The leather sofa groans under Edward's collapsed weight. His head falls back against the back, eyes closing. "I can't believe how much fuckin' luggage you brought, ami," he laments, giving in to the pseudo-feeling of tired. Hand flings the keys towards the table, despite it being glass. It only took a half-hour to unload the Sauber and put it away.
A swallow, and Edward's arms reach up, folding behind his head. Blue silk shirt strains at his biceps, a careful cut by a knowledgeable tailor. "What do you want for dinner?" he smirks, feet extended as he attempts to push shoes from his feet.
He was loaded for bear, tinted glasses on -- of course, they are a kind of green, it is his favorite color -- and each shoulder occupied by a bag, each hand full with other bits of luggage. If spring were not already full-blown over London, it would have been borne in his smile alone. Full of mirth and guilt. And now...
The lenses are off and he is coming downstairs, trailing after you. Watching you as you go. The time that has passed since you ushered him into Darkness has softened the coltish movements. Remembered grace found again somewhere in Spain, at some point of your trip. And hair that would by now be a greater kind of gold, bleached by the sun, has settled into a honeyed hue.
There is confidence... oh, you remember this vision of Valan, yes? The first one. When he moved through a world he knew. He has a greater understanding, and it is everywhere evident.
"London porterhouse, chased by the blood of the Loire," says M. Montague, and the flash of a grin shows canines already lowered. Thick London steak, blood of the Loire. Meurelle on the menu and on the mind. There is a rush of spice, something of citrus, as Valan collapses upon the couch alongside you, flush. He turns his head, honeyed lashes lowering, the look drifting somewhere around your mouth. "Ah, to be home, ami," he exhales. "It is a good feeling, incroyable..."
"It is," Edward confesses, breathing heavily in the comment. "And porterhouse sounds good," he murmurs, "...though I prefer something of Bordeaux," he grins, letting his head fall your direction. "Maybe," he posits, looking up again and closing his eyes, "...we can find a way to accommodate us both." That smile widens.
"But tell me," he whispers, eyes open to you again, "...was it everything you thought? Spain, Italia. You and me?" It is so much, this life. Yet he has noticed how it has grown on you. The sofa shifts, and Edward faces you, face solemn. "When we met, ami, I told you then of what my...existence...was like. Always moving. I had nothing to offer you but...my responsibilities." A grin, then, "My love," he remembers. A sheepish smile lifts his brows. "I was not lying, Valan." There is not much more than what you have experienced of late. Edward smiles softer, somewhere between I love you and apology.
Golden eyebrows lift, an arch that precedes a wandering smile, and eyes both gold and green hold the sheen of understanding. You can see the sheen behind the colors, the green and gold that seem to live on their own. His hand lifts, and there is a brush to your mouth, your face. Your Bordeaux is here, you do not need a glass.
And then he smiles, more fully, more warmly...
"I know, you always tell me the truth, Eduard. And I have always told you the truth. I want nothing more. I have... all that I could need, want. Life and love. Why," the smile begins to turn into a grin, "...should I want more than the best of what you can give me, which is your heart, ne c'est pas?" He leans, he tastes of oranges your Valan, and then he leans back, beginning to rise. It is a strange thing, when green goes smoky, but you have seen that before. When they turn to something of green amber...
You are not surprised when he removes the suede jacket. You are not surprised when the shirt is unfastened. Are you surprised when he reaches forward, hand clasped to the back of your head, when he leans in, bending, placing a kiss upon your forehead? Valan murmurs his love there, and he smiles.
"Doors have opened for me... my understanding of things... it is better. Spain... opened those doors. Italia..." he blushes a little. "I do not remember much of Venice, apart from the beautiful ceilings, ami, and the wonderful marble floors." For when I was not on my back, I was on my hands and knees, yes? "Amazing architecture," he whispers, he winks, and he begins to remove his shoes.
"Oh, really?" Edward smugly questions. "I'm glad you remember the architecture," he notes for the record, watching you undress. It is so natural these nights. "I don't recall much of that..." he recalls, eyes going upward as he strokes his chin. Mock-recall. "What color was the floor? The linens? Ah, do you remember the towels?" he smiles, hand coming to his lap.
"The floor was white marble with veins of green," Valan says, having had time to note that. "There was a time, ami, when I pressed myself to the cool body of the Venetian palazzo and thought I should see steam!" The look of delight, in the eyes, in the face, on the mouth.
He steps out of the brown shoes, there are olive green socks underneath. Eventually these, too, will be gone. The rest of the outfit is khaki trousers and, of course, the green shirt that is now rolling off his shoulders and floating over to the neighboring chair.
