harrowgate | for Alcuin

Felix arrived perhaps slightly less-than-promptly at Alcuin's flat for their scheduled date to have dinner and peruse Alcuin's library. He had told Shannon simply that he was going out that evening, and had suggested one of Shannon's other friends -- with whom Felix did not get along well -- phone him for amusement that same night. That left Felix quite free to enjoy this time alone with his sweet friend.

He dressed very casually, but even his denim jeans were washed in a dark sand color and imprinted with faint swirling designs, and his shirt with the sleeves rolled up was beautifully patterned in emerald and rust. Felix simply did not do casual very well.

Ready with a smile when Alcuin answered his knock, Felix proffered a bottle of wine he'd procured on the recommendation of a sommelier who supplied Cabal soirees. "Good evening, darling. I know I'm late; you'll forgive me, won't you?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Of course," Alcuin said lightly, and ushered Felix inside so that he could close the door behind him. He took the bottle of wine, and smiled brightly. "Oh, lovely. And this is perfect." He started walking towards the kitchen, gesturing at Felix to join him. Alcuin was barefoot, wearing a pair of loose, light blue linen trousers and a white shirt that was long sleeves but thin enough that his skin shone through. He was enjoying the last days of summer.

"I hope you don't mind, I thought that instead of having a proper sitdown meal, we might enjoy a few light things, finger foods... I can bring a tray to the library, and we can sit and look and chat and eat."

"How very Continental," Felix observed with a light laugh as he stepped inside. The glimpse of Alcuin's skin through his shirt was positively enticing, and Felix followed along after him as if drawn by some inexorable force. Surely Alcuin's beauty could be considered so.

"I think it sounds delightful. Do you enjoy cooking? I can barely boil water and Shannon's just the same."

"I learned to cook a bit as a child," Alcuin said, "though it was more of the necessary sort when one is poor and trying to make beans from a can taste as good as possible. But now, Hannibal's been teaching me, and I'm enjoying it quite a lot, yes. I'm glad to cook for you though, because with Hannibal I can't help but be self conscious about it."

Once in the kitchen, he pulled out a wine opener so that he could open the bottle Felix had brought. "How do you and Shannon survive then? Take-out? A chef? Not that I'm judging - neither Anafiel nor I cooked, he had a few staff."

"Nectar, milk and honey, as befit proper Sidhe," Felix answered airily at first, to make Alcuin smile. Then he laughed.

"We have a housekeeper who ensures we have edible meals whenever we remember to take them. She's quite good, and we hardly ever actually see her. We go out on the weekends. So, you see, this is an especial treat for me, to eat food cooked with... mm, affection, I hope."

"A great deal of affection," Alcuin assured him with a smile, and poured the wine. He nodded to a plate. "Bruschetta," he said. "Try one."

Felix chose one of the toasted slices with delicate fingers and bit into it thoughtfully, then with growing delight. It was gone in a moment. "Delicious, darling. If this is what affection tastes like, I should like to try it more often."

Alcuin looked pleased, and then said, "No, this is what affection tastes like - " and kissed him.

A soft, startled sound on Felix's lips quickly melted into a sigh. One slender hand rested on Alcuin's hip, to keep him from getting away as Felix tasted the sweetness of the kiss Alcuin offered him.

"Ah," he breathed when their lips parted. "Even more delectable."

Alcuin's smile was bright and his cheeks slightly flushed when the kiss broke. He looked as if he were about to say something, and then a 'ding!' from the oven.

"Ah, perfect timing," he said, and moved to bend over and open it, sliding on an oven mitt and pulling out a pan of what appeared to be bread rolls, but if you looked closely you could see a bubble of cheese emerging from the center. There was ham inside as well.

"And there's dessert in the fridge for later," he said pleasantly, sliding the rolls onto another plate and picking up that one in one hand and the bruschetta in the other. "Why don't you bring the wine?"

Felix watched Alcuin retrieve the items from the oven, running the tip of his tongue over his lips to catch the last of his lingering taste there. That had been just an appetizer, hadn't it? A taste to whet his appetite.

Obediently, Felix scooped up the wine glasses and the bottle, and followed where Alcuin led. "Hm. Now I find myself absolutely famished," he purred teasingly.

"Oh good," Alcuin said, glancing over his shoulder at Felix with a knowing smile. "Me, too." He led them down the hall to the library.

His townhouse wasn't very large; it was just him, so he didn't need the space. But it was two bedrooms, and he'd taken the smaller one for his room and turned the larger into a library and office. Two large walls were completely covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. On another wall, there was a desk with some artwork behind it - a few paintings, a drawing of Paris that Hannibal had done, and a painted portrait of Anafiel Delaunay.

Alcuin set the two plates of food on a table that had two comfortable armchairs in front of it.

"Ah," Felix sighed contentedly, as though he'd just come in to a place where he felt absolutely himself. He placed the wine down near the food and made sure both glasses were filled before taking one. "Simply lovely."

It was impossible to miss the portrait of the man on the far wall, and Felix's eye was drawn quickly to it. He lingered there for a moment. Thick red hair and fair skin weren't exactly uncommon, but enough so that Felix noticed the similarities. "Who is that, darling?"

"Oh! That's - " Alcuin faltered just for a split second. "That's Anafiel." His eyes went to the painting instinctively, and his heart clenched. He'd considered taking it down before, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it, even if years later the murder still felt fresh enough to cause him pain.

Felix went silent for a few moments, quite at a loss for what to say. He'd never seen a picture of the man Alcuin had been accused of killing -- had been in love with, had been devoted to. Felix had been faintly suspicious of the dead man when Alcuin told him the story. Now, he wasn't entirely certain how to feel.

