By the time dinner is done with, Pres feels as if he is largely done with the day himself. He strips himself of the day's clothing and discussions and arguments as if they all have more weight than they should, letting them crumple to the floor as he drags himself to sprawl, naked, on a sofa.
     My head hurts, my feet hurt, my eyes hurt, my heart hurts. This is no country for young men. He sits up loosely, looking around the room. And I forgot to check for messages. Shit.
     Pulling himself to his feet, Pres grabs a clean pair of pants. It doesn't matter that the other pair was clean enough; he puts on loose silk pajama pants this time, tying the cord just snugly enough to keep it up. Then he wants forth again, as far as the vestibule, to pick up whatever letters, missives, love and hate notes and summonses may have arrived in his absence. Hey, he puts it out there, for whoever's nearby to hear, his broadcasting far from skilled, still, am I expected anywhere? The boy needs a keeper, he really does.

     While other voices stir as if from slumber (which is probably accurate), one comes in strongly, clearly: An interesting philosophical question. As one typically is where One Ought To Be, I suppose the better question would be: what is it that you would like to do? Though he is of a dreamy nature, there is nothing somnolent about Gruffydd's tone.
     His voice cuts through all interference, all static. He is the sound of clarity, of purpose. A ray of full moon light in an otherwise pitch dark place.
     I really need to assign you a set of seneschals at this point. Remind me tomorrow, please. You need a full support staff. It is past time. I would forget my head if it were not attached. Put it on my breakfast agenda. We will handle that first thing. Don't you love the feeling you get when you solve a problem? That is the best feeling in the world...
     He has obviously had a drink -- or he is extremely weary -- because he is speaking in terrific quantities. So, in answer to your question, love, I don't know if you are expected anywhere, but your presence is desired. Always.

     He blushes a bit, picking up and dropping the papers where he'd found them. Sorry for waking you, he apologizes to the others, then directs his 'voice' and his footsteps towards where he thinks, where his Sight suggests you might be. I'll try to remember to remind you, but you tend to be good at distracting me from what I'm thinking of.
     He opens the door leading from his suite to yours, peering around for any sight of you. The fact that he is barefoot and bare-chested doesn't bother him at the moment. His silk trousers are a chocolate sort of color, contrasting with the pale silver silk of his hair and eyes. "Hey," he offers quietly, seeing if you are there, if you hear him. "You're sure I'm not interrupting..?"

     Gruffydd is on his sofa, still fully clothed (apart from being barefoot) in mixtures of indigos. He looks up as you enter, then sits up from his partial recline. He is alone. The Queen-to-Be must be in her own chambers tonight. His lavender eyes are bright, alert, but there is always the residue of dreams in their hue now. He looks as though he hasn't slept much all week -- and that would be accurate. But though parts of him look as though he needs a nap, his smile is warm to see you enter.
     "I am sure," he says quietly. "I was just about to have some tea, maybe some snacks. I am trying to empty out my brain for the evening. You did not wake me. I am happy to see you. Tell me of your day..." Gruffydd sits up, scooting over to allow you a place to sit next to him. A service of tea appears, freshly brewed -- as it always is from the heavens -- along with tea cakes, breads and jams and honey, and selection of raw fruit and vegetables.
     Gruffydd chuckles quietly. "Hmmm... yes, I have a habit of that, don't I. But...we do need to see to this tomorrow. So," his voice lowers and softens, "...how are you? I missed you today."

     "Not much to tell." His eyes light up for the sight of you, and he moves to sit next to you on the sofa. From there he moves to lie on the sofa, his cheek pillowed upon your thigh, his arms going around your waist. This is what I needed. Pres sighs, closing his eyes as he holds onto you, silent for a moment as he burrows into you with a quiet insistence.
     He unwinds after a moment, a bit reluctantly, in order that you can reach your tea and cakes, but he doesn't sit up. Instead, he tells your stomach, "I kinda seduced Adriano today, except he pretty much flipped the tables on me. And then after I was done having his way with me I went to see my sister - she got into the academy, by the way. Somewhere in between there was something involving the baths, a saddle, some gryphons, a lot of dirty thoughts, and a couple of meetings, but those weren't all mixed up together. Oh, and I saw your brother and tried to make nice but he's still a prick."
     He kisses your stomach and moves to sit up, silver hair askew now. "I wanted to ask you, so, uh, how do you go about doing a total and legal name change? He said, apropos of nothing at all." Pres swallows, then smiles at you sweetly, his heart in his eyes. "I missed you, too."