"The linens... were ... burgundy...?" he's straining now, "I think it was, oui. Burgundy. You'll have to forgive me on the towels, but I remember when I was face to the shower that the tiles were ceramic..." His words roll out upon his laughter and he turns, khaki unfastening. "So, ami... did you have a good time in Spain and Italia? Even with Maria not letting us sleep together every night, and with Girault always with a hand on my shoulder?"
Edward continues to watch you, amusement and desire in his expression. "I had a good time," he relents, "...for most of it. Despite Maria and Girault," he grumbles, rolling his eyes and twisting his lips. "The best part," he suddenly sits up, lips at your shoulder, "...was when I was allowed to spend time with you." His lips kiss warmly, parting at your moving skin.
"Other than that," he shrugs, "...what else was there? Ah," Edward lifts his finger, "...the sheets were russet. Close enough. And those tiles were lovely, weren't they?" he teases, knowing you know more of them than he does.
"Do you want to know what my favorite part of the trip was, ami?" Such words, such words. When he speaks, the syllables drip, a dip of his voice when it is held in his throat. It turns, it turns into something of an audible exhalation. And he is in your arms, old knight. Back upon the couch, settling on you, against you. And by you is his skin warmed.
That is a magic he has yet to learn...
Tilting his head, Valan smiles, wide and warm. The tilt of his head away from your mouth. A not so subtle opening. "It was when, ami, I saw you take command of that villa. To see you... in the middle of it all, and how they responded to you. That was my favorite moment. When I saw, for the first time, the fullness of Who You Are, ami."
Not who you are with me, but Who You Are. What you are. To see you in your fullness. An unleashing of power...
"The world knew how strong you were... even as I know it, especially... when you hold me..."
He laughs, arms snaking around you even as he settles against the couch once more. "Oh," he tries to settle, "...you are too good for my ego, ami. I swear this," Edward chuckles. Exhale follows, chasing the laughter away. "If you say it often enough, maybe I will believe it," he finally calms, indeed kissing the neck offered his direction.
"You should admit it, though," Edward murmurs at your ear, "...you enjoyed having me in the palm of your hand? Waiting for any moment with you. Those nights when I was consumed with thoughts of having you?" He stops and looks, squinting now. "Dieu," he whispers, head falling back again, "...how you and she could make me miserable..."
The smile does not lie. There is no denial that he could make. No negation. He wears it too plainly, his pleasure. The images of such nights at the forefront of his mind. "Ami," comes the murmur of the Loire, the tongue of your lover, "... who would not want their lover to look at them as I saw you... look at me? For, sure I felt bad for your suffering on one hand, but..." the grin deepens and his eyes open, look shifting to you. "... do not hate me for loving the sight of you trembling for it. To see your eyes smolder. I... enjoyed... bearing your frustration, and," he counters with a grin, eyes closing as he rests back against you. "...do not deny that you enjoyed taking out your frustrations on me. You...liked that sweet suffering, I know."
He chuckles, and in his laughter, begins to work out of what remains of his clothing.
He should have turned color then. The Frenchman in him grins knowingly, glancing away to the foyer. Looking there, he replies, "No comment," his bottom lip curling over his teeth before he bites it. Arms slacken for your movements, giving space as needed.
Next topic. Edward takes a moment to get comfortable on the sofa, expecting your return. He unbuttons the top of his silk shirt, but leaves the rest as is. Toes wiggle as he stretches and sighs into a relaxed heap. "Remind me never to visit that Girault again," he laments, shaking his head. "I swear, they are all mannequins." A pause. "Now, granted, rather fuckable mannequins, but I mean, cold, dead, plastic mannequins. Beautiful mannequins," he rambling now, looking at his hands, "...but you wouldn't want to touch them mannequins." He shudders then, not sure what to make of them.
All that is left is a pair of remarkable boxers. Truly remarkable. Something of silk, of course, but that's not what makes them outstanding. It's the color that is achieved in the balance between its own hue and his complexion. Were his complexion not honeyed, as the limestone of his native land, it would not be one-half so amazing were he a shade different, dark or light. And they are cut perfectly, like they were made for him.
And then, of course, there is the color itself, which is -- upon study -- the exact color of his eyes...
The khakis are tossed away and when he returns to you he does so in silken warmth and solid form. Perhaps it is how immortal blood affects those of the Loire that, after their second birth, they cannot stand to wear clothing. Your cousin-uncle-brother is the same way...
