The rains eventually came in Venice, melting the snow that had fallen just days before, and melting snow and falling rain converged within the canals to make the far more typical winter stew of rising waters and the usual stresses upon the sewerage board.
It was just what William wanted...
With protective gear, he had moved within the vaults beneath the old cathedral, heading into the water-filled spaces, flashlight in hand, hardhat on his head, and rubber up to his eyeballs. Computer models do much to make a modern engineer's work easier, more exact. But sometimes you just have to wade in the guts to know what's ailing a building.
But despite his fascination with the architecture and his morbid glee at the rising of the waters, it wasn't much of a trip. At least not for you, he did not imagine. And so, Edward's offer was well-timed. To show you his tremendous love, and his gratefulness -- indeed -- for you following him to Venice at the worst possible time to visit, William suggested a few days in the Swiss chalet of Georg -- to the cleanliness of the Swiss after so much Italian muck -- before returning to Strathfayr for Yule and Christmas proper.
It was a stroke of genius...
The mountain is freshly dusted, the snow of a good pack crunching under the tires of the four-wheel drive (with studs on, and chains). It looks like a confection under powdered sugar, the old chalet with its timber and its stones. But unlike the last time you and he were here, there was no sign of Edward and Valan, just the anticipation of their arrival.
At some point...
Whenever they get around to it...
"Would you like something warm to drink?" William says at your ear. He stands behind you in the large room, one of the several available and this one not in use. Gentle Ylsa, she knows how to receive -- the room is quite large, quite comfortable.
His arms come around you and William tilts his head to the side to look at your face from where he stands, behind you. He doesn't say anything else for a time. He holds you, a hug given that says all he needs to say about how he feels, and the breathing so habitual it is natural, warmed by the magic you showed him.
Around him, that new scent he has been wearing instead of the cinnamon. Light, but it moves around you as surely as his arms.
Enveloped in Angevin, Ian does not move. He keeps his gaze ahead, where it was, only smiling askance at his new French outfit. "That would be good," he says evenly. He tilts back then, looking up and over to his companion, "Are you offering?" He's accepting.
Blonde hair tied back with a bow, Ian looks the very picture of his northern heritage. The winter becomes him. "Our hosts will return soon enough," his voice lilts, "...and when they do, I will have to contain myself again," he smirks. No need to scare the locals.
Your new French wardrobe is stylish...
Clothed in white -- a sweater layered over by a weather-proof (and suitable for snowboarding or any other damn foolish thing he might do on a mountain) jacket and white pants as well. There is nothing to stop the olive, indigo and darkness against so much white.
"I am," he murmurs with a grin, his mouth close to you... then at you with the gentle touch of his hand upon your face, guiding it to him. "But I do not think I need to offer formally. This bottle, it is always open for you."
There is no telling where Edward and Valan are, or when they will show themselves.
"For now, you do not have to contain yourself. It is just you and I." He all makes it sound like such a good idea. Enjoyable... immensely so. A good idea? Well, that can be debated.
William rests his head against your own for a moment, and he closes his eyes. He does not think about the last time the two of you were here. He focuses only on this moment, you in his arms and not a sound in the house but for the two servants.
Dipping his head, he kisses the side of your neck. "What would you like?" The words that would so softly, so easily follow: Ask whatever you want. I will give it to you.
Ian leans when his neck is kissed, offering it in exchange. "Time with you, here," he explains. Something about this house, this place. "It is like...being in a vacuum here. When we are here, there is nothing else. Very strange," he confesses. Ian turns in your arms, exhaling quietly as he does. "I feel different here," Ian explains softly, his fingertips touching your collarbones. "Maybe it is because we are guests," he suggests, "...whatever is going on, it is not our problem," he grins.
"Isn't it nice? For a few moments, the house is not ours, the castle... not ours... the servants." He could go on, but does not. He shares your grin. "Freedom," William whispers between you and in that smile those dark eyes shine.
