The wind and ocean sound for the rest of the house is quiet. Close your eyes and you can almost taste the sea. Memories. Indigo eyes open and drift downward to his tea. It is strange that so few years could have left so many imprints upon him. The last few nights in New Port, they shall be filled with such reflection. Regardless of whether he wishes it or not. He is not who he was, or rather, who he made himself to be. What was the nature of that... perversion of the Self? From Edinburgh in 1750 to Seattle in 1950? William lifts the cup of creamy tea to his lips and sips at it.
I will not think of it now. Better, in England. To look back and say... aha, very well then. It was what it was. And suddenly it is a little bittersweet, this departure.
Until he reminds himself that he'll be taking the best part of Oregon home with him. You. And well... the lighthouse too. Suddenly there is a smile at the rim of the cup and he sets it back upon the coffee table. A turn of his head to look to the stairwell door. My love, are you coming?
He woke early, even with the sun at his back. Maybe it is something unnerving about America that makes him rise so soon, so swiftly. Clothed he is, barely, in the white cotton trousers, mostly gauze, and the white shirt, undone. Unshaven. Hair uncombed. Your barbarian, sir. And for that, all the more beautiful. Indigo eyes return to the cup of tea and to the London Times he didn't bother to read on the trip home. Jesus. What a night. He has lived nearly an entire day longer than you -- have traveled across time and twenty hours of continual darkness. Drowsy yet, and still feeling some of the effects of last night's ...intoxication. Damn, this time last night he was in The Odeon. Weird.
Slumber came much too easy last morning. It drew upon him like a warm comforter, downed and heavy. Demanding that he relax and give up the cares of Existing. And so he did, with you beside him, heavy languor crowding his eyes and limbs until he could not resist it any more. It was not so much a gentle falling away as it was a passing out, but either way, there was soothing comfort in it. He had missed you, this he knew, but by last night, loneliness had come on full force, washing over him very much like the waves covered his feet. He could have sunk into the earth then, and waited for you to come retrieve his unanchored heart.
Rising was a slow and laborous process. Robert came to attend to him, but it was not so long ago. Perhaps you saw the young man pass to the stairwell. He was called. A smile rested upon his face, joy to have you both home again. His feet moved with the elation. Robert's return to the kitchen was solitary, but not sedate. Another passing to another task. And still he was all smiles.
"Will?" comes Ian's voice, as if he might expect not to find you. His feet were silent, doubly so, and the door's close is what gives him away. He too is in white, both robe and pants. They cause him to glow faintly, or is that something else? Look to him, William Plantagenet. The face is the same, but how can your Love be more compelling? Feet look soft as they pad across the lighthouse floor, so do his hands and the gentle way his hair falls today. His eyes grey but droopy, and it makes him appear to the younger side of his teenage appearance. "Oh...you are all up," he murmurs, smile growing as he comes to your side, hand at your shoulder. "Hey there..." Ian bends, arm encircling as he places a kiss at your cheek.
Eros personified, your young man is, preternaturally and eternally so.
They do not know. Those who look at him and wonder: Why Dunross? They do not know what he knows. They have never seen it. They could never understand it. Not priest. Not prince. Not knight. Not nun. There is no one who understands it but for you yourself. They do not know what I know. And have known...
He felt you coming before he felt the touch on his shoulder and on his cheek. He did not rise, he was too enthralled. He sat, staring. His electric-tinted eyes locking on you. A breath taken and held for the entrance. They do not know what I know. As you lean into him, you feel not only the solid strength of him, the pliability of his seemingly living flesh, but you smell the bath water. You smell the cinnamon of ritual. And something else that is just Him. Strong the arm that comes around you. The hold loose, but warm. Loose but enveloping. He would not let you go for all the world -- do you see this? And with you he is as he is with no other. Resplendent. In a darker, earthy way. Given a few more days in sunlight and he'd be swarthy.
"Morning," is murmured as he turns into the kiss. A smile, warm... if not altogether lucid... trailing slowly after. His other hand, freed now of his paper, pats the cushion of the couch. Join me. There is something still stirring against his blood. It will take a night of full rest and clear blood to dissipate, but it hovers alongside the languor of the last night's activity. Till sunrise. The smile echoes it. It can't help the moment of wicked thought. How are you, love? -- it would say. "Some tea?" Indigo eyes lift. He is already looking for Robert.
