He's found a spot on one of the upper floors, lolling and sprawling in a chair with a copy of Ship of the Line in hand. There's a pot of tea nearby and a plate of some kind of cakes. His hair is damp and slightly rumpled, and he looks a bit sleepy - explained, perhaps, by the sunlight streaming over him from one of the windows.
     He is the quintessential prep young man of American breeding. Duckcloth trousers (tan); an oxfordcloth shirt (white, open at the collar, tie in absentia); a pair of navy blue canvas boating shoes on his feet and his hair rumpled with a certain je ne s'ais quoi about him that suggests that when he opens his mouth, Boston's Beacon Hill will be represented in the vowels and consonants alike. The sleepiness need not be affected for it to complete the picture.
     Really, the most unexpected part is that it's in Wales, in a castle, and not somewhere more expected for a scion of Prep such as Preston Oliver West III.

     Wherever you are in the world, Preston Oliver West III, he would be able to pinpoint you, as if you were a continent on a map. An island once discovered is never lost on his compass.
     "Hello, Preston..."
     His voice is that serene depth that promises slumber and oceans and delight -- these are all the same things in his realm, soon to be your realm too. He is a sudden image before you, but one that could as easily be found in your book. The rich brocade of the captain's coat, the leather breeches, the tall boots, are all there as much as they would have been in the 18th Century.
     But it is far more splendid. He wears a tricorn hat of a gentleman, but he is veiled as a highwayman. The cloth is far richer than any admiralty could afford, or any privateer or pirate. The boots and leather are a deep blue (a nod to his father before him) and the captain's coat, heavy and opulent, is peacock-patterned in peacock-blue, green and violet. The shirt, rumpled silk of the finest quality, is likewise violet. His ringed hand rests upon the pommel of a captain's sword, swung low in its symbolism and suggestion. And his eyes, surrounded by such colors, are drawn out by them, the lavender bright with his delight and humor.
     A dark eyebrow lifts in airy question not yet voiced. He grins behind the veil, the smile revealed in the sparkle of his eyes and the way the corners crinkle. "Fancy a voyage?"

     He jerks, caught by surprise by you - and more by your clothing. You do not look like anything on this earth. Pres stares, then reddens and shuts his book, putting it to the side. "Uh. Hi. Cake?"
     As counteroffers go, it's not a bad one. He holds up the plate to you as if to ward you off and eep you on the other side of it, all the while drinking in the sight of you with mingled hunger and disbelief. Jesus fucking Christ, it's just not fair. Pres tears his gaze away. "Voyage? Where? Uh. What?"

     His other hand reaches for the cake -- what is not to like about cake? You and your sweet sister offer so much in the way of delights to my day. A man should develop a condition were he not careful. The ringed hand lifts from his sword to lower his veil, saving the silk from sugary sweetness. As fingers are licked from icing, he looks to you. "Voyage. Upon a ship finer than any you could read of. I thought you might want to get a peek." Berry lips are licked, the small cake finished. "Hmmm... I do love lemon. Just enough tart, just enough sweetness. Is that strawberry ganache?" he wonders, pointing at one of the pink cakes on the plate you still hold.
     There are gloves, but they are folded and tucked into the belt you can see, your eyes drifting from him and the plate of cakes as they do. He smells of clove and ocean. "We won't miss dinner tomorrow night. I am looking forward to your performance, after all. I promise. I would not wish to disappoint your sister..."
     Gruffydd smiles to you as he lifts one of the small pink cakes. He finishes it, holding the sugar upon his tongue a moment before he swallows. "Strawberry, indeed. So," and the veil is reaffixed. He offers you a hand. "Shall we?"

     "I, uh. Okay?" Pres' voice is a trifle strangled. This is strange indeed. You are dressed like something out of a book. You are acting like something out of a book. The veil is replaced, and he blushes uncomfortably and looks away.
     "Yeah, Maddie's looking forward to it." Ah, a safe topic. Or so he thinks. "We practiced yesterday, I think it'll go okay." Pres rises, taking your hand almost reluctantly and putting the plate of cakes aside. He clears his throat, swallowing, colour still lingering. "Where're we going, or just going to get on board, then? How far is it?"

