I thought I'd spend some time with this year's calendar pondering the question, "What Games Do Vampires Play?"
January
Setting: a large, comfortably appointed Victorian era bedroom. Glass chimneyed gas lamps affixed to the walls shine with a clear, bright light on the creamy wall paper and the rosewood wainscoting. The deep red of the rosewood is picked up in covers on the bed. These have been tossed back to the foot, revealing the white linen sheets beneath.
Lacroix stands facing forward, the room behind him, dressed only in a pair of black tailored trousers, their braces hanging down on either side of his legs. He holds a small white towel in his left hand, which rests lightly just below the flare of his ribs. There is a tightness in the muscles running down his lean belly. The left side of his face from beneath his chin to cheek bone is covered with white lather. The other side is bare of suds, shaven clean already with the ivory handled straight razor he holds in his right hand.
Nicholas stands at his right shoulder, slightly behind him, his dark gold hair still tousled from sleep. He wears a deep blue dressing gown, its silk fabric glossy in the lamp light. It gapes at the top, leaving uncovered the gently curved arcs of his collar bones, with the shadowed hollow at their center. His left arm reaches behind Lacroix, the fingers of that hand pressing into the hard, rounded muscle of the other's shoulder. His right arm crosses in front of Lacroix, the robe's sleeve sliding down to bare Nicholas's lifted forearm. That hand is set over Lacroix's right, his fingers curled around the grip Lacroix has on the straight razor.
Lacroix's chin is lifted and turned slightly to the right, stretching the skin beneath taut. The razor, guided by Nicholas's hand over his, rests on the left side of the sturdy column of Lacroix's throat, its edge angled to slide over the jugular. They both look forward, as though into a mirror hanging before them. Nicholas's gaze is lowered a bit, focused on the razor he's controlling. Lacroix, mouth bent in a slight smile, studies his protégé's intent face. Nicholas's eyes have narrowed with concentration, as his tongue tip slips forward to wet his upper lip.
February
Setting: the upper reaches of a Gothic cathedral, the pale grey granite gleaming in the light of a full moon. A narrow stone ledge runs across the wall, abutting to the right a vertical plinth which supports the figure of a gargoyle about 7 feet above the ledge. Its long body thrusts out into open space, its hollow gullet and gaping mouth indicating its function as a rain spout.
Lacroix stands on the ledge, legs slightly spread, leaning back on the wall behind him. In the moonlight, his velvet mid-thigh length tunic shows only a hint of its deep red hue. The row of closely spaced gold buttons down its front has been undone, revealing the white linen undershirt, black silk hose and codpiece beneath. The ties at the shirt's neck have also been loosened. Under the moon, the exposed skin of his upper chest is lucent, with a faint shade running under his collar bones. This pale flesh, along with the column of the throat above it, is smeared here and there with dark, liquid smudges of the same color as his tunic.
Nicholas kneels before Lacroix, between his booted feet. His garb is rather less conservative than Lacroix's, the doublet, cinched at the waist, flaring out over his hips, but falling only a few inches longer after that. The black silk of his hose fits snugly across his buttocks, firmly rounded with the tension of bracing himself upright. His sturdy thighs flex with this effort as well, while his feet and ankles, in soft black leather boots, hang over the edge of the ledge.
Nicholas's left arm coils around Lacroix's braced right leg. Starkly pale upon black silk, his right hand, with its flare of white lace at the wrist, grips the tensed length of Lacroix's upper left thigh. Nicholas faces to the right, his left cheek pressing against the taut triangle of fabric covering Lacroix's groin.
Lacroix has raised his left arm, setting that hand in a companionable gesture upon the flank of the gargoyle leering above them. The curving fingers of his other hand tangle in the bronze curls at Nicholas's nape, their tips resting on the tender skin under his protege's ear. Nicholas's full lips part slightly, revealing the glint of white teeth behind them. Eyes closed, he focuses on what rests beneath his cheek. Lacroix's face is lifted to the moon, his pale eyes lambent with the light spilling into them.
March
Setting: a gentleman's study, the light supplied by the fireplace at the back of the room. The fireplace and the supports of the bookshelves to either side it are modeled in a restrained version of the neoclassicism inspired by the excavation of Pompeii. The creamy polished marble floor is bare of carpeting. In the shadows of the right corner of the room stands the bust of an imperial Roman general. The wall to the left has a tall, narrow window, the heavy dark blue drapes swagged back. The night outside it is paling with the first approach of dawn. Before the fireplace, two large chairs have been set to each side of a small square table. On the table rests a black and white checkered board, ebony and ivory pieces spread across its surface indicating a chess game in progress.