You are Eros Personified. And he is caught up in you. Who wouldn't be? Like the Hades he more resembles, he is moved by such radiance. And captured by it. The London Times rests on the table. Telling the usual stories of business mergers and Parliamentary politics...
Plenty would and do ask, why him? They do not know what you know, see what you have seen. Not because it was not there, but that it was obscured by lifetimes. Attempts to retain self in the face of dynamic, unyielding change only brought confusion and obfuscation. But you see it, yes? Have you always seen it? Pursing his lips, the young man moves from your enticing arms to take a seat across your lap. Yes, he saw the patting of the cushions, but it is not where he wishes to be. Hand captures his robe to hold it around himself, and then Ian settles slowly upon familiar territory.
"I am alright," he murmurs, a little slow. Why...he does not know. The joy and thrill of seeing you at such an aching moment? Indeed, it is a dramatic lift of the soul. Or perhaps the sinking laziness that comes sometimes from an intensely amorous night with you? That too. Hand lifts to wipe his grey eyes and Ian gives a shake of his head before exhaling and settling into the cradle of your arms. "I feel really tired though," he confesses, knowing he must look as he feels. Explain it now, it is easier. "Maybe tea is a good idea," he whispers, licking his dry lips.
The mythology tells it correctly. Grecian Eros brought fear in his wake. It was not he that was beautiful...in fact, that was an appellation reserved for Eros' companion in crime, the god Apollo. What Eros held that the Olympians did not, was the essence of his name. Desire. It was Eros that brought Nyx from Chaos. It was Eros who touched a god and inflamed their heart, mind, and loins for mere mortals. The most basic of cycles, Eros blazed into existence. They sooner should have ignored Eros, save Apollo and Aphrodite's charters required an unpredictable tool.
Now, such sits upon your lap. White and blonde, pale and grey. A vision reserved for you at the moment. What will the world see? What has the world seen while you spent time at the Odeon? Something has happened, something has transpired.
Better yet, does He know?
He has not always understood it. Known it for what it is. Held it in the Oneness of Understanding. He has seen it, in a thousand more subtle ways. Perhaps in those few short years here... seeing it in its fullness for the first time. He not only sees it now, as he has seen it in the past... but he knows it now, as he has never known it. It is in his eyes, Ian. There is only one who knows it all. His head tips back as you settle upon him. His dark hair moves away from his eyes, the longer portions that fall to his cheekbones drape back in the motion. His indigo eyes settle on you, even as his arms, his hands cradle you.
It is all those things. And more. You know he knows something. It comes out, shifting from brilliant gaze to tongue. "I... went out one night, the other night..." He closes his eyes to count time, "... the night before last... and last night too... with Edward..." The smile curves in a slight slant. Does that not say it all? "You are feeling a little of my own exhaustion...yes?" A chuckle held in his throat. He leans in, a kiss left behind. When you drank from him last night, did you not taste something sparkling on the blood? The shards of some drug remaining, stubborn, in his system...
"Tea," William says, calling out a bit -- not that Robert needs it. He has gone to get it of his own pre-emptive volition. He arrives upon the heels of that request, cart on its way. A tea setting on it, as well as a bottle of Scotch alongside the cream. One drinks his tea like a Scotsman -- the other, like an old woman...
William looks to you, eyes closing to hold this image against his blood a moment. To brand him. "It is so good to have you with me... here..." On his lap. In his arm. Near him. Indigo flickers as he opens his eyes. For you, there is a reserved quietness. A warmth. A gentleness. No one else sees this of William Plantagenet.
And who of the gods would have suffered the touch of Eros most of all, but the one who lived in the darkness of dead souls and of Those Long Passed? Is this why you, Eros Embodied, light a fire in him so? Is it for this, that he is so caught in you. As he has always been since you held him in the Holy Land? "Is all... ready for our departure then..." A question. An assumption.
Ah, Edward. It explains all. There comes a nod to your voice, realizing what it is that saps at him so. "Not alcohol?" he teases, knowing the answer. It is alright, really. Ian seems not to mind much these days. Grey eyes meet yours, and he reaches up to push a strand of dark hair from your face. He chuckles a little and nods once more, "Yea..." he glances in the direction of the kitchen, "...things are...mostly done. I have...given the sapphire necklace to Lara from us both. Victoria..." he smiles, "...she was instilled last night." The source of some of his sudden disenfranchisement from the world, certainly. "She," he smiles, pride there, "...arrived on her own schedule." As she should. Ian chuckles and sighs, "And she took my seat. I...got out of it." He shrugs, finality there. Nothing much more to explain.