     One hand clasps yours; his other lifts to your cheek to stroke against your coloring. "It is quite far, Preston West," Gruffydd says softly, his hand falling away. "I think J.M. Barrie said it best when he wrote: Second star to the right, and straight on til morning.
     He lets loose of your hand -- you're not a girl to be escorted -- and turns to the west. If he keeps walking, he'll walk straight into the built-in library against the wall. But the room and the wall changes, and you and he are now in the middle of the Capitol City.
     Overhead, the basilica is a wonder, the onion domes beginning to reflect the rising starlight. It is twilight there, and it is getting cool. Summer is long gone. Ahead is the massive port, docks filled with ships foreign and domestic, mostly trading vessels, but there is one far taller than the rest, built upon the inspiration of the Dutch Eighty-gunners. The ship itself is midnight blue, its sails silvery in the retreating light.
     "There we are," he offers, gloves now on. He looks to see how you are dressed. "I have more clothing on the ship if you are cold. That is The Draigamor, the private vessel of the High King himself. My father, Iowerth, inherited it from his father, Davydd, and it has since passed to me. I've been sailing it for years now. My other father's ships are moored in the public docks. He owns one of the grandest trade and engineering firms, among other things, in either world. That is how he knows your grandfather, I understand. My father, Iowerth, gave The Drake there," he gestures to another grand ship as he strides toward the royal berth, "...as a love token. Some token, oes?" he says, glancing back to you.
     "I thought we might have a sail. I can only remain on dry land for so long before I start getting a bit...hmm... restless. And I thought you could do with an adventure..."

     The touch does nothing to dispel the blushing - much to his own irritation. Pres grumpily follows, jerking only slightly when his surroundings so utterly change. He's beginning to get used to it, after all. His sleeves are long, but he wasn't planning on going sailing. "I should probably change," he mutters by way of agreement.
     He is absorbing what you say. Can you tell? For all his grumpiness, for all his dour exterior, the blush lingers, the glances, covert as they are, still lead to you; his ears, if they came to points, would swivel in your direction. And he sighs, very quietly, sick at heart even though he must hide it from you. "Sure. Let's go sailing," Pres shrugs. "Let me just grab some clothes first."
     Everything you've said has been filed away, however. He just doesn't say anything directly to it.

     Gruffydd stops at the sigh. The tall ships waiting, moored as they are. They aren't going anywhere. He removes his hat, the veil with it, and he tucks it under his arm. "Hmm... that wasn't as...enthusiastic as one would wish. And by one, I mean me."
     If you look around, you will notice that the surroundings and the docks are acknowledging his presence and he (and by extension, you) is given a wide berth. If he takes any special notice, he does not do so obviously. He is no doubt used to the universe shifting when he is around. Shifting for him as much as because of him.
     "You are troubled by something." Likely by more than one thing. A coat appears around your shoulder, something that suits the rest of what you wear, though it is even more expensive and lined with red-dyed ermine.
     "Perhaps it is too soon for all of this," Gruffydd offers quietly. "So... tell me what you wish and what you need. Tell me what troubles you and I will listen."

     "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be unenthusiastic." And that is true, and sincere, and brings his gaze back to you and fully onto you. And this time, it does not slide away; not right away, at least. He blinks as the jacket appears, and he eyes his clothes dubiously, then looks back at you.
     I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be this. I don't know what you want - what you need. I'm barely able to figure that out for myself, and this...
     It is not intended to be projected. You are able to hear him too well at the best of times, however. "Don't you ever wonder," Pres asks you with a frown, "if this is how things are supposed to be?"

     You do not need to be anything for me, Preston. I thought I made that clear. My only want is for you. The rest... the rest is as the universe intends and you desire.
     Gruffydd holds your gaze a moment more and when your look slides away, you find yourself back in Powis Castle, back in the room with the sunlight and the Ship of the Line resting on the table. The new coat is gone, left behind. Even his clothes have changed. He wears the midnight leathers (no boots) and a simple violet tee-shirt.
     He gestures for you to have a seat, even as he himself takes to one. He is attentive, listening. And it is with thought that he answers. "If this is not what you wish, I do not wish to force it upon you. If you do not feel, in your heart of hearts, that this is a direction you wish to go, an experience you wish to have...then, Preston, you have only to tell me." He peers at you a moment. He wants to make sure you are at least clear on that. "There is no right or wrong answer, here. There is only opportunity A and possibility B. There are more possibilities, more opportunities, but they are yours to decide and take."

