Eyes look at the patterns on the ceiling. Patterns that most miss. It could use some paint. Indigo, dark shades of blue-violet, stare upward. Wakened light. Brilliance aided by the lighting of immortal fire, the roll of sweat, and the swirl of male voices intertwined. Recent memories are held cupped there. And echoed on the smile that slowly winds, the same sensuality can be found in the pull of silk over skin...
     The vampire... your lover... lies across the bed, but fully clothed. His long legs, held now in black wool, lie over the side of the bed and spread comfortably. It is the picture of delightful sloth. As only the French can do. He is clothed in darkness, but for the crimson shirt. A liquid form of silk that moves with every reaction of the form beneath it, seemingly shaped to the contours of the knightly torso. Contrasting textures that the artist in him can appreciate. And the spouse in you can appreciate as well. No doubt. It was for you that it was chosen. William had showered before you, and his hair -- cut for the night in some modern, short, and permanenly mussed style -- still shows some signs of damp to it. It won't last long.
     And now comes the part of the evening, short of lovemaking that is, that he truly enjoys. The spectacle of watching you get dressed...
     "Do I get to vote?" comes the languid murmur, Provencal. With that, William starts to sit up.

     "On what?" Ian grins, sitting up. Sleep still holds him faintly, but the growing smile will soon burn the slowness away. You're back...and it's a wonderful thing to wake up to find. "On my clothing?" Ian chuckles, reaching out to touch the collar of your shirt, "Nice color, it looks beautiful on you." He pulls at his bedding, squirreling to sit up. "And no, you don't get to pick my clothing. I will find something." He smirks and lets his hand drift up to your cheek. "So..." a bit more somber, but a smile there, "...the truth. How was your trip?"

     Laughter. It comes easily, warmly. And as indigo slides over to you, and then fixes there, you can see the sound echoed in the eyes. Dark, but not without brilliance. "Merci," comes the word to the touch at his collar. "...it is new... like the shoes. We need to walk the streets tonight... I need to work them in...and... I know you will... find something I will wish to take off of you. I have no doubt..." He tilts his head to your touch. Both shaved and not. How do you like your ultra-modern lover? Is it hard to see the duke for all the 21st Century accenting? A bit more somber, but with his smile yet lingering, William inhales. "Well... it was... sobering..."
     A turn of his head and his mouth lands to your hand. The warmth of them, and softness. And the tickle of the half-beard. He is quiet to touch your skin. To lay a kiss upon the belly of your wrist. A favorite corner of his upon you. This... and your mouth...and the crook of your shoulder and neck...the small of your back...the inside of your thigh...and your third eye -- the very center of your forehead. And the front or heart of your throat. The bend of your elbow...
     "I had not expected to see St. Germaine in the catacombs of Fleurlil...and ... to preside over such an execution. She was as still and quiet as a glass figurine." A pause. "More like a doll, my love..." His lips part at your wrist and the tip of his tongue makes a greeting swirl. And then he parts -- but not past your fingertips. William looks to you. "It was not sorrow. But... it was not joy. Blois and Llewelyn seemed to ..be fine. We will see. I will be keeping my eyes on Blois. For any sign of shadows..." And he means the Lasombra by that. Nothing emotional. A hand, large but fine, lifts to rake through shorter black hair. "And the drinks after were good. But I got homesick..." Soft the laughter, deep held chuckle. "It takes so little," William murmurs. "Just a day from you ... and I ... well... I stare at the stars and think of you...that is the tale of my evening, amours..."

     "It is a tale told by a good friend," Ian smiles, drawing from Shakespeare. Not that he ever cared for his plays, really. Well, save The Scottish Play. That always amused him. "Well, she is...finis, hmm? What...an end." To such a woman, a story. He pauses, looking past you as if caught in his own recollections. Lasombra Before. A smirk and a soft, 'hmph', and then his attentions turn to you once more.
     "What do you want to do tonight, then? I have had a good visit with Robert," said in French affectation, "...I bought a book at the stalls, and now I am ready...for what? What to do..." Ian smiles at you, fingers at your cheeks. "I do believe Marks & Spensers is still open. Or we could go to Greenwich and walk the docks and see the fine boats? Or something else here in the City? Ah! I know! We can go to Eastcheap and do the Jack the Ripper Tour," his blonde head nodding sagely. Sarcasm there.