"Ah..there is one thing...Victoria...well, Tori...has decided to come back with me..." Ian cheers, brightening as his hand returns to his lap, "...well, us now. She will visit for a bit. She believes a break is in order for her. I hope the house is well, hmm?"
Guilty. But not shrinking from the guilt. It is a knight's proper contrition -- in the shadow of a knowing grin. "Non...well... in part. It was blue..." He chuckles. As if he knows not more than that. And in truth, he supposes he does not. "It was liquid. It was in a glass..." You shake as he laughs. He shifts beneath you in it. Hands in his hair. A weakness. William closes his eyes briefly. But as you speak on gifts and the things that transpired, indigo opens and focuses on you. You alone can see the explosions of colors held within them, the fields of morning glories that make up his irises. Starbursts of twined colors, blue and violet, that make the whole of his eyes indigo. Only you. Is it the drugs that make him...speak so slowly? Or...is it for your touch, love? William focuses again. "Ah..." A brow lifting slightly, arching. A smile begins but holds at the corners of his mouth. Amusement with Victoria. Gifford that is. "She will be alright, our little one. You will see. But... " his hands knead at your thighs. Slowly. Distantly. In something other than Though. "...it is good. It is done. We have other things, my love, than this town to tend to. It is right..." William believes this. You see the intensity of it in his eyes.
But then you mention The Other Victoria. And both brows lift. "Tori is going to come to Europe with us?" Shock. But of a good nature. William chuckles suddenly and nods, "The house is well appointed." A sudden pause. "Strathfayr or Chinon...?"
He looks down to where your hand rests at his thigh. "Well, I do not see why we cannot do both," Ian smiles, "...Violet-Eyes. A bit of chill, aye, in Strathfayr," he cannot but drip Scots when he says the name, "...or a bit of springtime in Chinon." He smirks at the new endearment, shrugging a little in doubt as to whether it fits. "Drinking from blue drinks now, hmm?" his face wriggles in false chiding, "Whatever will I do with you? You must have poured it into your orbs," he smirks, kissing your cheek again. Ah well. "At least, it sounds, you were having fun. That is...most important." These days. Enjoyment of each other and the love and confidence you share. "But," to the matter at hand, "I think...we are done here. Unless you can think of something else? I did not know what to do for Justine or Sabine. And...what of Justin?" There is no anger at him, but he is last for a reason...he is perhaps the more complex issue. Bother with it or leave him be?
What is it? There is something... is it just that he has missed you? The smallest thing you say just... reaches inside of him and grasps him. Shakes him. Shivers against the bond and makes him all but tremble. It has turned the usual seductive William to a wide-eyed seduced... something. He does not know what. You touch him... and...
Indigo holds your own eyes -- losing themselves in the mist of them. Then lowers to your thighs, and to all points in between. The motion might lead one to think he has suddenly turned bashful, but it is more distraction than anything else. Moments after, William looks to you. How long has it been? You kiss him, and he leans in, to take another. "Love me," he says, and he smiles -- the smile pulling at your skin. "Violet eyes, is it," he begins to quip a little. "I like that... oh, and Chinon too... it is spring. The orchards will be blooming... we must go there too...." He has always wanted to show her that. To be in his space. To have his friends in his space. Violet-Eyes. You feel it hit him and the blood lifts to the surface of the skin, ruddying him. Chuckling, William looks to you. What is it about you? "You just... have a way with me... yes... you know," his hands knead your thighs again. "...how to ...get to me..."
When did Robert leave? So much has gone unnoticed with you on his lap. But the tea is waiting. Considering the business you speak on, William glances to the tea setting. "You want some, amours?" The French is heavy on him again. Time with Edward does that, somehow. Maybe it is that they speak French more than English. Or perhaps it is being away from your constant brogue that has allowed the Angevin to resurge. Something serious settles upon him. "It does not matter what you do or do not do for Justin. He will find fault with it. Do what you feel is best, but... know... the gift might not be well received for centuries..." Sensuous mouth turns momentarily downward. "He needs to grow up..." Ah, the familiar Plantagenet grumble...