     "I want to make the right choice. But I don't know what the right choice is."
     Pres looks miserable for one moment before clamping down on it and turning it inwards. In that one moment it is clear he believes he made the wrong choice. He bears up manfully, shoving his hands into his pockets again and sitting down.
     There is heartsick desire and self-awareness that is paired with self-mockery, bitterness leaching into that acknowledgment. "You aren't forcing anything on me. I was willing to go."

     "Then you need time. Time to consider what it is you want. Without distraction. Without," he smiles at himself, "...temptation. You... thinking about your life and about what you want it to be and how you want to direct it. Whether you choose to come with me or not," Gruffydd sits forward, his hands coming together. "I want you to know that I care about you and I support whatever it is, Preston, that you wish to be and to do. You are feeling...pressured by this. And I apologize to you for that. For moving too swiftly. Even today." He smiles a little.
     Gruffydd rises from his seat. From thin air he materializes his tricorn hat and veil. He grins as he sets it upon your head. "You are the captain of your own ship, Preston," he says quietly. "Whether that is an actual vessel or the course of your life."
     His hand draws away. The smile remains, though it softens to something more compassionate than humored. "It is time to weigh anchor."
     And so it is. There is nothing of regret in his look. There is only that serene understanding and patience as he turns to leave.

     The look you receive in return is tormented. Pres bites his lip, going pale and still. "...Yeah. Sure," he mutters. "See you later, then."
     The hat stays where you've placed it. He watches you go without calling you back or moving to follow. Shoulders squared, he keeps his gaze fixed on you as you walk away. Inside, he is as tense as a pent-up scream, but he says nothing at all.
     The moment you are out the door, his gaze moves to the wall instead and he gets up out of his chair. He won't hit anything in here. It's too expensive. But he wishes he could.

     But he is not out of the door. He is in the threshold, as all Possibilities always are. Always on the edge of coming and going. You are a far more tender thing than first I thought.
     The door closes softly, but there are steps returning toward you. "I try to be helpful," Gruffydd says softly. "Sometimes, I am perhaps too helpful. But not in ways that maybe I need to be. I do not think I understand you very well, and what you need. I apologize, Preston, for not listening better..."
     Clearly you need more from the universe than what it first answered...
     "So... please..." Gruffydd gestures for you to continue.

     You are back. And he isn't sure what to make of it. People don't come back, do they? When they or you go away, then you don't see them anymore. Or if you do, things have changed. You have changed. They have changed.
     Grey eyes regard you seriously, and he exhales. What he first says is probably not what you thought he'd say. "I liked you better in the other outfit," Pres tells you. "It fit who you are better than this."

     It is more ...me. The thought occurs to you, as his thoughts seem to do. The Regent returns to his more typical form. The grand captain's coat, the boots and leathers, the gloves, the sword. The hat is still missing, for it yet rests upon your head. Gruffydd slowly removes his gloves as he takes a seat. "We have, each of us, our own challenges, not the least of which is... knowing how to talk to one another." He smiles a little, more in recognition than humor, his dimples revealed in that honest look.
     Tucking his gloves at his belt, he relaxes in his chair, a great, grand thing. But as unreal as he looks, he is all the more real. For this is an honest depiction of Who He Is. Elbow resting on the arm of the chair, Gruffydd moves his hand through his dark, curly hair. "I only meant to show my respect, a moment ago," he quietly informs you. "In my family, that is...what we do."