The responsibility of the world, of shipping, of heavy marble buildings and a handful of households melts away like so much snow here.
"Is it a good different? You look good," William notes softly, his arms surrounding you, locking behind your back. It is a comfortable, secure embrace. "I like it. At least for a few nights. Before I miss people waiting on me hand and foot and miss my own bed. You'd think we'd be sick of quiet and solitude," William grins, quiet laughter held in his throat and chest. His mouth, that mouth, brushes against your forehead, your cheeks and then lastly your mouth.
The kisses at his head are always so chaste. It still surprises him at how much they are. But it is when his mouth is touched that Ian blooms, the blood lifting at his skin. The bow hangs at his back, something from a Gainsborough painting. He breaks away, nibbling at the remainder of you upon his mouth, "A good...different," as if chocolate were left there. Fingertips delineate each bit of the sweater's fabric, finding the muscle beneath. "Maybe it is because we are left to our own devices," Ian grins, "...unfortunately, we are left..." he kisses, "...to our own devices."
"I would hate to ruin your clothes," he whispers, the fabric keeping his gaze as if he could see beneath it.
It is like a benediction. Grace said before sin is tasted. But that is probably putting too much thought to what has become simple, expressed adoration.
William closes his eyes as you nibble at his mouth, their fullness moving over you in return. His hands spread at your back. He pulls you to him. "Clothes can be removed," comes the languid baritone, a typical Angevin suggestion -- nudity.
The kissed mouth pulls beneath your own in a slow curving smile. "Unfortunately? I should think they've done us a favor. Here we are... in our room..." His mouth parts, blending with your own, "... getting settled..."
As only the two of you can...
"Maybe we need our own night to...settle..." Ian lilts. "Maybe they have done us a favor."
But something get his attention. His gaze narrows beyond you, over your shoulder. "Spa," he burbles at your mouth, such inelegance. Ian blinks, and his grin becomes wicked.
"It's not home, but..." Ian's little finger pointing behind you.
We will feel better once we have had one another, after we press against the limits of this bubble that contains us. We open it, when we are together, this... seclusion that we pretend for the sake of others, and once upon a time...ourselves. When we break free, it is like ...freeing champagne from the contents of the bottle.
Indigo eyes lift at your grin, his seconding your own. No, the servants are keeping their comfortable distance. We are alone. In someone else's house. And boys... will be boys...
William's arms slowly release you, his hand coming to take your hands. He slowly clasps them and then releases them to unzip his jacket and begin unraveling himself from all those carefully selected layers. Amid all that white, his eyes seem all the more indigo. He watches you watch him. He watches you for his own sake. It is there in his look, his love for you.
"It's not home," William concurs softly. "But it's the next best thing," he grins.
"It is?" Ian wonders and somewhat declares agreement. He smiles as he pulls out of his square-tabbed suitcoat with priest's collar, tossing it aside to one of the large chairs. "I guess so," the shoes left behind.
"Maybe," he talks aimlessly though his eyes watch eagerly, "...we are too pampered, William. We have our homes, our servants, our things. Maybe..." his shirt is next, "...we should think of doing with less."
"Maybe we should," he replies in thoughtful kind. "Remember how to ...do things ourselves. I'm not sure I know how to make tea anymore," he teases. "I can thankfully pour your scotch well enough."
Eyes are honest -- yours and his, they show the keenness of this energy, no matter how thoughtful or relaxed the expressions that accompany them. You and he lose the wrappings and the trappings of conjoined wealth.
Soon, the olive of his skin is preeminent, standing out amid so much white. So much disappearing white. Revealed, the body of your husband-knight. But his eyes are on you. The removal of your shoes, the discarding of your jacket, as his hand extends, letting the sweater drip from his grasp to the bed to join his jacket.
He steps out of his shoes, his hands going to the fastening of the white snow pants. "There is something appealing about it," William continues, "... maybe it is because it makes me think of when we were first together." He grins then. "That was a bit too simple, perhaps." I'd say.