     The Tempest was William's favorite. He could never abide the histories. Mostly ...well... it was a family thing, as they say. But the fantastical? The Tempest, Twelfth Night? These he can do. But read Shakespeare -- oh, very rarely read. A play is a thing to be enacted and witnessed. "Her revels have all ended... oui..." A look for the quote -- you started it. "Ah well... it could have been a worse ending. She could have done worse than William Plantagenet giving her Last Rites, Davydd Llewelyn staking her breast and Edward Meurelle of Blois landing the striking blow..."
     Oh, can you not see the scene? The Immortal Larry-Moe-Curly. The Brujah-Ventrue mix that few understand and everyone dreads. Something always ends up broken by the end of the night. William sniffs and then grins. The classic, winning grin. "How was Robert?" he queries in his French.
     Now stuck on it, it'll be hard to shake off. Even some of his Scottish accent is losing itself again. After only a few days! "Let us go walk the streets like lords," William seconds, "... and spend money like whores. The night is a long one yet. We'll still have time to take in a tour. But I vote for the Tower Tour... if... I get a vote that is..." Again with the democracy. Is this what Brujah do to him? Indigo flickers in the wink that follows, and after it the turn of his head, left and right, your fingertips kissed. And you feel the weight of his hand upon your side. A lean in, and his mouth against your own. What to do...
     Across the Bond there are many things. Images... feelings...colors to your senses. A swirl of cigarette smoke in a bar. Of watching the world go by. Of three large glasses of beer downed. Smiles you see, from last night. But longing. And upon that longing smile, you feel the ache. That is what Love is. William parts from the kiss. "Let's walk..." he murmurs there. And then he smiles again, the slow pull upon those lips that show every motion. William starts to rise.

     "Not if you are offering that," Ian grins, grinning from the kiss. But he pushes off anyway, presumably to find something to wear. "I think it too late for the Tower, but you know, the Jack the Ripper Tours only happen at night. Know anyone who could get us into the Tower at this hour?" He chuckles at the humor, scooting towards you and the edge of the bed. "And Robert is well, apparently there was a query about the...sudden sunspots that rendered the Giovanni satellite a bit morose, but other than that, I think there are no ill consequences for him." Ian laughs, "Instead, I think some have found a healthy respect for newfangled technology and those who know something about it."

     "I am glad to hear it. But I am sorry I missed him..." The bed sounds with sudden, Plantagenet realignment. He will sit up, back to the headboard, knees bent and feet to the bedding to watch you dress. It is a favorite pastime of his. The only thing he likes more than you getting out of your clothing is you getting into them. You have an artistry with it. How you orderly put yourself together. It is... not just a little enticing. Inclining his head, William looks to you. Ah, but with his shorter hair, nothing drapes back. Slowly, his smile spreads. Dark and sensual... and edged with humor. "I did love it when you introduced yourself to the Clan, amours. It was... very well done. To think about it... " The smile becomes a grin. "... makes me want to light a cigarette..."
     Broad shoulders roll to the Tower. "Ah well... another time. We will get an earlier start...Tonight...I say Marks & Spensers... and then Greenwich... I would... love to walk through the city with you. I... have been looking forward to that... part particularly..."

     "Marks and Spenser's it is then," Ian smiles, padding towards his end of the closet. Disappearing into it, he raises his voice to be heard. "So, tell me how did Edward," a good old name, "...discover St. Germaine?" She was not of his circle, but the name is familiar enough to warrant question. "And what do you think might transpire as a result of...what happened?" He does not understand the full story yet. "Did he hunt her?"

     It is as he foretold. His back against the headboard, and it squeaks a little. Reminiscent of the last time it shook. The thought makes him grin. Head turning against the wood of it, William shifts his attention to your closet. "Davydd didn't give too many details," comes his voice, lifted to reach you in the closet... but not shouted. You know that voice can carry -- you've heard the roar. This, this was merely a reaching out, as it were. You can smell the cinnamon of his ritual even from the closet. You can smell the patchouli. And now, the spark of flame and the rise of smoke. Scented. Hashish and cinnamon. Were he not so thoroughly Western, he would damn near be a Raj. You can hear the intake of a breath, and the crackling of crystalline fire that comes with it. "But he did say that one of his 'rooks' smoked her out. Followed her from the Chunnel to The Odeon. From there, he was called. And he called Edward. They caught her leaving The Odeon and... that was that." William looks to the ceiling as smoke curls from parted lips.
     "But she was kept in torpor... Davydd mentioned... only that it was a shortening night...and only so much could be done at once. Last night... the story of Blancheflor was ended. That is the sum of what I know. I will ...have to pick Davydd's brain a bit more. But... nothing from her pack. Davydd says... there has been...nary a peep. Endquote."

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 06:49 PM