And the feeling continues. One spasm becomes two becomes ten becomes twelve. Gold eyes glance to Edward as he grips his own sire. He cannot speak -- his throat is closed, his ability to voice cut off. It is a Mexican stand-off, ami. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

     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.

     You are leaving me...

     "Ah," Edward says, not really responsive. "So 'whatever it was,'" Edward says, "...was complete and utter bullshit, then? Fuck if you're not as bad as any woman, Valan."

     "I'm telling you," Edward laments, plucking his bottom lip with two fingers, "...there's too many in London." Undead, that is. He sighs, shaking his head at the state and shape of things.

     He never knows where you are going to be when he calls. Maybe you will be in a gun battle. Maybe you will be in a club with women on your lap...or face down in your lap. Maybe you will be at the gym. On the same side of town, other side of town...

     There's a nod from the Primogen, his hand adjusting the lapel of his dark suit. A kindness to the decorum of the court. "Saarbrucken," he says softly. That was the place. Lips purse and a slight noise escapes as attention's given back to Greydon. "Your problem, Trevelyan," Edmund says by way of acknowledgement. He doesn't want to hear anything about it.

     There are eddies in the dancing throng of The Odeon, noticeable only to those who can feel as well as they can see. The charge on the air is tight, electric, openly sexual. And at the center of it is a golden Caligula.

     "I do not have to brag to tell someone to fuck off," Valan chuckles. "I simply say... fuck off. It is less work." A cigarette is in his mouth and it is lit. His lighter and the pack are stowed away along with his gear. He zips up the red and white bag -- Francais Nationale -- and hoists it on his shoulder, puffing out a bit of scented smoke.

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

     "When I first met you, that night at the L'Empereur, you were pressing a blonde man against the stairwell wall." Golden eyebrows lift and he tilts his head. "At the time I did not know Ian, but I do ...and I like him... so I am wondering...what you were doing with your tongue down another man's throats and is this something you make a practice of when Ian is not around?"

     A sudden grin flashes at Edward's lips though his eyes remain closed. "Ami...don't worry," Edward says again. It's an exercise in futility for you, his smile says, but for him, it is the exercise that keeps him on the Brujah path.

     And you are in a low time now, yes? So how could I ever think to leave you for something as trivial as swordplay and politics...

     "Veuillez attendre son excellence, Prince de Paris. Trente secondes," the male voice says evenly, professionally, and with an expectation of compliance.

     "I'm going to kill Davydd ap Llewelyn. Fucking bastard."

     "Part of me wants to beat the shite out of him and anything that had anything of anything to do with any of it," Edward waves. He knows he's not making sense. "Part of me wants him to..." he exhales, "...just be my enemy so I can kill him.

     "Lookie cos, I just spent a shaky time with Davy. I just called t' say - and you'll never hear it again - that maybe you were right. When we were up there with you and Dunross. Maybe you were right about everything."

     "At least the circus has changed fabrics," he murmurs dryly, then smiles. "Nice to see them staying so seasonal," he nods, as if serious.

     "But our future is out there," Edward's head rolls to the sky again, "...somewhere. Sometime." It's not here yet. He doesn't know what it is, but it does not lie with London.

     Edward grins, this time to himself. He extends his neck slightly, the invitation there, his gaze moving to the ceiling again. He blinks and smiles wider, whatever his thoughts are kept to himself.

     We have been together for a few years now. It is time, I think, that we have Our places and Our things and Our hopes and wants and needs. I am not going to be afraid anymore.

     There is a smile. That is all I want. It's all I want and it's good enough for me.

      Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together.

     "...What other arms should I want to be in, but Edward Meurelle's? Where is there a better man for Valan Montague... where is there... a better man..." Period.

     It has been a long two evenings. Edward's hand tightens, nodding at the notion of being alright. His disposition's improved, but the situation has not really been solved yet.

     Ian nods, then looks in the mirror again. Hand lifts to adjust his collar, but then he sighs, lowering his hands. It'd be the fifth time he's made corrections.

It's not What you thought When you first began it

     "No," Edward says emphatically, "...it wasn't fucking worth it." Not whatsoever. "He," Edward twists again, looking for his cigarettes and not spotting them, "...says," he shrugs and mumbles, "...I got some commendation from the Torries."