"It was," Ian agrees, the tinkling of his belt underwriting the conversation. "And it does," he says softly, recalling those times.
Some men simply can't be decent together.
In the whisper of his falling trousers is where Ian leaves his last words. He steps from the pile of coffee-colored linen, his shirt the only thing left. A boyish figure with his bow, Ian stands there, the very male vision.
"Can we go back to that?" Ian wonders. "Should we?"
"I do not know about should... I do not think of that. It is more... do we want to, and if so how do we want to do it? Do we have a place we make our primary home, and live there, simply -- but retaining properties as we have amassed?"
Such conversation is in apposition to his stripping, his body now bare. The only thing remaining that he wears is your ring. It is what defines him. This, he does not remove. Coming to you, William places his hands upon your hips. He looks at you, his eyes traveling downward before lifting to your face again, lifting to be a partner to his kiss.
"Or do we sell what we do not truly need," he says softly between you, "...paring down, amours, to what we truly treasure... what we truly love. The rest... allowing the rest to fall away. What really matters, is the question. A comfortable bed, a good roof, and you in my arms, is the answer."
It comes with a kiss, that sentiment, plying and opening your mouth beneath his own. "I need so little, really," William whispers between you, his hands unfasten your shirt, parting the fabric from your skin.
"Really?" his lips reply, eyes closing. His ring mirrors its twin, the outward symbol of his secret marriage, but it is the cross that dangles at his chest, secreted away beneath the shirt, the secret kept even closer. Ian's head bends as the shirt slides from him. A gift if there was any.
"I am not sure we could take care of ourselves in this age," his voice so quiet. "It was easier then too...the world was not so full of science, knowledge. Cameras," he frowns. "More of them," kine, "...who could see us. It is harder to...be hidden in this world. They are needed," he thinks, his head tilting and bow dangling at his shoulders, "...to keep us invisible."
"From whom do we really need to hide, Ian. At this point," William wonders. He turns, leading you to the spa. This conversation should be held in the shelter of rising temperature and steam. "We are strong, talented... crafty," William grins.
A cabinet stands open, with fresh towels waiting for you. William takes a towel, holding it open for you to wrap yourself with it. If you choose. It is already moist and warm within the spa, and with the turn of a knob the heat starts to rise.
"We can take care of ourselves," William assures, his tone confident. "We will keep a staff at any rate. Things still have to be done during the day. Now, whether we need to keep three castles and howeverso many homes... I do not know. We can talk about it."
Towel held for you, William leans in. His mouth captures yours in a kiss as heated as the air around you. He parts it with a breath 'Dieu' exhaled close to you. "I love you." Another kiss. "Who do we really need to fear? What consequence? That we could not ...live as we wish to live. To be...a married couple when we are seen in our venues."
Ian follows, his look curious. "Well, I meant taking care of ourselves in the way we like - we certainly know how to..." do the basics, his waving hand suggests. "I was only partially serious," he goes on, hands at shoulders again. "I don't mind the castles," he says softly. "We would miss them."
"I was actually saying really about your comment that you needed so little." Ian grins, the towel in his hands still, unused. He lets it fall open, and arranges it around your shoulders.
"Well, relatively simply," William grins. "And... I couldn't part with either Strathfayr or Chinon." He does not mention Chenonceau. That one is yours. A lavish gift, the pinnacle of such broad and grand gestures. His gifts since have returned to being personal, meaningful.
His grin deepens as you arrange the towel around his shoulders. "It is true," William murmurs. "I have you, we have a nice place to live... I like what I do... I'm not sure I need much more than that. I am happy, content."
He nods at that as if to answer your silent question of: are you sure? Oui, I am sure.
"The only thing I would change in all of it is that I can love you as I love you without having to pretend that I do not when we are with our own kind," his voice is quiet between you, his mouth near your own. He brushes your lips with his. "I do not like doing that. It is ... not who I am. And never who I wanted to be."