     He exhales, taking the hat off and putting it in his lap. It'll conceal a multitude of sins there. "I was born in international waters," Pres tells you, even though it isn't anything you asked, "with the nearest land being at least three days away."
     He doesn't move; he looks at you hungrily, the truth of it showing for a moment in his gaze, naked and earnest desire threaded with wistfulness and a stoicism that you have seen somewhere before, but not in him. "My mother had me on the boat. Dad was consulting with an international team at the time, and it was a big enough vessel for families to come along. They'd had to fight to let mumsie in on it, because she was so pregnant, but dad insisted. Gillian was just a baby herself, bumbling along in diapers and a big floppy hat. Everybody doted on her. There's albums and albums of pictures at the house in New Hampshire."
     He looks at the teapot and ignores it. It isn't tempting enough. "I don't remember any of it, of course. Being born - it's not the kind of thing people remember. Doctors say it's because it's one of the most traumatic things the human mind can experience. I think that's bullshit. I remember things about when I lost half my leg well enough." That's brushed away irritably, and Pres looks over at you. "When we got back to shore half a year later, mumsie had me and Gillian spend nine months with our grandparents. They got back and I didn't know who they were."
     He is rambling, isn't he? But there's a purpose in it, and he struggles to keep the narrative on a finite line as he sprawls back in his chair. "Sometimes when we were on location, mumsie and dad'd hire people - nannies, governesses, tutors. Their jobs were to look after us, of course, but also to keep us out of mumsie and dad's hair, I think. Not that they didn't love us. I know that now. At that time, I figured they just didn't love us enough. Me and Gillian used to try and figure out what we should do to try and get them to love us more. She was crazy for the idea - figured there had to be some secret way of it, something that could be found, or unlocked, or learned. She isn't much different now, in some ways."
     He picks up the hat and fans himself with it, then drops it back into his lap again. "She was crushed when she got sent away to school. Figured she'd done something wrong. Me, I knew it was just a matter of time, when she got sent away. She tried harder than I did. Of course, by then I wasn't so sure I wanted it anyway. I figured school'd be an escape. It wasn't, but ... kids."
     Another shrug, and Pres looks at you. "Our lives were pre-programmed. Things were scheduled for us and picked for us and we were on a list. And when you grow up on schedule, it's hard to figure out how to break away from those schedules. I knew I wanted to be free, so I had a little better preparation for it - but being free leads to now what, at least in my case. And I still don't know now what."

     Even as you are in some ways who you have always been, so is he. He would sit in his father's workshop, even as he is now, listening with great attention, his eyes fixed and concentrating. He would stare as if he could understand by looking. His eyes absorbed as much as his ears could hear. Gruffydd rests his head against his hand, his face serene in listening -- not in thought.
     "And not knowing makes you uncomfortable, because of your previous experience," he says a few moments after you finish speaking. He does not mention some experience he had, or some relevant bit of information that might correspond with your understanding or experience. He surmises and he waits to hear more of your story, your intent, and what, in regards to all of that, you might need.
     You do not take tea, but Gruffydd does. A service appears on the table in front of him. Bending, he takes the kettle and pours a cup, adding milk and honey afterwards. There is the fragrance of lavender and lilac. He sits back in his coat and finery, his legs stretching out comfortably in their leather.

     "Not knowing means I know only the outer shape of what I want and not how to get it or how I should get it." Pres rubs his forehead wearily. "I don't know how. Hell, I don't even know how to talk about it. And I didn't know how, when my options didn't include magic, and other worlds, and royalty, and you..."
     I want you so much that I can feel it when you walk into the room. It feels like somebody is cutting out my heart and my groin at the same time.
     "So I hear decide and I freeze up. I don't know - hell, I don't even know everything that's on the menu. I'm just following blindly at this point, because I know what I want - but I don't know how to do it right. If you were a girl, I'd be proposing to you or something stupid and sappy like that." Pres blushes almost crimson but he speaks the truth to you, as he's always tried to. Even if he can't meet your eyes. "As it is, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

     There is a smile for you as he sips his tea. That sounds quite painful. I'm sure there is a remedy. The smile both deepens and softens as he sets his cup aside. Gruffydd rises and he comes over to you, crouching down in front of you. "Rather than trying to answer thoughts, decide and determine plans," he murmurs, "... let's focus, instead, on feelings, wants, desires. These are easier, I think. And closer to hand."
     He has such grace, such balance. He does not shake and tremble as he balances upon the balls of his feet. "Do you want to propose to me, Preston? Do you want to declare your love to me? How do you feel... about me...about being with a man like me. Take magic out of it. Magic is environment. We could be ... butchers in Kent... or taxi drivers in New York. We could be students at the same university or we could be sailing magical ships on the Ocean of Dreams. It's all the same. Just...backdrops. How do you feel..."