Love you? Ian smiles. "I do love you, Violet-Eyes. Since the night the young man arrived at his mother's home. Now," Ian smiles, looking down at the hand, "...should I love you..." in a more biblical fashion, "...well, we could here, or we could return to our bedroom, Prince William." He smiles to say the name, half-blushing as he looks down at your hand again. "It will be a while before we see that room again, you know."
Glancing over, Ian blinks at the tea. "May I have a cuppa first?" he wonders softly, "I'll drink it quickly," he promises, grey eyes soft when he looks at you again for allowance. "We'll make words about New Port," he surmises, "...and then we'll go back to talking about us again. Or...enjoying our bedroom. Do you want me to make you a fresh cuppa too?" A shift, and Ian sits up and turns about on your lap, bringing his feet to the floor. He takes advantage of the slight parting of your thighs, mostly to settle himself between them. "And you're right about Justin...I...was just wondering whether you had any particular feeling either way."
The grin is broad and distended canines -- ah, cannot his mood be known by that -- show themselves. An edge to the grin. Beauty and Darkness combined. Something so otherworldly, was it ever born? Or did God -- or his clever Counterpart -- say one night 'let it be' and he sprang out of some sun-scattered shadow? Your violet-eyed lover revels in the attention. What proper Norman peacock would do less? William leans in, lips capturing your lower... holding it for a suckling moment. Teeth tug at it, beard scratches, as he begins to settle back once more. A tilt of his head, and his eyes drift downward. To where laps join. "Aye...we should... make use of that room...mais oui..." The French is a rumble and he is on the move again, leaning forward. His mouth seeking you again, even as his hands wander. Against stomach, against thighs...
Until mention of the tea. A smile erupts just short of your mouth. Indigo eyes alive with light and around him, that energy pulses. The Bond, likewise. Raven brows upraise. All in the passing moments of your movement. The downsweep of long lashes half-veil his gaze, as he watches you settle between knightly thighs. A bounce of his leg -- and you know the tea will be finished very swifly. "A cup would be nice, oui... merci, amours..." The words fall slowly. Haltingly. Distracted. "Hmm?" The placid, distracted expression ignites with a sudden warmth. A slant of a smile. "I like this evening you are planning...yes, it sounds good. And... as for Justin." William exhales and rolls his broad shoulders. "Do what you feel is best and what you wish, yes?"
The groping and kissing was met with chuckles as Ian worked to push off the great Norman around him. "Cup first," he repeats, seeing to making himself a pour and then one for you. "I will...figure it out," he agrees, not really having too much to say. He simply enjoys having you wait. The robe slithers around him as he moves, blonde hair at the collar. He left it loose.
"Here," he murmurs, yours done first. The young courtesan you met before feels present, but not so urgently present as that week only a few months ago. He twists to hand you your drink, eyes upon it to make sure it doesn't spill. There's a chuckle as something odd comes to mind, causing Ian to slant a grin. He'll not keep it from you...it will make good conversation. "Will...what would your brother say...about all of this? Richard." That one. Grey eyes lift, and the question is not meant as deep as all of that, more of a gauge of you and your heart than any reflection upon Richard. From all accounts in the past...Ian rather liked the gentleman, almost sympathetic to his unfortunate position in both mortal and immortal worlds. "How...would he see you?" he wonders, turning back to finish preparing his cup of tea. With scotch.
You do love it, you wretch. Such thoughts are in the smile, in the sensual curve. In the shadow of a grin. In the flicker of the blue-violet eyes as he watches you tend to such details. As tea. And torture. "Cream and sugar, si vous plais..." Such lordly terms, but in the echo of them -- warmth and adoration. And for your ...enjoyment... the right thigh bounces. Nervous...or rather, anxious... habit...
Indigo. Brilliant. They fasten upon you, locking -- and his hands reach out to take the cup. The smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. Richard? A chuckle holds in his throat. "Richard...hmmm... I think he would be a little shocked..." The chuckle turns to a chest-held laugh. "That, or he'd kick my ass for having so many bloody questions at the end of every... guarding I did...aye?"