The young man frowns a little, his curiosity now confusion. You, with two towels, him with none. "We are," he states, looking at your lips and then eyes. "Everyone sees us together. When at our home, when you had the show. In Venice," he shrugs, not knowing what you quite mean. "What pretend," he asks, unsure of what is being said.
This is too large a subject to broach like this. He realizes it, as he usually does, after he speaks. You see him hesitate. "With the Ventrue, it is different. It has always been different. And... I understand the reasons behind it." William drapes the towel around you, his arms settling it around your shoulders as his companion.
In all things...
William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."
Leaning against you, his body flush to yours, William presses his mouth to your forehead. I love you, he mouths there, and then he repeats it at your lips, his words becoming kisses as his arms surround you again.
Sweat beads and hair dampens. "I want everyone to know I love you. I want to be able to rejoice in it outside my own bedroom. It's ... a greedy desire. And perhaps unfair to you." Indigo eyes fix upon your own of stormy grey. "I am just... so happy, and so proud of who we are together, of you, of me." He shrugs. That's all. Why hide it now? Who are we protecting?
The kisses are returned, but the air is laden with hesitancy as much as desire. Ian should wish to fall into those lips - and the rest - but now, there is something else to do first. You want something, and Ian isn't sure whether to follow in with it.
"I thought we were doing that," Ian whispers, his brow tight. "We...are out together, even at the Directorate..."
"It is probably me," William smiles a little, that self-depreciating smirk that knows he is prone to leaping forward in his mind, far forward of what others are thinking. This lends itself well to avant garde development and, in many ways, battle commanding, but for inter-relationships?
"Remember that night, the last time we were there... when I asked you: how shall we be together? It is something I have done, to give you your space in those political arenas of ours in Europe. Your answer was that I should be myself." William smiles, his mouth returning to yours. His lips -- it is easy to fall into them. They make a comfortable bed. Soft, broad, inviting.
"The role I want to play... is that of your husband. It's the only role I care to play. It is... maybe it is just me...that I feel I have to give you your space in such environments. We have been more...out as a couple in these last five years than in the previous five-hundred." It's just a phantom thing, this feeling. Not substantial. Not real.
"And here we are," William grins, "...naked in a sauna and I am talking about something that isn't even real." He exhales. "I am crazy, yes? Kiss me, Ian," William demands it softly, "... and shut my mouth..."
What else do you want from me? I would give it. What am I not doing...
How much he's wanted to kiss those lips, hearing nothing but the sound of his husband asking for more? The feeling within makes itself known. A need to please, to right whatever might ache. "I am trying," he whispers, pulling at you. The sauna can wait.
Tell me what to do, and I will...
Instead of the water, Ian wishes for the bed. There, things between you are as clear as night. "I only want you to be you, to be happy," Ian reassures. He'll confess his heart as he knows it.
"Kiss me, and I will be happy," William assures. There is a slight smile. William shakes his head slightly -- there is nothing else you need to do, amours. It is me. It is the way I have viewed the world, and Us. "There is nothing else you need to do... just ... kiss me..."
"Please," he whispers. He brushes your mouth with his own. It is there, waiting for you to take, that mouth of his, essential and full. It begins to pull at yours, to part and open itself to you. Giving, offering itself up for you to take.
"You ... don't need to try anymore," he murmurs, his breaths joining yours. The heat rises. William exhales gently between you. "Don't worry," he chuckles briefly, "... I should not say everything that flashes in my mind...it is.. a problem I have."
William smirks, expecting you will find humor and comfort in that knowledge. "Let's... go to the bedroom," his lips play at yours again. "I need to feel you inside me a while. We can sauna later...when sore muscles need it..."
He was already there, Ian was. The man who looks at you stopped hearing a few moments earlier, when the younger version of himself was asked for more. His smile is nervous, anticipatory, but he nods his head so that you might know he understands. He walks backwards, over the piles of clothing so recently abandoned towards the sauna.
How often are you led down the primrose path?