     A crystallization of Valan Montague. Part truth, part fiction, part pure myth. But it happens to everyone, doesn't it. Everyone for whom the clock no longer ticks. Outside of that most human of states, time-bound civilization and reality, We become Something Else.

     I was looking at a man at a bar one night and it was like I slipped beneath his skin. Further, beneath his blood. No, further, into his soul.

     "What th--" he starts, leaping from his seat to grab the duffle bag. "What the fuck?" he finally gets out, shaking the bag to and fro until the file comes out. The bag's tossed aside, and Edward stands, flipping through the folder.

     I should not have been surprised, perhaps. This is an extraordinary event. A revelation, a gathering, an exclusive. A social remembering, as we see who is not with us.

     Annabelle Deschamps' arrival in town always makes for an interesting time, and always causes ripples.

     L'Enfant Terrible, the rebirth of the Sun King. Even his skin is golden, like it is brushed with gold leaf powder or saffron, a nice effect from the saffron silk robe he wears.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls.

     "She had me believing her little mirage of learning and civilization. She and this place, it is a lie. It is learning with blindfolds on, the kind of learning that you memorize prayers and call it Enlightenment.

     The way I have been. The stress. The...whatever it is... that makes us fight from time to time. My uncertainty. "Also... I will say... I wish I could go with you," Valan whispers. "I wish I were a warrior suddenly. I ... am worried." A pause. "I am frightened. A little. For you."

      "What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.

     He looks at you in the mirror for a moment, then says, "You alright?" He's going out in a while. A planned recon meeting to check out heroin dealers who may have supernatural backers. Edward smiles a little, continuing to tuck in his shirt.

     And he rises, arm slipping around her waist. "Maybe you can change my religion." And he grins at himself.

     Shh. This way. Step. Foyer. Living room. Stairs. Dieu. You'll have to deal with the stairs. Okay, I can do this. I can do this. You can do this, Meurelle. Just one foot at a time. Dieu, you haven't been this fucked in ages. Sheer ages.

     "What will El-Adar mean for you? What do you think it means for Edouard?"

      You know how he is spending his, you can smell it. Oils and balms, hands softened -- the petals of roses were never as tender -- his skin has a golden glow where the tending of servants' fingers have massaged honey and saffron into his skin. You know the routine of The Favored. You yourself have been there.

     The large tome of Alhambra rests upon a table, there beside it a glass that has been used intermittently and throughout the day. And another book beside it, the Story of Pi and another Zero.

     I am heading into the Caliph's Land. Or to quote the Unnamed Poet of the tome at my feet, that sun-kissed land, rich in dark-eyed girls, and water that springs silver from the golden ground. I have never been to this part of Espana. Only the vineyards of Castile, the exclusive villas of Madrid, the discos of Barcelona.

     "Have you," he grins, looking down between you, "...wondered of my own instruction and whether you...could take lessons from the Old Ones?"

     This is not our place, Eduard...

     The amber hue owed to the lights of Chenonceau, lit as they are every night. But this night, they burn for new residents. And the lights echo across the quick moving waters of the Cher, ripples highlighted.

     Edward smiles again at the photographs. "It's good to be reminded sometimes..." he whispers softly. "Good on ya, lads," he grins at the trio again, giving the men a nod of confidence.

     And a glass that was sitting on the coffee table explodes. Green eyes lift to you. And with a whisper of something Welsh, something old, the glass is whole again. As if nothing had happened.

     ...And then, holding out the package, the slender smile turns to an almost grin. "Ventrue Express..."

     A vacuum of air lifts when Edward brings his knee up, feet to the bed. "What else shall we talk about?" he wonders, grin spreading again, much like his wandering fingers that press your skin. Here. There. "I have a question," Edward smirks, his lips angling, "...tell me who...was the first you were ever with." In that way, left with a preposition at the end. Brown eyes look askance at you, as if issuing a challenge. He expects you will not answer, even when he chuckles and nips at your nose.

     "In its Beginning. Finding its way, knowing itself," William continues. I could watch it all night. Intrigued. Fascinated. Awed. It is not often, non, that one is able to be a spectator to Love and to a story without being immersed as a character in it. And the view from within is ... never the same as the view from without...

     I know that is why Ian and William are here. So removed from all of that noise. The press and the push of it. And I think they are wise men. And I think that this is a lesson of them that most men miss.