Seated to the left of the table, Lacroix reclines back, his far elbow propped on the arm of the chair. His chin rests on a lightly curled fist, from the top of which pokes the crenellated peak of a captured ivory rook. His near hand dangles lazily, that forearm draped across the chair's arm. His long legs, encased in tailored trousers of black wool spruced with thin gray stripes, stretch out under the table. He's crossed one ankle over the other, the polished black leather of his shoes gleaming in the firelight.
The fire dying in the grate brings a false warmth to the white skin stretched over the lean muscularity of Lacroix's bare chest and arms. Shadows curve beneath his collarbones and pectoral muscles, and catch in the dark fuzz running up the center of his flat belly. Hung over the back of his chair is a black coat. On top of that has been draped a gray waistcoat and a white linen shirt. A bit of gray silk, probably a cravat, lies in a small heap on the creamy marble of the floor.
Nicholas stands beside the right hand chair, shoved back a bit from the table by his rising, his feet as well as his torso and arms bare. Both his hands are at the buttons on the near hip of his dark blue trousers, their lifting rounding the muscles of his shoulders and biceps. The ruddy firelight plays across his chest, deepening the pale pink of his tightened nipples and glinting in the spray of gold fuzz across his pectorals. The back of his chair is also hung with a coat, dark blue, along with a pale gold waistcoat, white shirt and blue silk cravat. A pair of shoes, stockings stuck within, have been pushed beneath the chair.
Nicholas looks down at Lacroix, rueful good humor warming his deep blue eyes and quirking up one side of his mouth. Lacroix's full lips bend slightly in amusement as well. His pale gaze, though, rests upon Nicholas's fingers, unfastening his trouser buttons as he pays the forfeit for his lost rook.
April (All right, this isn't really a game but they are playing.<g>)
Setting: Nick's loft in Toronto. The light comes from the two candles burning on the piano, one above each end of the keyboard.
Nick sits at the piano, far foot resting on one of the pedals, the near one tucked under the bench. The top two buttons of his light blue cambric shirt are unfastened, the collar folded back from his throat. Both cuffs have been undone, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm, freeing his sturdy wrists. The slightly curved fingers of his far hand poise lightly upon but do not press the piano keys. His near hand, curled into a loose fist, rests on the taut black denim of his jeans stretched across his thigh.
Lacroix stands beside the piano, dressed in black trousers and a black silk shirt. While his cuffs are still fastened, like Nicholas, he has loosened the first buttons of his collar. His weight rests on his left leg, his right knee coming forward slightly in a relaxed, hipshot stance. His left arm lifts to support his rebec, its base tucked against his shoulder, the fingers of that hand bent sharply around its neck as he presses on the strings. His right elbow juts to one side as he draws his bow across the instrument's strings. He is turned away from the candlelight, veiling his face in shadows, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones and lowered eyes. An inward absorption draws all expression from his features, leaving them opaque, almost stony.
Nick's looks up at Lacroix, the warm glow of the candles brushed across the fine lines of his cheekbone and the strong edge of his jaw. The heavy waves of his hair catch bronze glints from the golden light. He gazes openly at Lacroix as he listens intently, the blue of his eyes deepened nearly to black, a hint of wonder in the lift of his brows.
At the base of the candlestick closest to Lacroix rests a small disc of ancient ivory, shadows picking out faintly the profile cut into the cameo's surface.
May
Setting: a bedroom in the style of Renaissance Florence. The large bed, covered in plush black, has its headboard against the back wall. The headboard and the thick wooden posts at each corner of the bed are intricately carved. Also against this back wall, beside the bed, is a waist-high wooden cabinet, its doors patterned with the same carvings as the bed. A lit candle rests upon this cabinet. Its light picks up the fresco covering the walls of interlaced patterns done in muted terra-cotta red, olive green and white. The large, arched window, set high in the wall to the right, is secured with heavy wooden shutters. The only other furniture visible are two sturdy armless chairs, seats cushioned in the same fabric covering the bed. These have been set in the middle of the room, face to face, about four feet apart from one another. On the floor between them is a silver candle holder, low and saucer-like with a finger ring. The creamy beeswax candle it supports has burned low, so that with the holder, it stands perhaps six inches tall. The floor of dark red tile gleams softly in a broad ring around this light.