     Dark eyebrows lift and he exhales a breath for your quick summary of your day. A peacock wing appears, coming to cover you like the warmest of comforters. It is also a second pair of hands (as you know), and he uses it to rub lightly at your back.
     Gruffydd smiles. "Adriano is like that. I am sure it was enjoyable." There is a question there, however. He will let you confirm or deny that. "He tends to give without giving. It is a real talent," he chuckles. "He wears the pants while seeming not to even like pants. I keep meaning to ask him how he does that..."
     His hand moves through your hair. "Congratulations to your sister. I will make sure to send her a note with flowers tomorrow." And then there is a sigh. "Still no movement with Balthazar, hmm? Do I need to speak with him? It is a puzzlement to me. Usually, he's so easygoing and congenial."
     His hand moves to stroke against your face as you sit up. "You petition the King to have your name entered as you wish in the official records. Those things are typically signed by the Chancellor and tend to never make it to the king's desk. However," he smiles, "... since you know the Regent, I am sure he will speed the process along."
     Closing his eyes, he leans in for a brief, sweet kiss. "We can do that tomorrow morning as well. I will wake my seneschal tonight before I shut my eyes for the night and give him a list of things to do at first light."
     "So... what happened with Balthazar...."

     "Enjoyable," he agrees. It caught him by surprise, but he is letting go of needing to be some things. He closes his eyes, leaning in towards you at all the touching. Oh, yes. More of that. Eyes half-closed, he gives you his adoration, answering your kiss with another one.
     "Eh. I'm talking to him in the morning." He pulls back to answer your questions about your brother. "Just..." He shrugs. "When I'm trying to make the effort, I don't want to see him making out with my sister, y'know? I get it that they're a couple. I'm not standing in their way. Hell, I even vouched for him to dad, despite everything. I wouldn't make out with you in front of him, I want the same courtesy in return. It's my kid sister, for god's sake." He scowls, then with an effort, he pushes it away. Out of sight, out of mind, right? And he slides to his knees in front of you, leaning against your own knees. "Anyway, it's no big. She won't be there tomorrow, so that's one problem solved. We'll talk, we'll see how bad it gets, I'm pretty sure he won't try to kill me. More than that," he shrugs.
     He rests a hand on your knee and looks up at you. "Then accept my petition, if you would," Pres tells you in a low voice. "I hate being addressed as 'Lord West'. Every time I hear it, I want to flinch, it balls up in my stomach. It's an amalgamation of two things I'm not. I love you. I want to stay with you," his eyes plead, while his voice stays almost steady. His chin does not dip, and he doesn't waver in it, laying it before you with as much impassioned resolve as any West woman might display. "But that isn't who I am. When I go home, fine, I'll be who I have to be. But when I'm here, when I'm with you..."

     Your adoration is enjoyed, accepted, encouraged and returned. Gruffydd touches your face gently. "When you are here, when you are with me, you are Arian. I understand, love. I will have the seneschal draw up the papers in the morning. I will sign them and have them recorded and then distributed. Eventually, of course, you will be more than a lord. You are the royal husband, soon to be."
     The kiss that follows that pronouncement is not so gentle, tender though it may be in his emotion. It carries a smoky resonance, full of fantasy and dreams. Gruffydd draws back, looking to you. He reaches over, takes a raspberry between his fingers and he offers it to you.
     "Why not speak with him tonight?" Gruffydd wonders, his expression serene (and quite regal). "We do not really have the luxury of this sort of back and forth continuing. We are all about to be far too busy for it. So... we should settle it now. Why put off until the morning what one can argue about now?" he teases a little there.
     But he seems decided upon this point. He pats your hip to signal his decision.

     Your words take a weight off of him, binding him with a different weight. He is still uncertain on this marriage thing. It's something which is still being debated or outlawed in the majority of the country where he is from, marriage between two men (or two women). Marriage between two men and a woman isn't even in the picture.
     The kiss jars him from such thinking, such concerns and confusions. He kisses you back with a hint of that desperation, the pleading and the resolve, lips parting beneath your own and arms going around your waist again. I love you. That is the only answer he needs, right now.
     You offer him food, and you speak again, and he blinks. Too many sudden changes of direction in too short a time. "I don't plan on arguing with him," Pres answers slowly, releasing you to sit back. "It - it isn't that kind of conversation, y'know? I told him that dad's coming to visit, and there's some other stuff he needs to know, and ... in the long run, it's better if people think we're at odds. It'll help flush out the fakes and the spies and worse."

     Gruffydd rises, stretching his arms, his body, his wings. "What have you seen that makes you believe that appearing at odds will be of better benefit? It is a good tactic, smart," he says, looking to you as he begins to pour himself (and you) a glass of something stiffer than tea. He sees your expression, feels the befuddlement.
     "I want to understand, Arian," Gruffydd says as he returns with two glasses full of a purple liquid. It is fragrant -- lavender brandy. He hands the glass to you. "What is ... happening between you is ...perhaps what needs to happen. I don't question it. But I do need to understand it. Enmity is not something that comes naturally to Balthazar. Being a prick, to use your phrase, is... just... not in character for him. If there is a reason for it to be this way, then... fine... we will learn to balance. But if it is out of convenience, if it is out of something else, then we need to address it. I don't want him needled for the sake of it. I think having a Sun King on edge," he smiles a little, "... isn't ...really in anyone's best interest. To paraphrase my grandfather: none of us are flame retardant."
     Sipping at his drink, he sits back upon the sofa, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Gruffydd looks to you, a hand reaching out to move through your hair. "So... what have you seen... and what are your thoughts about your relationship with the Sun King...where are the conflicts you require, and why..."