     The laughter begins again, a mist between the tinkles. A man's gentle amusement, a girl's trippling chuckle. Between the spates of giggles, a rustle and gentle purr.

     What a great old place is this. A hand of Montague strays over his coat as he draws away from the chair and takes a seat near a bookcase. His eyes stray over the titles there. His thoughts stray some six hours southbound. I wonder, mon ami, where you are in your task now. A hand reaches up and fingers toy with the garnets strung at his throat.

     He always does as you suggest, Valan Montague. Your advice is as good as gold. Edward's made amends with his William, and has seen to Davydd. All is over, but the shouting...and something else that has had him occupied.

     "The painter of the flower shop, a man of an Artistic Bent, owns a gallery here in the City. Since he did not get enough of paint with the flower shop, I thought you might help with his...artistic development. Some of his works need...touchups. Would you care to hear more?"

     "You think," Edward's brow furrows, "...this is all related?" Ah, yes. DeRancey. Palmer's.

     "No, no, I don't know..." then a spin, "...okay, yeah, I was prepared to knock you on your ass. But not in a bad way..."

     This is the nature of art. Art, the sphinx. Art, the oracle. Inexplicable and full of meaning...

     "Can't a man wear a green shirt without being called a raving poofter or tree hugging bender?" The red brows fly up and Davydd grins. Fuck ya, Meurelle.

     She knows the name of every flower, every plant. She even knew what sort of gardner tends it, what he's attempting to do with the space. She was pruning a little, even..." Scandanavian women. Quiet, like glaciers. But what is it about them that just sets a fire in men's souls?

     "Well... I'm not sure what else to do, Edward," he murmurs. "She chucked my belongings out the window and onto the lawn and is fucking another man on my prized leather chair. It's not like we argued over finances. She wants something I can't give her..." his hands are animated again. "I mean obviously. Or she wouldn't have done it. She was a good confidante... I don't hate her..."

     "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.

     "Holy --" Edward doesn't finish the rest. "Um," he suddenly stands, eyes wide open, "...no..." already, he's tumbling past your legs and the table, moving towards the foyer. "No, no, I got it...just..." he twists to see you, hands out, "...just stay there. No," he blinks, turning to look in the mirror above the table in the foyer, "...stand. That's better," he nods, running a hand over his hair.

     Show me...
     You who know so much, show me what this life is like...

     Encourage me. Encourage me in the oldest sense of the word. Strengthen my heart and resolve to do what I have to do, Valan. What we've said we wished. Even now, as you slacken, my eyes fill with tears and my body sinks. I know what that means; how you feel in my arms.

     He'd prepared himself rather nicely. A bath, a meal. A walk around the outer gardens. You know his habits, when he rests, when he rises. Edward dressed in blue and black, his favorite colors. Slacks are dark linen, and his shirt, the finest of shimmering indigo silk. He took his time tonight, thinking that this is the beginning of forever.

     It is chaotic. It is beautiful. And in everyone of them you can see the man you love.
     Valan looks to you then exhales. Ah... home...

     I have narrowly escaped being a midnight snack...

     Yes, it is a woman singing. But the sound is not that of just any woman singing...
     ...it is the voice of an angel. A dark angel.

     When my flesh parts to your mouth, you will see them etched there. The glimpses of things that have yet to be, yet to happen. I am staring at my first view of the ocean and seeing the stars as for the first time. And you are there with me, Eduard. One night, we will have drinks with your friends, and our lips will move with an escapade...

     As the last tendrils envelope his face, Edward scoots snow over the ember. "Okay..." he smirks, "...I think...you'll like this..." his brow furrows, look lingering at you. Edward bites his bottom lip and pushes goggles back over his eyes. Follow me.

     "Yeah, but..." Edward goes on, "...what if I waited...and something happened to him??" his voice nervous and animated. "What the fuck then? Spend an eternity wishing I'd had done it...and he'd still be alive? They're so fuckin' fragile Will. Anything'll kill them."

     "Moving to London to be...with this Man," said not as the word seems. More encompassing. "It is a grand, great, frightening, dangerous, marvelous, and loving life you stand ready to embark on, Valan Montague," Ian says softly. "I wish you nothing but joy, peace, success, and luck."

