None of the books of my youth can help me now. I remember the years of chasing the poet of a tome. It seems like a thousand years ago. And I a different person now than before. And not one that I like. Not one that he likes.
     It is so easy to follow the tendrils of those shadows, from frustration to sorrow to despair. But Valan Montague, while burdened, while sad, does not give in, not so completely. He pours a glass of Bordeaux. He stands in silence, returned to the shared suite.
     Gold-green eyes, the eyes of this strange, topaz child, lift to look out over the room, as surely as Alfonso's eyes must be scanning the books in his infamous library to find the reason for this calamity. Where did it go wrong? With a slight frown, Valan looks to the glass of red. He tilts it to look at its gradient color, the spectrum against the glass. And the he lifts it. He drinks it.
     You are Corruption, he thinks. Yes, everybody thinks so. His gaze draws inward as a fingernail taps the glass to the rhythm of the bells calling the pious to prayer.

     The evening moves as it has for many a night now. There is quiet from Edward as he lets himself into the rooms that you share. Ah, there is certainly an acknowledgement - a look up from the doorhandle, a wan press of his lips in a half-smile - but not much more than that. Instead, the door is gently closed, a victory there, and Edward tosses a filthy, torn shirt to the floor near the chair where he often sits. An exhale, and he crosses the room, heading for the bath.
     There, outside, on bulls with Nazari, or in the corrals with the vaqueros, is where his energy is spent. Or walking the halls in silence, looking at each door, on each corridor. Looking at spaces he hadn't bothered with in decades.
     "How are you?" is all he asks, the water in the sink running, soon followed by the sound of water falling from a shower.

     "It is the question of the year, I think." That is his answer. It is also an acknowledgement. I know there is something wrong with me that caused this wrong with us. It weighs on him. When you are in the room, that is obvious. When he is in the room with Maria, it is also obvious. And her words flood over him now...
     You are a danger to his immortal soul...
     Valan closes his eyes, and there is a ribbon of blood that runs from him to you, from you to him. It is strummed with his guilt, real and imagined.
     "I am... sorry. That is what I am," he speaks so quietly. A mortal should not have heard him, but even with the shower running and you in the other room, he knows you heard him.
     He finishes the wine in only the second swallow, and he sets the empty glass aside. He does not follow you to the bath, like in the early days. Those nights, neither of you bathed alone. Valan grips the side of the bed as he sits, his head lowered and golden hair going this way and that. "How are you, ami?"

     "I'm fine -" Edward clips, coming out of the bath to see you. He looks down to the floor before speaking, "Look...I know...I am not...easy...ami..." he begins, "...but..it's not...I don't want you think..." that it's all you. Edward starts again, "Something happened, ami. Something..." he frowns, "...something happened. We gotta figure out what it is."
     It is there, the wish to hold you. That has returned. But he will not indulge it - that has become apparent. "We'll figure it out," he says, as if to himself, turning about and heading into the shower.

     Those topaz eyes lift to you, and that face, the face of the Sun King, but there is in those eyes a hardened realization. No, it is me. It is me. "Alfonso is going to ... look into things," he speaks quietly, in Spanish. He remembers the rules and now he will abide by them. "I told him everything ... I could think to say. Everything, anything. I do not know, Eduard."
     I do not know but that I know it's me...
     Gripping the edge of the mattress, he looks down between his knees to the tiled floor. "I do not want to ... did not mean to ..." Where has he gotten this self control? He is older, is that it? He would have spun into frenzied anxiety had this happened before.
     "Ian... told me...the last time we were in Switzerland...he...saw something, I think... he could see it. I told Alfonso this too. Everything I could think to say. He has returned to his library. I do not know what else to do, ami. I do not know whether to sit still and quiet or kill something or kill something quietly." He sighs his frustration, loud and clear.
     I just do not know.
     Hands let go of the bed and he bends forward, doubling over to rest his head in his hands, his fingers massaging his scalp.

     His feet pad softly, and he appears in the doorway again. "Come here," Edward says softly, his hands curled around the door lintel. The press of his lips is a little broader, but not yet the smile he is capable of. "Come on," he whispers, to make his point.

