tick
     The clock says four. In twelve more minutes, something is going to happen. He is going to come in, and
     tick
     Pres runs his fingers through his hair, elbows on his desk, locking his hands together behind his neck. He is going to come in, and he is going to touch me, and I am going to break. I can see it coming, I see the possibilities forming and I know what is going to happen, only I don't know. I only know the possibilities, because I don't know enough.
     tick
     I'm not going to go mad. I can hold it together, if I learn enough, if I throw myself into it. I realize now that the sex will actually help me to stay sane, because I'll have that outlet. Pres sighs, smothering his face with his hands and exhaling out through his nose before sitting up. If only I didn't love him so fucking much. But - I do. And I did. And I said yes, and I committed myself, and I actually don't regret that.
     tick
     He looks at the clock. There are eight minutes left. Eight minutes of relative freedom - if only he could hold it together. If only he could think about things not involving fingers, and tongues, and smooth, gleaming skin, and...
     tick
     Pres sighs, annoyed with himself, and pushes up from his chair. He paces to the window, lifting a hand to hold back a flap of the curtain. He looks out broodingly, jacket worn open, shirt collar folded up a bit since he isn't out in public just yet. His hair is mussed from his own hands' actions. If I were more amoral, this could be bad. If I were more moral, I'd end up miserable. At least I can look myself in the mirror and recognize myself. For how much longer? I don't know. I need to talk to Aeron again. I need- dammit, I hate asking for favors. He grimaces, then shrugs. It'll work out. It has to work out. I've committed myself - and, even though people don't realize fully what it means, even my sisters don't... I'm still a West.
     "And one in love," Pres says aloud. He looks out at the view of the sea, and at his reflection in the glass, the blond hair, the granite eyes, the flush to his cheeks and the sensitivity masked by his aggressive stance. He shakes his head, and allows the curtain to fall closed.
     tick
     tick
     tick...

     Never anything less than exact...
     Never anything else but prompt...
     Timely in all matters, whether it be matters of State or matters of his bedroom and private life, the Crown Prince has the uncanny ability to be exactly where he wants to be when he wants to be there.
     The door opens at exactly four-twelve. To the second. The door closes as the four-twelve becomes four-twelve-o-one. But it is not the Crown Prince. Two men, dressed as personal but official attaches, step into the chamber. Their build, their bearing gives them away immediately as military men, but they are not armed, nor are they armored. Both are tall (though nowhere near as tall as the Prince) and both are broad, clearly commanders of some kind. There is a quiet determination and confidence in their countenance. One has red-brown hair, the other closer to your own in tone, and they are both finely featured with smooth shaven cheeks of the professional guard. They bow in unison.
     "Lord West," says the brown-haired guard, "His Highness begs your pardon, but he is running late. He has sent us to attend you and to... make you ready for his arrival." There is a look they both give you at that, a certain warming to the gaze. "I am Captain Aediles, personal attache to the future king, our prince..."
     "...And I am Lieutenant Adriano," the blonde says with a half-smile. "Attache to the attache..." They both smile at that, glancing only momentarily to one another.
     Aediles pivots to Adriano. "Prepare the bath, lieutenant." And to you he then turns. "The Regent has instructed us to the grand bath, Lord West," he says, gesturing you to come along with them to the next chamber. His eyes are a rich brown, and his features are decidedly Celtic -- high cheekbones, small nose, fine and angled features.
     The air of professionalism lingers, even through the warmth of his attention as waits for you to walk ahead.