     A lift and a touch of his gloved hand against his partner's cheek as he leans in. A kiss that, though it is brief and for public consumption, is also without shame. A kiss, love, and see my smile? "Handsome, without compare, beautiful. I like this..." Distraction is spreading. William touches his hand to Ian's indigo. You wear my colors. As easily as you wear me .

     I am standing in the exact center of the world. Between Life and Death. Between the Mundane and the Extraordinary. It is not easy.

     You miss the look, and it's a pity because it's truly priceless. No one shocks Plantagenet. With nonchalance he smiles and seems to know. Unaffected, even by the most orgiastic visions. But, you've mentioned Dunross... not only by name... rather than the more common epithets of him or even the more common... simply leaving him out altogether... some four or five times.

     How can it be true, Valan ...
     "And so... it is true..." I did not dream it or in some sort of plum brandy haze hear something that was not there.

     Your senses are sharp. You must hear the intake of a breath. Hear the sparkling of a fire drawn in. The smell of a pipe. The thump of a samoyed's tail. "It is a good night for a smoke," comes the even, deep voice of Georg the Swiss. It rumbles in his chest as he inhales at his pipe again. "What better way to spend the unending night," as it was once called, "... than smoking on a mountain ... Come... pull up a dog, Meurelle..."

     "Vicomte," Edward chuckles, "...I...never became Comte," he whispers, voice lowering. A reason why. "My...brother did..." voice is softest, almost as if his lips move without sound.
     "...six hundred years ago."

     Only then does Edward's face come upright to see you. There you go. I said it . "I do love you. And I want you to stay with me, for a long time." For longer than you perhaps can. How do I make this happen without ruining you and what I find so perfect about you?

     "Oh, God!" he calls, an open, aching lament. "What in the fucking hell," English now, "...is he doing here...." Edward's head rolls in disgust, hands coming up to cover his eyes. What is with the last two nights ...

     The skiis slide upon the snow and ice, and the mortal upon the edge of the world. This is what knowing Life and Death is. It is beautiful. To be so close to the sky. Upon a spire-point of earth. This is one of the few acts where a mortal may stand, throw his arms wide and hug God. And to say: Here I am... Here I am, one of your small children...

     "Si, it sounds so. Hmph. You must be a handsome boy for my Eduardo to look at you," almost accusingly, "...well, that is enough, Valan Montague, where is my Eduardo? Get him, please." You can almost hear her fingers snapping...

     Such stories begin this way. No fable should be without its chateau and a winter landscape. And so it begins...

     Hazel eyes lift, not to a sound but to an expectation. He is waiting for you...

     Is this the way that you like it?
     Is this what you had in mind,
     when you called above to the angels
     for the six hundred and sixty sixth time...

     The kiss begins softly, Edward's eyes closing. Upon the white linen, his fingers touch your hand, seeking them out among the remains of your meal. It is gentle, but pulling as the chair wills him back to its cushions. There. Edward's eyes open, wondering what shall you think of it. I am falling in love with you, it said. I want you beside me. Stay...a while. He breathes then, brow furrowing a little as his own thoughts resound in his brain. I hear it...can you?

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     "Do you like...that I cannot help but stare at you?" Do you like tempting and teasing me? You shouldn't, young man. Edward's face holds no anger or threat, but instead curiosity. What happens to moths? Should he not fear me...why do you not fear me, Valan, with what you have seen and felt...

     Ah, sweet Saturday night. Jazz night. One can relive the hey-day of Grand Paris in the 20s, when American musical refugees crowded cabarets. We adopted them, we French. Ah, how we do love refugees. I stopped you in the car with a kiss. I could not stand it. One more, before we must head indoors and act with that casual cool of Men Who Look At Other Men while in the presence of those ... not in The Know.

     He has learned what longing is. And sometimes, he thinks of you, cousin William. Brother William. Newfound admiration is there, and in the moment, even he, Edward of Blois, thinks fondly upon one Ian Dunross.

     To your right, Edward. There... shadows and the dim light of the bar play against a tall, lean figure. He is shorter than William ... shorter than you. Perhaps six even? And he carries himself ...confident. Approaching, but in a meandering fashion. He is not making a direct approach to you. Rather, he has turned, navigating around a table nearby. A survey around him... as if looking for someone. Looking at you.