     It is a lot to find out that one is the devil. Well, those are the demons that live in his head that say so. Being a vampire, of course, it is a short trip to make. After you say it -- Come on -- Valan is lowering his hands with another sigh and sitting up. Averted eyes remain averted; they do not latch onto you for long.
     "Ami." It is apology. It is protestation. It is frustration. And it is love. Right now, all these things coexist. When was the last time that we smiled, anyway? Has it been a week? Who would believe this of you and I? Least of all... we ourselves.
     Gold gaze is suddenly given to you as he reaches the doorway. He doesn't shove his love at you like a child. It is there, commingled with all the rest, a Pandora's Box of his emotions.
     And the lid's been open a long while. Will you find the curse of Hope at the bottom, when it's all been said and done?

     What knot he was in untangles gently. He's gotten undressed, and even feels damp in spots. Edward stands upright, and his arms open slightly to receive you. Compassion - it always comes back to him. He cannot get away from it. Whether it is for the abandoned childe, the old man making his way in the city, or towards his own love. Yet, Edward has withheld his favor the last two weeks, and his hesitancy begs the question 'why'?
     "Shh," Edward says softly, his hands gently at his love's hips. "I am...sorry..." he says softly, fingers kneading. "Come on," he says again, parting to lead you to the shower.
     When he reaches for you...
     Don't give him what he wants...
     "It is okay," he says that in quiet English, sounding like he did when he was first learning. "You do not have to apologize to me," the rest of that comes in the permitted Spanish. Forbidden French is not spoken -- even though he rebelled against such vigorously in previous visits.
     Valan's hands come out, touching your sides briefly. "I don't want to get wet again. You go ahead. It is fine, really. It is fine, Eduard."
     But he follows you. He goes with you to the shower, as far as the tile. "I do not want this ... whatever it is. I don't want it ... to hurt you. And I am afraid. Valan The Brazen and Brave, he is afraid." There is a sudden smile at that notion, a sudden laugh. "I talk shite to elders. It is me I am afraid of."

     He's surprised that you are hesitant to join him - it has been...more than a handful of nights now. Edward doesn't press the issue, but goes ahead and steps inside the shower, leaving the door open. "We'll figure it out," he says again, his voice disappearing slightly as it mixes with falling water. The dirt melts from his skin and pools into the drain at his feet. There's not much more he can say; or is willing to say. But at the admission, Edward pauses, hand on his head and one around his chest where he lathers himself.
     "Don't be," he offers, his occasional eloquence gone. "Hey," Edward says stiffly, hand coming out to touch your chest, water falling from his fingers, "Don't." Whatever that is, let it go.

     You can see it, surely. He wants to be in there with you. Your hand comes out and touches him, and he closes his eyes. And he's peeling off his shoes. And he's taking off his shirt. "I can't take this," he whispers it. But you hear it clearly enough, falling water notwithstanding.
     I will just swallow it. I will just swallow it whole. The snakes, the shadows, the fear and all.
     It's been a week. When has there ever been a week between you when he has not been with you? At least held by you, or you by him? Let alone the rest. His clothes become the target of his frustration, pulled of, wrenched out of, tossed to the floor. The socks are the last to go. The chain you gave him years before remains at his stomach, a sparkling reminder of that which binds him. You. You are the golden chain.
     Valan Montague comes behind you, drenched in the shower as his surrounds your waist and rests his chin upon your shoulder. He closes his eyes. For a moment, he just listens. To the water upon your skin and on the tile. To the air you breathe, however unnecessarily.
     "I will try not to be," he says after a moment, his head bending, mouth at your shoulder. He drinks the precipitation from your skin, as if it were healing rain. He can taste the stone of the water's well, the limestone in it. "I love you, ami."

     Edward's turned away from you, and so you'll miss the indulged smile that finally crosses his expression. He sighs too, turning his face upwards to the shower's stream. "I love you," he says softly, a confession in it. God help me. "Still," he adds. Always. Even if...we are apart.
     The sigh that follows is deep and no less cleansing than the water itself. There remains some tension in Edward's form, but there is still room for empathy. Love. It is a confusing mix, to be sure, and Edward himself would confess not being the best in such matters. But for now, he stands, the conflict abated, for now, ever so slightly.

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2006 06:57 PM