His fingers twist and clasp. Sometimes his hands take on the challenge of grasping at soldierly shoulders. Kisses are placed between knowing smiles, and his nose barely leaves yours. All is forgotten so quickly.
"You promised dinner," Ian murmurs low, nose brushing in the insistence. He smirks and at the bed, he puts a knee behind himself and onto the mattress.
"I will keep my promise," William assures with a smile, a smile that knows you may have doubted he would do so -- for who would believe that face of his? The sleighbed is soft and formidable. It does not sound as you and he begin to pile upon it.
Hands and knees -- he walks himself and you backward upon the bed until the two of you are reclining, and broad Plantagenet arms surround you, the large lion paw hands grasping and pulling. You are handled, known, discovered all over again.
You fall against your husband and the bedding -- and more importantly your husband's mouth. Hands slide along you and to the covers of this borrowed bed, pulling them down and away, only to bring them back up and over you both.
There is laughter, quiet, sudden, as the two of you are hidden beneath the linen and silk. William closes his eyes, his mouth trailing from yours to your chin and neck. Insistent fingers disappear between you.
And isn't this why holidays are special? Laughter and quiet in immediate succession. Delight and relaxation in the same space. Maybe this is what cannot be found at Strathfayr and Chinon. The openness that holidays bring. A reminder to open and to be opened.
Ian smiles at the idea of you keeping your promises. The fingers cause his head to drop backwards in your embrace, his blood racing as if infused by something more chemical. Ian bites his bottom lip and brings his nose back to its other, the rush subsiding.
Don't rush...don't rush...because you can. Wait...
"Happy...Yule..." Ian says softly, his hand open as he pushes at your shoulder.
Not this...but like this...
The sheets rustle as Ian moves himself upright and over, leaving you to enjoy the comforts of the sleighbed.
To open...
To be opened...
William opens himself to you. In his arms, you feel it, and in his mouth. He is for you, tonight and always. He is here, in your bed -- a general, a knight, a prince, your husband. Here for you to take, to enjoy.
"Happy Yule," William murmurs to you, his mouth moving beneath your own first in a smile, then parting to invite you to them, to take them and do with them what you please. Beneath the covers, the blankets creating a linen sanctuary, William shifts, the strong thighs of this horseman parting.
"I am very happy," he whispers in Occitan, the syllables burning and smooth all at once. The only language on earth that quite sounds like flickering flame and melting sugar, the most sensual of tones.
The kiss burns, an echo to his tongue, and his arms squeeze around you -- whatever part of you they may find and grasp.
So am I - my prince, my knight very own, my -
"...my...husband," Ian says to no one, but to himself. Words he once never knew could exist. The silence comes again as Ian slides beneath the sheets, dragging them with him, to start below before before his crowning achievement that will come above. There's no hesitancy when his lips begin the gentle exercise of pulling at skin. The slightest nick with suddenly distended canines breaks skin, and Ian murrs quietly where he has hidden himself. The first taste of dinner - traveling never avails itself of such intimate luxuries - warms his tongue, and before it can be savored, he drags his lips along, seeking the next taste.
Indigo eyes roll shut, the corners of them creasing at the first biting sting. The sting becomes a burn becomes Delight, and when his mouth parts to make its first, long, luxurious sound his own canines distend visibly beneath those Italianate lips.
His hands seek you, fingers falling on gold beneath the dark sheets (Georg knows his guests -- and himself -- well). His body spreads beneath you, both tensing and relaxing and in the pleasure of your bite he thickens.
Yes, William confirms in a groan exhaled: Your husband, yours.
Rich, the olive-toned skin beneath your mouth, feeding your hunger. The essence of which is beyond France, beyond Italy -- it is older that such concepts. There was no unified Italy, there was no unified France that gave birth to his bloodline. And long as a Lombard, his length lies now against his hip, lifting, shifting as the blood gathers there and beneath your mouth.
There is no move to stop you from taking your fill. He has no fear. Drink of me, make me yours...
