orangetoughguy | log post II

Talk of misfortune or intrusion are unfounded, friend.

[Not drunk but not himself Yes, that is an accurate assessment. He is not himself at all. What illness has made his sustenance the smiling gaze of Monsieur Orange? The settled eye contact is exactly what Lawrence craves. The hand at his knee lingers upward a portion before going away to fetch his hat. They are leaving after all.]

Where shall all of those spirits go, sir?

[A playful jest at his size this time. Why the devil not? They are friends now.]

Escort away.

[The moment those fingertips seem to feel they're reaching higher is the same moment Alfred finds himself thinking more. But then his hand moves away and all is lost. Yes, put your hat on, recover. He sets his own upon his wig too.]

I have my depths hidden about me.

[Orange quips with another friendly smile before taking the lead only because he has been granted the privilege of doing so. Their mounts are nearby too but so is Blanc's quarters if he remembers right.] Shall foot do it? Riding on drink is not the safest way although it's hardly the most dangerous too.

I believe that.

[And want to discover each wonder of it as the naval forces of the world do in the new world. What trash, Lawrence.]

Yes. Not even two streets away. [Standing is a feat only for a few seconds. Blanc can walk on his own.] Let us go on foot. The horses should be in good keeping else they want to test my patience. [An idle threat but a threat in passing for he is making his way to Monsieur Orange's side so that they may walk in this fashion out of the door with him giving direction. By now it is dusk. The darkness can be used.]

I'm flattered for it.

[Truest words if only he didn't wish he said them as soon as they left his mouth. Now he might know, Blanc might be aware Orange craves validation, attention, the approval of his peers. Might he think him weak, a pathetic fop? No of course not, because Monsieur Blanc is not that kind of man and this only makes Alfred feel stranger. He should be ashamed.]

No man with a shred of intelligence would test such might, sir.

[Back again to friendly laughing ways. Orange thinks back to when he first saw Blanc across the room, the way he stood and the hard lines on his face. He is not someone to toy with if one isn't familiar to him. The horses will be well.] You said you'd leave for the south, would you not consider making Paris your home?

[The unspoken part is that as much as Alfred would like to visit he could never make his home there. He must stay in Paris or give up his life's blood.]

[The only worthy reply is to grin. How can he cease this feeling deep within himself? Surely, Monsieur Orange has no inkling of what he does. All the same Blanc is hooked upon this as though a fish on a line.]

Daft is all the rage.

[A jest even when he can make well on any threat. The night air even in its darkness can sooth a little of the flames so that they are not so destructive.]

I have considered it. Though I am not for Paris. She has no love for me. Still, while I am away I think of her. [He keeps close to Orange so that his answers may be spoken softly.] The desire for the thrill of travel is in my blood.

Oh? Maybe you haven't loved her properly, Paris is no ordinary woman you know.

[His thoughts and feelings aside, Orange can talk like any other man espousing the value of a lady even if she is really a city. It's the metaphor that makes it easy.]

I see, if you don't grant her commitment by your hand then you're free to see what else this world has to offer. [Another smile.]

[Monsieur Orange's architecture illuminated by a passing light in a window makes him appear more striking and exotic.]

I suppose that is the trouble. Were I to commit I deny myself so much. As it is within her city I am confused even in my enchantment.

[A small touch at his elbow to guide him to the correct apartments and room.]

How best am I to love her, monsieur? Even in your no courting ways I believe there is a Lothario in your skin.

[Under the cover of darkness in the stairwell Monsieur Blanc cups Monsieur Orange's chin to examine his face this way and that, inspecting.]

[He is most unaware of what Blanc gains when looking at him under a brief veil of light. For Orange they are merely walking together, sharing intimate company in a way most men, most people are often too frightened to do these days. Yet that observation alone makes Alfred a hypocrite because his attraction goes beyond friendship. He sees in the older gentleman a desirable person, one he is going to have to tear down in days.]

She's a lively one, Paris. It's hard to keep up with her. [The younger man says in agreement, guided with equal ease.] A lothario--

[He laughs. Then suddenly he is acutely aware of his surroundings. That touch to his chin stills his very blood while simultaneously heating it up to boiling point. Alfred's green eyes become wide and suddenly he has no idea what to do. What to say. It's as if he's fallen under the spell of some dastardly woman's black magic.]