     He turns, eyebrows arching - first in welcome, then in surprise, the ring of iris and pupil shifting as with a shift in light in unconscious, instinctive reaction. Pres' confusion shows immediately; he blinks, shifting his weight as the hood drops in front of his gaze again, warily.
     He is bowed to, and he bows in return, a trifle self-consciously. It is an excellent drawing-room bow, the sort dance masters at expensive prep schools teach their charges, who promptly never use them again ninety-nine times out of one hundred. "Captain. Lieutenant. A pleasure to meet you."
     His tone is only a trifle brusque. He has been caught off guard. He did not anticipate this, predict it, prophesy it. He flushes, rubbing at the nape of his neck, caught off guard again as you both turn. "The, uh, bath? Uh. Okay..."
     What the fuck is in his gaze even if he doesn't say it. But he is on unfamiliar ground, uncertain territory, here, and so he obeys unquestioningly even if cautiously. Lord West? Huh. "I'm not really a lord, y'know," Pres comments over his shoulder as he heads for the bath. His posture is immaculate, held upright by the self-consciousness of scrutiny from behind. "So, uh. Army or Navy?"

     Yes, immaculate is a word they would both use to describe you....
     "You are now, Lord West," Captain Aediles says with a warm tone and an easy smile. "Part of the benefits of knowing the Crown Prince." Knowing. The way he says it, it can only mean that he knows how much, and in what way. But then, he is here with you in the baths, sent by your Crown Prince...
     In the bath, Adriano adds oils to the water of the pool and the pool, supernaturally heated as it is, begins to emit a light fragrance. The drapes to the windows have been shut for privacy, and the mirrors reflect these images to you, to your senses, a hundred times over.
     Adriano's skin holds a soft pear tone, and where he is bare (now to his waist), you can see the finely crafted form of someone very used to physical (and very likely) pleasurable activities. He looks up at the entrance, welcoming you and the captain with a smile. He is full-lipped, like Gruffydd, though he is far more fair.
     "I am a captain in His Majesty's navy," Aediles says as he comes up behind you. "Stop here, Lord West." And he removes your jacket. "Of the hundred-gunner The Rhudd Draig." His voice is deep and quiet and quite near your ear. "Adriano is part of His Majesty's air force. He rides one of the Gryphons. And he's quite extraordinary, as you can no doubt see."
     "The captain is very kind," Adriano murmurs, setting the oils aside. As the captain begins to undress you with the quiet proficiency of a man who is, quite frankly, used to undressing men, Adriano begins to unclothe himself as well and ... for you. "It is our pleasure also, Lord West."
     "Do you plan to join the military?" The captain's query is a brush of warmth near your neck as his fingers pluck the shirt from your trousers. His fingers brush lightly against your sides in the motion. In front of you, the golden Adriano is bare of shoes, of trousers. Picking a vial up from the small table -- the bath boasts several sitting areas as you are quite familiar with by now, having laid on them all -- and his hands turn golden and fragrant. He smiles to you, the strength and beauty of his figure completely revealed.
     "Lift your arms please," the captain's voice murmurs behind you as Adriano slowly moves toward you both. His oiled hands, no doubt are meant for you. But his steps lead him to one of the mosaic stairs that lead to the water.

     "Um." Pres blushes; his confusion rises, as does his self-consciousness. As does his inner turmoil. Being given a title because of who he is sleeping with - where he comes from, there's words for that, none of them terribly complimentary. He just isn't sure what to make of that. "Oh. Okay. I guess I didn't get that memo."
     The bath - he looks around at the mirrors in the bath, trying to figure out some sense in all this. The reflections do nothing to help him think. A glance shows him Adriano, and he blushes again, looking quickly away, skittish in the moment of it. He surrenders his jacket with a brief nod to Aediles, looking hurriedly away. "I, uh. Gryphons, huh. We don't have those where I come from."
     And then his shirt is being unbuttoned, and Pres freezes, eyes widening in disbelief. Oh, it's not that he doesn't know what's happening now; he's neither that naive nor that unaware. It's just that he didn't expect it...
     Damn you, Gruffydd... Pres clears his throat, blush shooting up to the roots of his hair. He would take a step back, but there is no 'back' in which to step. "I, um. Hadn't really thought about it. Didn't know it was an option." He lifts his arms in compliance, eyes darting about the chamber, trying to see the different threads of where this could go, where this is leading. He can't get a lock; he's just too distracted. Directions are considered and discarded; for now, he plays along. It might, after all, not be quite what he's thinking.
     As for what he's thinking, it's purely carnal...
     "Tell me," Pres interrupts his own thoughts desperately, "what about you guys? I mean. Where did you come from? How'd you end up in the military and stuff." Talking. Talking could be his salvation. The more he knows, the better he can figure it out, right?