     He takes the glass and he closes his eyes; not in denial of your request, though he colors with pleasure and with the curling knot in his stomach to be called by the name you've chosen for him, but in focus, using his memory and his Sight in mingled proportions. "I won't needle him," he murmurs, "but ... I won't warm to him, either. There are people who are watching, though. They're not crazy about his ascension, especially since he's so loyal to you. Me, I'm an unknown. But I'm not viewed as having much power, if any - I've kept it quiet, about my eyes, so only you and Aediles know." As far as he knows, anyway.
     He lifts his chin towards you without opening his eyes, senses unfolding. His features sharpen, gaining clarity of expression, and his fingers move over the stem of the glass with a fine sensitivity of their own. "They're watching for weaknesses in the link that they can exploit. If they don't see any here, they'll move on to find something more exploitable, or they'll turn to make a weakness, through political imbroglio, through violence, through disruption of trade, through a bit of everything. The more things going on at once, the more balls in the air, the more likelihood that someone can make a ball drop. But if they think they have a pigeon lined up for a shot... some will try to work on him to prove my unsuitability. Not all at once, but bit by bit, chipping away. Others will try to work on me, to convince me that in this I know better than you. They'll tell us what they think we want to hear, to set us further and further against each other, and use that to undermine you. After all, the worst case scenario would be that you get rid of me, right? And then there's a hole by then, left for them to try to fill."
     He sips at the lavender brandy, eyes lowered now, although still closed. "But," Pres adds quietly, "if the perceived conflict is false, or mostly so ... then they're building and layering those plans on a false foundation. It won't be their only plans. But it will forestall at least one and possibly as many four assassination attempts... among other plots and plans."

     "If there are those out there who thought, with this family, that the princes would turn against one another, then they were already building upon shaky foundations." He says this with the utmost serenity, as if talking about how the wind moves through the trees. He takes a sip of the brandy and nods. "Keep me informed and apprised. Not all visions will be ... as things are. Share them with no one but me for now."
     For now? Who else would he possibly wish to know such things?
     He places a touch upon your thigh, a touch of reassurance and love. "And in the meantime, confide that much in Balthazar. Give him the reasons, Arian. And the two of you set your boundaries with one another, make sure that you both understand the point of the roles. Do not tell him what you think he needs to know. Tell him the truth. For he will know the difference."
     A hand still on your thigh, fingers squeezing lightly, Gruffydd takes a long swallow of the brandy. "You and I will compare visions and notes as needed," he pats you gently, his hand wandering upward slightly. "And I think we should begin to cover the covert operations of my kingdom. The Wild Hunt and the purpose and importance of the Holly King and Shadows. We will do so tomorrow after dinner. Return here, just you and I. I will let Maria know not to expect us."

     He nods mutedly, sitting next to you, still aware of your hand on his thigh. "I haven't told anyone anything," he whispers to you. The look he gives you is heartsick with longing. No matter how close he is to you, his adoration declares its need for more. "I wasn't going to lie to him or hold back. But it's not something I can explain in a few minutes here and there. So - tomorrow."
     He leans back, bending towards you although not closing the distance entirely, a willow bend with his cheek against the cushion, silver eyes turned towards you. "Okay," Pres answers simply. "I'll make sure I have no plans."

     Gruffydd smiles to you. "How beautiful you are," he murmurs. "And it is such a quiet time of night. Perfect for hearing you sigh for me." He bends and closes the distance, spreading your mouth beneath his own. His hand comes up and unties your trousers. "I think we could use a swim. I want to see you in the moonlit waters of the bath."
     That same hand lifts to your face, cupping your cheek. He lightly brushes a touch upon your mouth as he leans back. "If you need me tomorrow, do not hesitate to call on me. I am happy to support you in this if you need it, Arian."
     Gruffydd smiles, repeating: "Arian." He loves the sound of it on the air around you both. "It is much easier to murmur as I make love to you. Arian."
     As the silk pools in your lap, falling slack around your hips, Gruffydd rises. He offers you his hand. His heart is there in the palm of it, that truth reflected in his eyes.

     He sighs, as if on command. As if speaking the words of a ritual, he murmurs, "There is nothing that is mine which is not yours. The air in my lungs could be called to your hand if you wished it; the skin of the soles of my feet worn bloodied and thin to march a thousand miles if you call me to your side. I live no life without you, for my heart goes with you wherever you go."
     You rise, and he takes your hand, his longing heady in his eyes, the silk falling from him as he tilts his head back to look up at you. He is unswerving in purpose and in identity, when he is with you. He has no doubts; there is nothing to pull him away from your side. It is where he wishes to be, who he wishes to be, in your company or apart.

Posted by rowan at November 27, 2009 12:12 AM