[All of this exchange is intimate. Where had the pretense gone? With the wine? Or was it before that? There was that comment about the woman that had happened by and where she belonged on a new mount. Could it have been then? Whatever the case may be, Dimick is caring less about what it was and more on what it can be.]

Can you keep up with her? With her wanton ways?

[Lawrence is close enough that he can practically taste Orange's breath.]

Come into my apartments.

[For he has a key to unlock the door. What kind of spell has come upon them both so fast.]

We can discuss further.

[This invitation leaves an option of refusal. By now the signs must be clear.]

[In addition to feeling very hot Alfred also feels very red. His face must be flushed beyond belief. If his liquored breath doesn't knock Lawrence out perhaps his redness might blind him. Yet in all the fervor, amidst a dozen thoughts flying around him like harpies screaming don't do it and you will regret it and you are misinterpreting him and you are not what he thinks you are, the only word Orange can say is:]

Okay.

[Lead. And Monsieur Orange will follow. His hands tucked in gloves and further hidden by coat are slightly trembling.]

[Door ajar, he touches at Monsieur Orange's elbow taking to hold it's point in his hand, walking hear behind him. Once inside the door eases shut. Ill lighting prevents him from seeing every nuance of expression yet this man is standing in his chamber is the most prominent and relevant.]

I find that Paris is hotblooded and an insistent hostess.

[Monsieur Blanc removes his hat and places it upon a table. Following after is his gloves. Barehanded he steps around to face his guest.]

It can be unflattering for a woman. But for a man...one believes he is self assured.

[He wets his lips.]

May I take your hat?

[Say something you dolt.]

You speak for yourself, Monsieur Blanc.

[Was that the right thing to say? The wrong thing to say? Alfred doesn't know but it's what comes to him because Lawrence is just that, robust, strong, self-assured. He can and will get things done. The question is what does he mean to do?]

You may. [Orange nods then tilts his head down just a pinch to grant him privilege.]

I insist you enjoy yourself as my guest. I should hope that any sport we entertain is of equal interest and not a fancy I choose to sweep you up into.

[The hat is held with care and set aside beside his own. Once again his hands touch Monsieur Orange's face except this time there are no gloves. His hands must feel rough to the touch each finger feeling along his jaw.]

Speak plainly, friend.

[Blanc's question strikes him deeply because Orange isn't sure which it is. He has interest but he knows he shouldn't partake. Why he shouldn't partake ranges far and wide from the church to his own identity. Blanc does not deserve his duplicity.]

A fancy? No.

[But he is feeling swept up, faster than he could have ever anticipated. He swears when he looks at Monsieur Dimick's brown eyes he is seeing right through him, under the finery and the wig. His fingertips on his face already make him feel undressed. Orange still has his gloves on. His heart is beating faster than a stallion at full gallop.] I don't know your intentions, Blanc. I'd be a cruel man to invite you to them so that I might absolve myself of accountability through ignorance.

I seek to partake of the riches of this moment and share them with you. [Standing here, breathing in his breath like this is whittling reason away. Too much talk.] Allow me to absolve you of accountability and ignorance and make my intentions known.

[And Blanc stills any reply with a press of his mouth. The black magic spell cannot be denied. One of his hands come down to sit at Orange's waist while the other remains at his cheek.]

You've a way about you...

[Orange says nothing more when their mouths meet. You disgusting creature. You would dare allow him this? Remember your place, Newendyke. Remember who and what you are. He cares not in this moment as other feelings and urgings take precedent. Orange reaches up not to touch Blanc but to remove his wig. He'll not partake in this as a fake nobleman. If there is anything more beyond a kiss he'll indulge outside of his presented character.]

[A way about him. That is a start of an answer. As far as Blanc can see and hear a positive one. The removing of his wig is a surprise. He stills and pulls back a fraction to watch the piece be set aside. It is one of the trappings that separates them in class, one worth noting. Blanc's own tresses are his own, arranged to a befitting fashion. Tis the best any man can do. Seeing his hair closely barbered and showing more of Orange's youth does nothing to persuade him to stand down from his desires.]

Should my actions be disagreeable, I implore you to object.

[For now he is fixating on how best to remove Monsieur Orange's trousers without causing harm to the important fabrics. His eyes look from his hair to eyes and then mouth once more.]

