... is merely how to keep that kingdom going, to keep its people prosperous and employed to the best use. You are ... smarter than I am, in some ways. I want you with me if I do this, oes? If you are willing."
You come to him, your arms moving around him, and your kiss is answered with a kiss in return. My burning hearth. You are my home, where no mere place can represent home to me. Gwilym smiles, lowering his head to butt lightly against you. "The teacher I have in mind for him is my old teacher. The first man I ever was with, in fact. He loved me. But I was too wild to remain there with him, even with all he had to offer me. My roads ... took me somewhere else. But I have not forgotten him, or his kindnesses. I think he would be a good fit for Romero - and if it failed to work out, I know he would not grasp too tightly. There are always regrets in such cases, but he would not leave marks. Would you know more than that?" He teases a little, fingers running against your ribs. "Do you want details? I was not always acquiescent to a man's embrace, you know. It was difficult for me, to accept that. If it had not been for him, I doubt you would have found me willing."
"Two minds are always better than one," he gives his assent thus. "And you and I will make a kingdom for the ages." You are naked, your towel dropped, your member risen. The juxtaposition is not lost on him. His arms enfold you, he gives his mouth to you, his skin, his flesh and blood, his passion and the whole of his life. It is a proposal of its own.
"We will talk of it tomorrow," he insists quietly. "I do not want to talk about Romero now. I do not want to talk at all, in fact." His voice trails off as he looks downward, his hands landing on your hips. Gently he guides you both to the large cushion, folding over you, his mouth covering you in a slow, wide kiss. "I have been proposed to," he grins with you, "... I want my future spouse, mi esposo, to make love to me. I do not have a ring. It is the least he can do."
The cushion is silk, red and gold, and overstuffed. It is circular and very wide. It could hold at least another man. Coming up on his knees, he straddles your shoulders. "I am amazed that you have allowed me to remain dressed for this long." The trousers are showing the stirrings of his arousal. The thick, cottony silk gives way so easily. They are held up only by a drawstring. Sucking in his stomach, he creates a vacuum that his thick length soon fills.
"I give myself to you," Prospero whispers. "In all ways, for your cause, for this life we make together. I want you to have me. To enjoy me. To fill me." Prospero grins down at you.
"And then I will make you forget those women...."
Posted by rowan at October 05, 2007 12:52 PM