     "I was raised to be in the military," Adriano says as he wades into the water, rubbing the oil over his hands, his fingers, warming it, keeping it viscous. "My father served in the cavalry. I am from Catalonia. It is to the west ...some two thousand miles away..."
     "And I am from here, a child of the Capitol City," Aediles replies. "My father was in the personal guard of the High King, and as first born son, I felt it was my duty to serve in the same manner. We hold military titles and responsibilities. In times of peace, we serve upon the personal guard of His Majesty. Assigned to the Crown Prince. I served with him when his principle duty was Commander of the Navies." Your shirt is removed. The captain pivots slightly, letting it fall to the floor safely out of the water's way -- including the splashing that may follow. From behind you, his arms wind around and begin to unfasten your trousers. You can feel the heat of his own skin, even beneath the layer of clothing he wears. "I understand you are from a sea-faring family yourself..."
     Adriano watches as you are unclothed. He begins to smile not with joy but with something far more earthy. "Gryphons can be rather tricky. But they are fiercely loyal. If you don't get dizzy at heights, it is a nice ride. I have a chariot team as well, that I race in the stadium." His green eyes trail downward as the folds of your trousers are opened. They flash as Aediles' hand slips within, unpacking you. His fingers lightly stroke before drawing away to guide your trousers over your hips and rear.
     Aediles smiles, tilting his head to look at what is revealed. He undresses you in silence for a moment, your trousers falling to your knees. A hand to each of your hips, he gently guides you around to face him. He rakes his hands inward from your hips to your groin. "Balance using my shoulders to remove your shoes, Lord West." His fingers rake gently from your groin to either side of your length.
     "You have many options. I look forward to seeing which you choose," Aediles murmurs. He smiles to you, his hands toying with you as you are given the space and opportunity to remove your shoes.

     He watches Adriano covertly, trying to fight the blush down. He is distracted; hypersensitive, hyper-alert. "Catalonia, huh. There's something kind of like that where I'm from. I, uh. Don't know what you've been told, but this is a little ... kinda odd, where I'm from."
     Understatement of the year...
     Aediles is speaking. He listens, twisting around, then blushes as hands come around him to begin undoing his trousers. "Something like that. My granddad designs ships for whoever has money to pay, has a shipyard to build them too. His dad was in the Navy, back where I'm from. Uh. Not part of the kingdoms here," Pres clarifies, shifting a little, from one foot to the other. His blush is rocketing through him, coloring his skin unevenly, pink splashes at his cheeks and on his nose and even around his collarbone and the edges of his ears as he is undressed. Even his nipples show reaction, as his shirt's gone, and he bites his lip. Even my body betrays me.
     There is uncertainty and an edge of guilt. Is this really okay? Won't Gruffydd be mad at him? Is it cheating if they were sent by Gruffydd? His semblance of age and his polish strips away from him, leaving him not nearly nineteen but only eighteen, and looking only sixteen as his layers are so carefully and so painstakingly removed. His eyes go wide as he is taken out of his trousers, and he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
     Oh my fucking god...
     "Pres," he manages to say. "I'm not a lord. My name's Pres. Until somebody comes up with something better to call me, anyway." Pres twitches nervously, nodding to Adriano without quite daring to look at him. Everywhere he looks he sees a reflection of his undressing, of his seduction. "Heights don't bug me. I used to do some parasailing but I, uh. I gave it up. I have some problems," he admits, "with water."
     Not for lack of trying to get over it, but it just hasn't happened so far. With a dumb sort of obedience, he follows Aediles' guidance, sharp teeth burying into his lower lip again as he is touched, staying there as he leans on Aediles' shoulder. "Uh. Options?"