[Without the wig he looks less like a foppish lapdog to the powers that rule the court. Certainly Alfred acknowledges that if he is to be a musketeer he must continue to serve under those who dress exactly in this manner, but at least he'll be able to serve with his natural locks. He enjoys the arrangement Blanc has for his own, braids suggesting he actually cares for his appearance but not enough to constitute vanity. It's a remarkable balance.]

I do not object.

[How can a man bereft of his status symbol, that damnable wig, appear with more conviction without it? Perhaps it's the sincerity in him uncapped. Orange's pulse is rapid.] Will you mind not the ridiculous costume and lay with me?

Good.

[No objections so there will be no more questioning of motives one can hope. Blanc presses another kiss growing more bold to seek passage to his tongue and teeth.]

As you wish.

[To answer that request. Lawrence leads them into step as though in a newer dance toward a bed. This apartment is more lavish than he recalled, then again he is spending a fortunate gamble. What is price. What is anything that is not of Monsieur Orange. His hands are steady as they pull away fabric to press against the flesh of the man's belly.]

[The speed at which he parts his own lips is slow, tentative, nervous as if Blanc couldn't tell. Can he also tell perhaps Orange has never done this before? Or if he has it hasn't been since he was just a boy. How often does Blanc partake in the pleasures of manhood over maidenhood? Alfred is passive, possibly to the point of irritating, but then he reaches out to rest his own hands on those rougher ones. His fingers curl around thick wrists to guide his palms higher.]

Then divest as you will.

[Is this savored passion or a wordless admission of experience. Blanc slows and allows his hands to be arranged.]

Piece by piece.

[Slow then, easy. Not the rough colliding like a flit to another stone.]

I have rapidly developed taste for you.

[Words may end up suiting them after all. He swallows thickly. Vest first button by button.]

And I a palate for you.

[Is it for the man himself or what he represents in Orange's mind? He is strong and robust, seemingly self-assured where Alfred is not. He is a man who knows he wishes to ramble, knows he doesn't belong in any one place or to any one heart, and he seems at peace with it. When will Alfred find his own peace? Don't be daft, this isn't how Orange would behave. Don't show your hand, Newendyke.]

I want to see you.

[How so? Undressed? On top of him? Thrusting as he would into a harlot? All of the above? Orange shrugs his waistcoat off after the last button is undone. Now his own hands work at Blanc's coat to remove it quickly. This he can do, go through the motions and don't think about what the mind seeks to quell in the loin.]

[Why deny a man who asks so earnestly? Lawrence divests himself until he is naked from the waist upward.]

And I you, sir. I fancy you have no need of silk or satin when with your own skin.

[Flattery? Could be. Though he is trying every angle to make the man feel best at ease. It is no lie that the older gentleman finds him attractive. He is eagerly awaiting the moment when neither of them have anything but their flesh upon their bones. A careful use of force positions Monsieur Orange to sit at the bed nearby. Lawrence kneels and seeks to cross tongues in a duel of sorts. His hands--officer's hands, theif hands-- perch atop his knees and slide upward then downward to remove hose and shoes.]

You fancy correctly. I care not for silk or satin. Cotton, leathers, dirtied by working hands, they're more sincere than the pinnings of an aristocrat.

[Does that run far too close to the truth? Does it matter when Monsieur Blanc does not know the truth about Monsieur Orange? Alfred's behind settles on the bed not only because he's been lead but also because he wishes to be spread. How filthy his mind words. He cannot control a subtle gleam to his eye when he sees Blanc's bare torso in front of him, hardened working muscles and dark nipples. There's no soft curve of feminine flesh here and Alfred Newendyke prefers it that way. His mouth parts willingly as his fingers brush against these braids, toying with them gently while he raise left foot first then right for Blanc to make them bare.]

[Still slowed by nerves? Monsieur Orange speaks as though he has had a want for working man's hands upon him. Perhaps a reflection of times prior? Or this may be a whim he has harbored privately. It thrills Blanc to think that he would be the first. His large working hands handle his hose and shoes with care. Fine feet he has. How often are they bare before a common man? ...or a man at all. Being a master of his own passions and wishes Blanc gives no direction of how or where to be touched, it is all for the other man to decide.]

I dare say that it feels as though your pinnings are genuine. [And feel he does with both hands against his bare calves brushing over hair with then against, rising upward. The better to eventually feel his desire exactly between those two legs.] I suspect you carry a fine sword, sir.

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