Ah, but you are serious. William lifts the cup to his lips, he sips. His eyes stare into his cup. Truly thinking of it. In the lowering of his tea, his look settles again upon you. "I... think he would be pleased that I ..have dealt with ...things in a more... hmm... conqueror's way." He sets down his tea so he can... speak with his hands. The gesticulation follows. "Head on...you know. I think he would be happy that I am in love..." The smile returns, slanting. "How would he see me..." Eyes narrow and he settles back against the couch. His thigh has stopped its bouncing. "Strong...handsome...full of shit..." A pause and seriousness returns. "It is a difficult question, ami... I should think he would like what I have become. A leader of men. As he thought I would be...as he was trying to make me..." William tilts his head. Does that answer it for you? "How do you think he would see me?"
"How would he see you?" Ian repeats, picking up his cup and leaning back and to the side. So you might at least gaze upon his profile. "I think...he would be pleased too, Prince William," smirk there upon the title. He glances at your knee, then takes a delicate sip of his tea. Finger faintly bent and all. "I think...he would be glad you were happy, as you say, and that indeed, the conqueror's way is finally yours. It is not in buildings...but in conquering your own fears and claiming your own heart, needs, and desires. Sometimes...that might be a place, but many times, it is not." Grey eyes peer through lashes while he sips again, seeing if you agree with that observation of your brother. "But you knew him best, Will," Ian murmurs, lowering his tea a little. "But yes, he was trying to shape you as best he could, considering his constraints, and he...would be proud, Will, to see you. And he'd take a little jab at you...about me. Maybe." That gets a sparkle and another drink.
A grin. He knows he would. He can hear it -- you can see it in his eyes. Perhaps, in his way, Edward is his Plantagenet Conscience. A frightening thought, indeed -- but Edward does have the art of jabbing down. Both in wit and in physicality. And in Richard's absence, he makes a good second. William has a wit, but it is not of the same type. His is more of Geoffrey than Richard. To think of it gives birth to laughter, and glittering eyes look past the rim of his lifted cup and to you. "I'd pay for it, sure. As any young brother would. I think he should only be disappointed that I haven't figured out a way to restore a Plantagenet to the British Monarchy..." With a chuckle, William lowers his own voice a notch to a proper growl, "You've had eight-hundred-years. Christ, William, are you waiting for an invitation?" A pretty fair rendition, actually.
Knightly thighs press inward. Muscles known and strength and virility so apparent in the squeeze he gives you. The thin cotton cloth does nothing to conceal him. One might wonder why he bothers. In the right light, they are even translucent. "I should think him proud. You know... Edward and I... we had a similar conversation earlier ... well ... yesterday..." William smirks for the extended... or is it lost?...time.
"Not so much on Richard... we danced around that bit, but....on how things are, with me and you. It... made me think of Richard..." The tea is finished -- as much as he shall drink -- and set aside. Grown cold too soon. "And how I thought of his... hmmm... meetings?... with the soon to be monarch of France...then, and how differently the eye looks upon them now. Time does strange things. It transforms. So subtle. If you do not look close, you will blink and miss it, and find yourself altered. And surprised."
William chuckles at the rather serious bent of this conversation all of the sudden. A hand reaches forward, fingers spilling through your golden hair. "I was such a young man once. So naive. I would not have made a good king then..." The smile slants. Self-effacing.
"You could have grown into it," Ian whispers, closing his eyes as his hair is tugged. He holds his cup firmly, allowing his head to fall where your hand directs. He should be a cat, your Ian, for the expression upon his face. Pleasure deserved. "But," Ian wonders softly, "...I don't get it. What's different?" He seems to have lost the thread. "You compare Richard and his...situation...to ours?" Eyes open, curious as to the sizing. "You're surprised then," he smirks, trying to figure out which of these things you mean.
"Ah... I do not know..." soft words spoken from Almost King to the Kingmaker. "I would have had more wars than even Henry could have imagined. I like...the way the story turned, myself..." The smile is resplendent again. He studies the gold of your hair, even as his fingers move through it. A king's wealth is not worth so much to him as the gold at his hands now.
"No...not surprised at how I have become and what kind of man I have grown into, but that," warmth moves across beautiful features, "...I was ever so young as that fifteen year old ...cub of a Plantagenet... who guarded by a fire as his brother made love to another man. I thought I knew it all. And again, when I came to this city to find you. I thought I knew it all. Only to find out that it ...was much bigger than I believed. There was more." Fingers trail through gold. "There will always be more. That is the way of it." A pause. "Edward was surprised..." Again there is a pause, and the smile grows. Smoothly, slowly spreading. "Maybe... since we are back in England... I can find a way to kill King Chuck and take back my chair..." Here we go again...