...The skis have become loud over the last nights. Ears fill with the sound of snow beneath them, crushed and broken as the crystals are roughly dashed. Edward comes to a sudden halt, his legs angling parallel in an instant halt. Carrying most of the pack of the last three nights has not bothered him. A bit of ice flies around him, and his shoulders shift to better accommodate the pack frame that fits snugly from shoulders to waist.
His look towards the chalet goes from delight to a twist of his lips.
"They're here," is all he can muster, looking over his shoulder to see if you are there...and if you've heard him.
He does not need to breathe. In such weather, he finds it easier if he does not. A scarf protects his face -- he can feel the cold, perhaps it is only a sympathetic response, a buried memory. Valan moves behind and beside you, in your footsteps, by your side. Your companion in snow and ice. And anything else.
Valan tugs down his scarf a little, enough to show his smile. "Oui? How can you tell?" Valan Montague does not have your hearing, yet, or your sense of smell. "I see the chalet... but it looks the same." He teases warmly. He sucks in a breath, a very chilly breath, as he needs the air for speaking.
Golden eyes and golden hair shine brilliantly against so much white. He looks to the chalet and then to you. "Shall we go in and see them?"
Edward does a double-take at you, wondering about the scarf. Shaking it off, he explains, "It looks the same...but it's not. Trust me, ami." It's already spoiled. Edward grins slightly, leaning forward on his staked poles. "Bloody hell," he says under his breath, half-wondering why he even invited them. "Me and my mouth," he chides himself.
"I guess so," Edward finally says in your direction. The poles are yanked from their icy moorings, and he grins again, shaking his head. "Though...we may just see them tomorrow night." With that, a wink. "You lost at cards," Edward reminds, "...and it's time to pay me..."
What's to wonder? It is a scarf -- fashion merging with function. He's not completely dead. His lips do get cold. Valan smirks at you. "You cannot have your cake and eat it too, Eduard," he murmurs. But you do like to try.
Me too...
Valan chuckles. "Ah, well... yes, I think we will ...let them get settled. I do not think they will mind, ami. They are probably busy... unpacking." He winks at that. "It is a long trip."
Of course it is...
Valan moves forward, laughing. "I must stop challenging you to games you've played, unbeknownst to me, for hundreds of years. I will never learn." He glances back, his eyes sweeping over your form. "That... or I like losing to you...hmm... could that be it?"
Edward's expression turns more predatory. "Beat me," at the game, "...and then ask me for it anyway." No need not to win. "There's nothing like winning, ami," he grins, knowing it is truth for him. "Let's go," he says softly, "...pay me now or pay me later." His statement from last night, too.
"Unpacking," Edward repeats sarcastically, "...that's a word, ami," he laughs.
"Hmmm... with you, I am always deliciously in debt," such teasing words, such a teasing tone. Valan heads in the direction of the chalet. "What is that saying? Neither a borrower nor a lender be?"
He does not mind it, owing you...
Trudging steps carry him forward through ice and snow. "It is a word," he smiles innocently. "Eating is another word..." Is he trying to scare you?
Edward winces, as if someone's hit him in the gut. He laughs though, nose still twisted. "It's a word, oui," the skis sorting forward to let him slide down the last slopes. "Much like ass and knob." He nods in consideration, as if pondering the many mysteries of language. "I'm not much for words," Edward explains, bringing poles beneath his arms.
"Bed, metal, wrists," he adds, "...all good, too."
"I'm sure they are somehow related," Valan murrs and then laughs. "As long as they are on the other side of the chalet, that is what is important, yes?"
Yes...
"Hmm... those are good words," your lover considers as he moves ahead. "Ankles... restraints. All good words. Like cigarette," he is going through withdrawals! "And wine!"
The snow falls and words fall away as well. There is the crammed silence that exists between you and the crunching of snow and ice beneath your feet.
Cold. Cold is another word...
Posted by rowan at January 13, 2006 11:04 PM