Golden eyebrows knit together and his mouth purses. A snort and then the expression turns to a smirk. "I still do not know what to make of That One," so Girault is becoming known. "He is worse than Your Cousin, and that takes some doing. Always with the hand on me." And then he chuckles. "You have touchy-feely friends, ami. I do not know what intrigues them so much. Girault looks at me like I am a pheasant under glass and drizzled in honey..."
Or had you not noticed?
You can feel him stiffen behind you. A year or so ago, would you have ever been so Aware? Edward's body sinks, as if covering his motion. Drizzled in honey. "I guess," he whispers, attention at the top of your head. A kiss softly placed. Arms bring you to himself in quietude. Nothing comes after that.
A hand comes to your thigh, a gentle touch, and a softening. "I did not mean to make you upset, ami," and he knows that there is a thin, thin line between jealousy that is fun and jealousy that ends up with folks bleeding and dead. "But... that is just the feeling I have around Girault. Though, he was nothing but kind. You know this. Nothing but kind."
"You know your friends... of all I have met, I like Davydd the most. He is ... brutally honest. Without artifice..." Valan turns in your hold, an arm moving to surround your shoulders, his mouth grazing yours. "It is too bad he does not interrupt us anymore. I liked the element of surprise," and he chuckles.
Come, Edward. Smile...
"So, ami... we are home for a while?"
And again there is the gentle hand. Two now. One in your hair, idly playing. The other against your leg, just a glance of his fingertips. He is waiting to feel those muscles lax.
Your wish is granted, and Edward's eyes focus upon you instead of your surroundings. There is a smile for Davydd and his precision interruptions while Edward's arms tighten. Lips seek a kiss. "We are home, as long as you like," he grins, returned to the present. "And you didn't upset me," he whispers, "I would just rather not think of you as...someone else's drizzled," fucking "...dessert." Not an image he likes. In fact, the notion pisses him right off, no matter who the Else is.
A sigh follows his wandering hands. "I am glad you had a good holiday, ami," he kisses again, mouth parted wider this time. "I wanted you to know what I know." See the world I live in. That we live in.
"I am not anyone else's dessert, mon ami," that comes strongly, and with the command of conviction. "There is only one man who may think of me this way. He knows I am his," that is you, Eduard. Valan smiles. "You may laugh at those, then, who lick their chops to what is on your plate, oui?" And he turns in your arms again until he faces you, his arms around your neck, his thighs splayed wide in green-gold silk. He smiles, oh so sweet and warm to you. Oh so devious at the same time. "If it is any consolation, ami, That One looks at you the same way. I think... his only requirement is that one is handsome. Living or Dead, would not matter. I do not take it as a compliment. It is too broad, too far-reaching, to be True."
Have you ever heard of a better description of Elder Toreador than this?
And still of your cousin he says nothing. Maybe there is nothing to say. You know your William...
"I had a wonderful holiday, ami. And am very grateful for the things," a pause for a kiss, pulling, seeking, coiling, then pausing, "...you have shown me. Do not think me ungrateful when I say to you now, though, that I am glad to be Home. With you. In our city. By ourselves." Valan chuckles. "We live in a wide world, ami, a beautiful world, this is true. But... I want to be here with you."
He almost blushes, so easily manipulated by you. He knows it. Edward looks down and nods, assured by all you say. "Me too," is all he can muster, agreement easy when you are in his arms thus. When you sit upon his lap, perched in all your Beauty. "You are right about all things," he whispers, pulling you closer. "When did you get so wise?" he asks, head tilting askance. A young man in love. An old man in contemplation. "Maybe I haven't paid close enough attention..."
"I do not think I am wise," Valan says quietly. "I just... know what I want." It is simple. Perhaps that is wisdom. And the manipulation? In old courts, such as yours and William's, this would have been study, a part of learning. To the Modern Children of this world, it is ... second nature. It is expected. They can all do it. And he, being French, well... it becomes a kind of innate art.
And sometimes even unintentional...
He says nothing more. There is just the smile. The downsweep of lashes. The half tilt of his head to balance yours. To lend itself to a kiss. His fingers undo additional buttons of your shirt, until fingers may push the silk to the side. He looking at you. Pay attention. Watch me, for I'm changing. Hold on, for I'm about to just unfold.
And I'm going to take you with me, wherever I may go...
And I'm going to follow you, wherever your footsteps lead you...
Even if it's into a warehouse and gunfire. Even if it's to a crown...
Valan hovers at your mouth, a kiss that almost but never quite lands, brushing there, pendulous, as his fingers concentrate on your shirt. But in the parted smile that starts, knowing he is teasing -- he is an awful tease -- you see canines slipping lower. "We are going to have an amazing time, ami..."
Posted by rowan at September 27, 2001 08:03 PM