The smile is for better understanding. He does not really get what has brought about that introspection and conversation with your 'cousin', but he will take the thoughts for what they are. Considerations on a change. Ian grins as his hair is enjoyed, the cup in his hands settled restfully on his lap. "No need to kill him..." he whispers, closing his eyes, "...I have it on fine authority that this year, the will be an instillation as Prince of Wales...and plans are four years afterwards, there will be a shift." How does he get this information? It is said as if he were discussing the arrival of new carpet.
Ian sighs as his hair is poured through, swaying in the tug and release. Oddly, it is reminiscent of something else. Lips part to barely whispers, "I can't...imagine what it was like...to sit by and listen...and know...that your brother was loving a young man not so far away. I...do not think I would have known what to feel."
A chuckle, short, held in his chest. "I didn't... well... I kept my eyes on my duty. The rest... I tried not to listen. I mean...listening to any couple going at it... in part, you know... embarrassment twined with fascination, and the other part wishing that it was doing the same thing rather than standing guard..." The languid pull of his mouth, so much it expresses. Like everything else about him. Such expression. Passion, intensity, amusement, love. These all exist in his motions, his gaze, the tilt of his mouth. The sound of his voice. Held deeply.
"It was worse when we were out of doors... so little else to do or think on than the sounds of rutting in the dark...and I was a young man... I felt stiff...as all young men do..." Laughter eases from him, quietly. "By seventeen, it did not...affect me in the same way. By then... I was laying queens and daughters and wives of noblemen." Indigo flickers in a wink. "What an ass..." He has fun with the memories now, as any Elder would upon the deeds of the Young.
But silence holds him a few moments after. "Why do we not go to bed, my lord and husband..." comes the murmur, accent tugging at the Gaelic he speaks. Vowels are a bit odd and Aquitinian, but endearing. "Don't get me started on the Upstart," meaning That Other William. "A William on the throne of England and it won't be me..." the rest ends in some combination of a snort and a grumble. Goddamned Windsors. Pretenders to a man...
Thoughts of an Upstart immediately make Ian think Scottish and Bonnie Prince Charlie...but he quickly realizes you think English. And William. He smirks and leans to take a last sip of his tea...he's glad he got to drink as much as he did. "Here," he offers, turning to set his cup aside, "...you should just forget about that horrible boy taking your throne," he grumbles sympathetically, "...you didn't need it anyhow. Everyone knows it's really yours." He smirks and stands, twisting to give you a hand. "You should let him have it," Ian grins, "...think of it this way, you have me." Now, isn't that showing that Windsor boy up?
They do, don't they. It's only a matter of time, they all know it. Why else would they all be a-flutter whenever a Plantagenet returns to England. You're right, love. You see that all move over his expression, until he seems satisfied with it. Hand in yours, meeting first and then entwining, William rises from the sofa. He puts thoughts of crown and large chairs aside.
"And this ... he shall never have...non..." Both statement and in part a question. There would likely be only a few men you might choose to lie with -- knowing your ...discriminating tastes -- where William would have to say, emphatically, Non. And William of the House of Windsor would be just such a one. But, if you like, you can dream of it. He'd not fault you that. The young man is handsome, as his mother before him.
Serious discourse is discarded with a smile. And the pull of it strokes against your hand as he lifts it to his mouth for a kiss. Distraction, Eros. That is one of your hallmarks, is it not? And what talk of past or kings or politics current or aged could withstand it? William closes his eyes and as his mouth parts, wet and warm, at the center of your palm, you feel him say your name. Soon, it shall be groaned, rather than whispered...
"Non," Ian agrees, eyes lowering to watch his hand be so adored. "Unless he made me a really good offer." Ian chuckles faintly, then inhales sharply as you speak his name...only as you can. When you are done, you will find his hand upon the band of your trousers, and his back to you, pulling you towards the stairwell doors. Modern Eros guides you both, bathed in the light of innocent white, to some place a little darker and a little lower, where all things Greek can be further explored...
Posted by rowan at February 21, 2000 08:28 PM
