George's Rooms
Jul 1, 2009 16:19:36 GMT -5
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jul 1, 2009 16:19:36 GMT -5
It would never have occurred to Nicki to take himself to George's rooms without invitation and present himself. No. If George was going to show him where they were and not invite him in, he would not press; but it would hardly stop him from stopping by nonetheless, although it was a pity he could not pause and speak to him. It had been a week since that last night when they had bid each other farewell in the carriage, but not a night had passed in which Nicolas did not stop outside and gaze at him from afar - from beneath the balcony, or halfway across the street, or on a nearby rooftop. It was too black out for George to see him, perched as he was, but occasionally George's dark eyes strayed out, narrowing, his mouth acquiring a certain hardness that suspicion usually lent, and Nicolas would wonder if he knew he was being gazed upon by a love-sick, besotted vampire. A smitten fool. Helpless and obvious in his affection to anyone who might have seen him, except that nobody did.
This night, however, Nicolas could not help but creep up to the balcony, perfectly invisible due to his swiftness, only there suddenly and illuminated by moonlight from the nearly-half moon, ghostly. He had not fed yet. George must have gone to bed rather early for once; other nights he had taken carriages, and Nicki had sometimes followed these carriages, watching him and feeling sick with envy as he saw George gaily laugh or speak with other mortals, as warm as he, although half as dazzling. But at least in sleep he was Nicki's to behold. Nicolas could not think of when to next meet him. Surely he couldn't approach him at one of those parties. And yet George went nowhere else. He could not come to his rooms and ask for his company, either. It was a misery without end. Nicolas never even thought of seeing anyone else - Aurel, certainly not Armand. He had decided to keep to himself, to claim solitude and sanity if he possibly could, and had found, on the cusp of this decision, George Boleyn. As though set there by the hand of fate...
Nicolas approached silently and in seconds, like an apparition, tilting his head and gazing upon the sleeping figure, his own silhouette strong on George in the moonlight. He shifted so that he could see the silver line his face, the underside of his dark eyelashes, his tender parted lips, and forbade himself let out a sigh.
He was beautiful. Nicolas could not have him. He wanted him; he would not let himself have him. Could he take him now, in his sleep, of course; it would be easy. Perhaps - wild, fleeting thought - he could slash his own wrist and offer it. Half-asleep, George would not resist. But he would not allow it. His own teeth grit unhappily at this knowledge, at his resistance. He felt like the moon, like Selene, looking on sleeping Endymion, except that he knew George would grow older without his consent, and that eventually he would lose him, and that if he wanted him it would have to be now, before time took him away.
Why couldn't he think of something! When it was all so serious! Why couldn't he think of a place, or a reason?
This night, however, Nicolas could not help but creep up to the balcony, perfectly invisible due to his swiftness, only there suddenly and illuminated by moonlight from the nearly-half moon, ghostly. He had not fed yet. George must have gone to bed rather early for once; other nights he had taken carriages, and Nicki had sometimes followed these carriages, watching him and feeling sick with envy as he saw George gaily laugh or speak with other mortals, as warm as he, although half as dazzling. But at least in sleep he was Nicki's to behold. Nicolas could not think of when to next meet him. Surely he couldn't approach him at one of those parties. And yet George went nowhere else. He could not come to his rooms and ask for his company, either. It was a misery without end. Nicolas never even thought of seeing anyone else - Aurel, certainly not Armand. He had decided to keep to himself, to claim solitude and sanity if he possibly could, and had found, on the cusp of this decision, George Boleyn. As though set there by the hand of fate...
Nicolas approached silently and in seconds, like an apparition, tilting his head and gazing upon the sleeping figure, his own silhouette strong on George in the moonlight. He shifted so that he could see the silver line his face, the underside of his dark eyelashes, his tender parted lips, and forbade himself let out a sigh.
He was beautiful. Nicolas could not have him. He wanted him; he would not let himself have him. Could he take him now, in his sleep, of course; it would be easy. Perhaps - wild, fleeting thought - he could slash his own wrist and offer it. Half-asleep, George would not resist. But he would not allow it. His own teeth grit unhappily at this knowledge, at his resistance. He felt like the moon, like Selene, looking on sleeping Endymion, except that he knew George would grow older without his consent, and that eventually he would lose him, and that if he wanted him it would have to be now, before time took him away.
Why couldn't he think of something! When it was all so serious! Why couldn't he think of a place, or a reason?