"Handsome," he noted, with a touch of dryness to his tone. No point pretending he didn't see the similarities.

At that, Alcuin's cheeks actually went a little pink, and he picked up the wine. "You did know that I like red hair," he finally said.

He didn't want Felix to think that he liked him because of Anafiel, because that wasn't exactly true. It was the same as the similarities between Hannibal and Anafiel, the well educated, constrained, protective older man. Alcuin knew very well that he had a type, and Felix fit parts of it as well.

Felix Harrowgate possessed far too much ego to presume himself a stand-in for a dead man. Alcuin had someone else to whom he was devoted, after all. With his wine glass in one hand and another bruschetta in the other, he strolled over to look at the painting and the other pictures on the wall. "You have excellent taste, darling. Did you paint it?"

Alcuin did agree about the good taste.

Though at the question, he let out a startled little laugh. "Oh my, no. I do paint a little, but I'm not very good. He sat for that portrait, oh, ten years ago now, I think." Though he didn't look much different than the day he'd died. Annabel had aged so very well.

He hesitated, but then, wine in hand, he walked around the desk and opened a drawer, rifled around in some papers, and then pulled out a photograph and handed it to Felix.

It was a printed picture of a photo snapped with a cellphone camera - Anafiel and Alcuin standing on a bridge in the park. They'd asked a passing jogger to snap a picture of them, and the impatient jogger hadn't quite waited for them to get into place. As a result, it was a moment frozen in time - Anafiel laughing as he just finished settling an arm protectively around Alcuin's waist, and Alcuin looking at him rather than at the camera, adoration painted on his face.

"We weren't together as lovers for very long before..." Alcuin's voice trailed off. "This is the only photo I have, from after." He'd never even shown it to Hannibal.

Felix accepted the photo with care, swapping his wine to the hand lately holding bruschetta so he wouldn't risk any fingerprints on something very precious to Alcuin.

Something about the expression on Alcuin's face in the photo seemed so familiar, pulling strangely at Felix's heart. Then he remembered where he had seen such a look before, and his own sharp-featured face softened somewhat. "You loved him very much."

"Yes." Alcuin sounded almost grateful for that acknowledgment, and he smiled at Felix before taking the photograph back and replacing it in the desk.

"Well, then. I apologize, I didn't mean for that to get quite so maudlin." He held up his wine glass to clink to Felix's. "Cheers. To letting memories have their place."

In response, Felix touched his glass to Alcuin's, and surrendered the past with a small smile. "And not being ruled by them," he agreed before he drank. It was quite good wine.

"Come now, let's peruse. Why don't you... hm. Why don't you read a favorite poem for me?" Felix suggested, touching Alcuin very lightly at the shoulder to guide him back toward books.

For a fleeting moment, Alcuin thought of reciting one of Anafiel's poems. But no, he was trying to move on from that line of conversation. Someday, perhaps.

"Do you understand French?" he asked, humming a little as he ran a finger over the spines of a row of books.

"Essentially, I suppose," Felix answered, pausing to take up one of the cooled bread rolls Alcuin had taken from the oven earlier. "I wouldn't do well holding an extended conversation in it, but for poetry, perhaps. If you speak accommodatingly slow," he added with a teasing half-smile.

Alcuin quickly finished off a bruschetta, and then walked to a shelf and pulled out a thin volume.

"Victor Hugo," he said, showing the spine. "Why don't I read you the translation first, and then the French so you can hear the poetry of it? This one... it's called More Strong Than Time."

Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,
And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;

Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes;

Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam,
A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,
Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream,
Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;

I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,
Pass—pass upon your way, for I grow never old.
Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,
One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.

Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet.
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,
My soul more love than you can make my love forget.

Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe encor pleine ;
Puisque j'ai dans tes mains posé mon front pâli ;
Puisque j'ai respiré parfois la douce haleine
De ton âme, parfum dans l'ombre enseveli ;

Puisqu'il me fut donné de t'entendre me dire
Les mots où se répand le coeur mystérieux ;
Puisque j'ai vu pleurer, puisque j'ai vu sourire
Ta bouche sur ma bouche et tes yeux sur mes yeux ;

Puisque j'ai vu briller sur ma tête ravie
Un rayon de ton astre, hélas ! voilé toujours ;
Puisque j'ai vu tomber dans l'onde de ma vie
Une feuille de rose arrachée à tes jours ;

Je puis maintenant dire aux rapides années :
- Passez ! passez toujours ! je n'ai plus à vieillir !
Allez-vous-en avec vos fleurs toutes fanées ;
J'ai dans l'âme une fleur que nul ne peut cueillir !

Votre aile en le heurtant ne fera rien répandre
Du vase où je m'abreuve et que j'ai bien rempli.
Mon âme a plus de feu que vous n'avez de cendre !
Mon coeur a plus d'amour que vous n'avez d'oubli !

Settled in one of the armchairs, Felix listened attentively, watching Alcuin's eyes and lips as he read as much as he listened to the words themselves. His recitation was captivating in English, and absolutely spell-binding in French, when Felix could stop thinking about the metaphors and images and listen only to the music of the language.

"You are enchanting," Felix sighed when Alcuin had finished, softly and nearly to himself. The poetry had been meant to spark conversation, not distract Felix with Alcuin's beauty. He took a breath, and commented, "His beloved doesn't sound very kind to him, I'm afraid."

Alcuin smiled at the compliment, before carefully closing the volume. And then, "Perhaps you're right. But it's so beautiful, isn't it? My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill..." He sighed. "And the pain that comes with unrequited love, there's something very special about it."