Nicholas's body spans the two chairs, lower legs on the seat of one, folded forearms along the edge of the other. The top of his brow rests upon his forearms, another bracing point. The flame of the candle 10 inches below his navel casts a luminescent glow upon the alabaster torso suspended above it. Glints of light are snared by the dark gold fuzz hazing the rigid lines of his taut stomach and straining pectoral muscles. The sinews along his sides up to his shoulder stand out sharply, placing the hollow of his armpit into deep shadow. His thigh cables with tension, thick muscular ropes arcing forward, a furrow of shadow cut down its side. The warm light burnishes the pale skin stretched over the jutting point of his hip.
Lacroix, unlike Nicholas, lies very much at his ease, with his chest flat upon his protege's back, loins snug against the other man's buttocks, thighs upon thighs. His shins also rest upon the chair behind them, ankles loosely crossed upon its cushion. Like Nicholas, he is nude, the light from the candle on the cabinet beside the bed falling upon the long curve of his back, the rounded mounds of his buttocks. The only part of his body which does not appear completely relaxed is his near arm, wrapped beneath Nicholas. The shoulder and biceps bunch, the long, corded muscles of his forearm flexing with the curl of his fingers around Nicholas's erection, risen up to parallel his belly. Bright points from the flame close beneath the hand and the phallus glitter in the polished silver of Lacroix's ring. His far arm has circled Nicholas's chest, reaching around his protege to grasp his near nipple between forefinger and thumb.
Lacroix's cheek rests on the back of Nicholas's head, upon the heavy golden waves of hair. His mouth is slightly open, as though he speaks, a small smile curving and lifting his upper lip, teeth glinting in the candlelight. His ice-blue eyes, though open, seem abstracted, his attention given over more to what he is feeling rather than what he's seeing. Nicholas's face is visible in profile beneath his knotted biceps. Though extreme effort is apparent in every line of his rigid body, the candlelight illuminates features - eyes shut, brows lifted, full lips soft and slightly parted - poised on the verge of incipient rapture.
June
Setting: A wide pool below a rugged rock face in an ancient forest. Water gushes from the crags above, the heavy fall streaked with moonlight, black until it smashes onto the boulders below, where it explodes into creamy, silvered froth. On the far shore of the pool graze two horses; sleek, convex-nosed Barbs, one black, one gray, caparisoned in comfortable, high cantled traveling saddles. A heap of clothing, mingled white, black and blue, lays in a pile on a rock beside the pool. Two pairs of tall, leather riding boots have been left at the rock's base, one tipped to lay flat on the mossy bank.
Under the fall, on a boulder battered to flatness, stands Nicholas, legs slightly spread, thigh and calf muscles bunched, tight knots forming above and below his locked knees. Water beats down upon his head and shoulders, splitting into two shimmering cascades on either side of him. Arms wide stretched, straining shoulders and biceps hard and round, he raises open hands, palms upturned, to catch the rushing stream. Bright white spume flies from his stiffened fingers. Solid pectorals and ridged belly labor, fighting to support his arms under the water's crush. Long, water-darkened hair lies flat against his skull, runs snake-like around his face and down his neck. Eyes closed beneath the pounding of the cataract, he bares his teeth in a wild grin as he tests his strength against this elemental force.
Close to the shore, the black pool, ripples glimmering silver on its surface, surrounds a wide, flat, smooth, half-submerged rock. Lacroix reclines upon it, stretching out on his side, long legs crossed at the ankles. He props himself up on one elbow, that lower hand loosely clasping the wrist of the upper forearm draping down his stomach. Moonlight trails along his white flesh, glowing on skin paler than the stone beneath him. Water droplets glint on the languid limbs. A dark haze runs across his chest, down the center of his belly to gather around his genitals. He lifts his head, wet hair clumped in spikes, to fix his gaze upon Nicholas within the veiling cascade. The shine of his blue-white eyes in the pallid light, the slight upward curve of his full lips, reveal his intrigued satisfaction as his protégé tests his body's power.
July
Setting: a room, illuminated by white electric light, the walls and floor a smooth and seamless matte black. Set upright six inches away from the back wall is a nine foot tall, X-shaped St. Andrew's cross of dark burnished metal. Heavy chains are affixed to each of the four ends of the cross, shackles lined with black leather dangling from them.
Lacroix stands before the St. Andrew's cross, facing it, his posture mirroring the X of the cross. His spread fingers, slightly curved, rest easily upon the two upper posts, just above where the unused shackles dangle from their chains, his feet set wide apart on the floor before those at the bottom. The raising of his hands rounds the solid bulk of his shoulders, the thick rope of his biceps twisting along his upper arms. The tensing of his buttocks deepens the hollows in their sides, the long lines of his lean thighs and calves rigid cords. His naked flesh gleams, marble-pale, against the black wall and dark metal behind it.