     He looks at you with the torment of his position, twisting in his gut and at his mouth. There is fear there, of giving more than he might receive - his is the knowledge of what it is like to repent of generosity. A stoicism, that what he has to give is not good enough, not in his own eyes.
     What could he give you, that you could not magic up from the air itself? You have the wealth of a thousand kingdoms - of this kingdom alone, your wealth outstrips his and his family's. You already have given him things he could not dream of (his leg, for one), and he has nothing he can give in kind.
     "Environment shapes things," Pres answers you, giving you a sharp once-over with those grey eyes that seem to see more than they should. They are such brooding eyes. "If we were butchers... that'd be easy. I know what it would be like."
     And he does. It is as if there is the soft click of a door opening, and he sees it, as clearly as he sees you sitting there. It would have started small, and we would be the kind to get our hands dirty. We'd visit the nearest farms and build up our contacts - the flat would be small, probably just a room over the shop. We wouldn't have had enough money to get started on our own, we'd have pooled our funds and begged and borrowed and maybe done a little creative liberation here and there to get going. One day off a week - Tuesdays or Wednesdays, probably - and the rest of the time busting our asses to get the place going. The tight-fitting shirts were a godsend even if it was because they shrank in the wash - it got all the neighborhood women shopping there, and word got around from there. When the local toughs tried to get us to sign up for 'protection' you threw one through the plate-glass window. They came around again and broke my nose, and you wanted to go after them with blood in your eyes. I talked you out of it and instead we had a dinner party, and invited all their mums...
     He blinks, and tries to focus, but it is as if everywhere he looks there is a mirror, reflecting a different possibility back at him. Taking a deep breath, Pres holds it, pushing the images down in the same frat and tired of the bullshit, ended up rooming together off-campus, even though I never could keep my eyes off you and I hoped you didn't notice, that didn't last and exhaling slowly foot caught in the rigging, you climbed up after me damning the weather and the ship and everything to hell and back while cutting me down through his teeth. Blindly, he reaches for his tea, even though it's stone cold.
     "I can't imagine my life without you in it," Pres answers you simply. "I don't want to have to face it."

     "You don't have to," Gruffydd remarks quietly. "I don't want you to imagine a thing like that. I don't know, Preston, what story we will make together. I only know that we have one to make. I feel it, felt it the moment I saw you. You could...drop us into any story, we could have a thousand different guises, but the one thing that would remain constant is: you touch my heart and I want you with me. Two butchers in Kent, university students trying to make ends meet and families proud, or... even the story of a man who would be king who stepped into a castle library and stumbled upon someone who could just be the best thing to happen to him and his kingdom. I want you," Gruffydd smiles. "I want to be in your story, Preston, and I want you in mine."
     He rises in a graceful tower, but he towers only momentarily. The next moment finds him seated with you. "We can't start as small as two butchers in Kent, that is true," he murmurs. "But my kingdom, my reign, cannot merely be a continuation of what my father has done. The story, in essence, starts all over again. And we will make it together, whatever it will be. I do not truly know. I have dreams and ideas... I have a million things to try. Not all of them will succeed. The same as you. I am searching as much. The only real difference is...there is no difference. I don't know anything about Los Angeles or Boston apart from what I've read. You don't know about the Otherworld or Heaven or Hell beyond what you've read and what I've tried to tell you. There's no practical difference. The only real issue is trusting yourself, and allowing yourself to both succeed and fail."
     Tipping his head back, Gruffydd adjusts the captain's tricorn hat upon your head. "I love you. So that's the beginning of the story," he murmurs. "Love me, and let the stagehands move the props around," he grins at that. "What difference does it make..."

     He smiles at you lopsidedly, and with a small sigh he turns towards you, bending, leaning in against you with his eyes closed. "I've failed lots," Pres mutters against your shoulder. "I don't know if I'd recognize success if it came up and bit me in the ass. I - love you, too."
     There, it's said. There's a scratchiness behind his eyelids of tears welling up which he refuses to let fall. "Okay. Okay. I love you. We'll try it your way. Okay."

     "You could roll over, I will bite you and we can find out," Gruffydd purrs with a grin at your ear, his arms around you. He folds you in for a hold and keeps you.
     A hand lifts and he removes your hat. He sets it aside for now. You are in his arms, a golden thing. His hand moves against your neck, lifting to follow the line of your jaw. No more talk of history, of the meaning of things that have come to pass. This is about the future now. We will let it come as it comes. We write the story together.
     "I love you," he whispers again at your ear, his mouth parting at the skin of your cheek to the flesh of your lips. The crushed berries of his mouth spread yours more golden beneath him.
     Once upon a time...

Posted by rowan at June 28, 2009 06:05 PM