     "Catalonia was founded by people from your side of the..." Aediles pauses a moment and then decides with a smile, "... fence..."
     "That is true," Adriano says warmly, as he waits, fingers emulsifying gently. His eyes are not secretive in their looks; his smile is not shy. "Apparently there was a storm on the seas between Spain and the New World, and they were blown here, some four-hundred or so years ago. We are of here now, of course."
     There is nothing said of your blushing. "Yes," Aediles says after a moment, your one leg now free of trousers and shoes, "...many options. You may join the military if you choose, go into politics if you choose, become a discoverer, an entrepreneur, or nothing at all. I would not recommend becoming a pirate," he murmurs to you with a smile as he steps in to you, his arms surrounding you as you are completely naked in his grasp. "I should hate to have to shoot at you, Pres." Aediles smiles, his mouth grazing your ear. "Our prince wishes you to smell and taste of almonds for him. He does like his sweets."
     Freeing you from the grasp, the cupping of his hands at your rear, Aediles frees you but leads you with a slight touch to the small of your naked back toward the stairway to the water, and to where Adriano waits, as naked as you and smiling.
     "You may choose to be or do any number of things, political or non-political," Aediles continues quietly. As you enter the bath, he remains up above, his fingers beginning to pull at his own clothing.
     Adriano's fingers halt their slick sliding against one another to reach out to you as you begin to step into the water. He wades slowly, gently guiding you into his arms. "Then perhaps you would like to accompany me in a gryphon chariot tomorrow. Would you like that?" he asks softly. You are turned in his grasp, turned to face the sight of beautiful Aediles unclothing himself. Heated oiled fingers begin moving against you, sliding, fragrant, to your hips. When his hands touch the water, moving against your member beneath the surface, the oil begins to lather into a rich and aromatic soap.
     Above you, the strong form of Aediles is revealed. He is even more cut than Adriano. "Is he not amazing?" Adriano whispers at your ear. He is amazing, and gifted in several areas. Water splashes as hands move against you, beneath and above the waves. "So are you," he breathes at your ear.
     Aediles smiles to you both. There is no blush -- he seems aware of how he looks -- but there is also no boasting, no arrogance. It simply is what it is. "We are your valets," he says quietly, "...now your personal attaches, your confidantes, Pres. And we are here to help you navigate what may seem to you... a strange place with ...stranger customs." This being one of them perhaps.

     It makes him feel shy, being looked at like that, being addressed like this. Being ... touched ... "Yeah," Pres agrees, gaze drifting down over Adriano's body pointedly. "You're here now." He is blushing. He cannot pull off wickedness. It is just not in him (yet).
     "What do politics involve, here?" Pres asks. He is cautious of the idea. He had thought that was his only option; and now his blind spot's been poked, and he is befuddled. The presence of two naked men and their hands touching him does nothing to clear the mists in his brain.
     He jumps a little, as Aediles talks of shooting at him, as his mouth touches his skin, and the blush (never far, now, from the surface) rises again. He is shocked and embarrassed to find himself trembling.
     Almost as shocking is how easily he finds himself being led, how docilely he accepts the lead of these two men. He can see, in his mind's eye, how he looks; his vulnerability driven up to the surface, the chains on his heart weakening, the longing of the flesh and the spirit alike leading him towards these two. He wants them. More than that, he wants them to like him. And it shocks him.
     And it horrifies him.
     And as stubbornly as he tries to cling to his shields and defenses, there are cracks he can see. As Adriano takes him into his arms; as he is turned, and he watches Aediles with a hungry pair of eyes and slightly parted lips that are his best effort against slack-jawed gaping.
     It isn't fair...
     "He is," Pres agrees gruffly, voice little more than a whisper. He is trying to sound gruff. He isn't quite succeeding. He is touched, and tugged, and he jumps slightly, blushing again. "I, um. Valets? I - I. I don't get it. What are you going to do?"
     The last two words are unspoken, but palpably clear on the air. They are as apparent as his trembling, his extreme nakedness and vulnerability, his lust and his confusion and that edge of tragedy that seems to forever mark him. His hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching. To me...

Posted by rowan at August 12, 2009 07:34 PM