Behind and just to his left stands Nick, also nude, right foot set between his maker's feet, his left next to Lacroix's on the outside. The long muscles of his sturdy thighs and calves tighten with his braced stance, the tendons at the backs of his knees taut. The younger vampire's left hand grips the other's left biceps, fingertips pressed hard into the solid muscle, steadying him as he leans his torso slightly to the right. The pallid light runs along the curved ridges of muscle beside the shadowed line of his spine and over the hard globes of his buttocks. His right hand has dropped to his side, fingers curled tightly around the haft of a long, thin bamboo cane. The tip of the slim, pale yellow rod rests on the black floor.
Nick's head is bent, turned to the right to set his cheek at the center of the top of Lacroix's broad back. His slightly parted lips, not quite touching his maker's skin, rest just beside one of the score of long red welts that crisscross Lacroix's back from shoulders to buttocks. Blood still oozes from the razor thin cut, slender streams trickling from it and the others, bright crimson on the smooth, white flesh. Nick's eyes are almost closed, a topaz glitter visible under the curve of the veiling lid. Lacroix's head is also turned to the right, to look over his shoulder at Nick from the corner of one white-blue eye. Other than the cool consideration in this diamond bright stare, he is otherwise expressionless.
August
Setting: a windowless room, its pale gray stone walls hung with tapestries depicting hunting scenes, their figures bright splashes of color in the deep green and blue backgrounds. The room's center is dominated by a large, four poster, canopied bed, with its thick, deep red silk curtains gathered and roped back. The spread of matching fabric has been dragged back to the foot of the mattress, exposing the snowy linen beneath. Tall, heavy iron, many armed candelabra stand in the corners of the room, a dozen creamy, beeswax candles burning.
Nicholas lies stretched out on his back upon the white sheet, head resting upon a plump pillow. Both his arms are lifted, bent at the elbow, as his fingers tightly grip the pillow on either side of his head. The golden light of the candles plays across his torso, gleaming on the flat planes of his chest and the roundness of his bunched biceps. Shadows run under the solid mass of his tensed pectorals and down the center of his taut belly. The muscles along the tops of his thighs strain, hard, corded curves. His loins lift, tight skin stretched over the points of his hips, burnished by the candles' glow.
Lacroix sits astride Nicholas's shins, just below his knees, legs folded beneath him, clamped snugly along the outside of Nicholas's thighs. Warm candlelight gleams on the long curve of Lacroix's back as he bends forward slightly over Nicholas. His far hand curls in a fist around the hilt of a poniard, holding it erect, its pommel resting on the lean line of his far thigh. His phallus, spearing upward from between his spread thighs, mirrors the angle of the dagger. The dark steel of the long, narrow blade shines with an oily gloss, while the exquisitely fine tip glints wetly with a deep crimson.
This same liquid runs in thin, gleaming trickles here and there over Nicholas's torso, from arcs incised along the top of each breast and a few narrow stripes along his ribs. Some of the trails have been smudged, the finger-width red streaks vivid on the lucid white of Nicholas's skin. His nipples stand out starkly on his pale chest, the tightened aureoles carmined with his own blood. The hollow of his navel is filled with a deep-red pool. His phallus rises rigid from its nest of crisp, dark gold curls, ruby droplets oozing from the many razor thin cuts running from the base to the tip of the shaft. The glans, free of its shielding foreskin, glistens a bright scarlet.
Lacroix's near hand has risen toward his own face, the fingers in a relaxed, graceful curve. The tip of his thumb, wet with Nicholas's blood, hovers a scant inch from Lacroix's parted lips. Nostrils flared, his icy fierce gaze locks with Nicholas's. Nicholas meets his maker's stare, wide, deep cerulean eyes dazed with sensation, his own lips parting in a reflection of Lacroix's avid expression.
September
Setting: The Caddy has been parked in a lightly wooded area. It faces the black waters of the large lake beyond it, the foam of the low surf curling into shore and the crests of the incoming waves gleaming white in the starlight.
Nick sits on the Caddy's trunk, butt propped on its edge, legs wide and braced, heels of his black boots digging into the soft dirt beneath them. Blue denim stretches taut over his bunching thighs. He leans back on his stiffened right arm, palm flat on the car's teal surface. His black leather jacket drapes open, revealing that his white shirt is completely unbuttoned down the front, the tails untucked from his blue jeans. The fabric falls away, exposing the lean curve of his side, the small pale pink nipple tight on the flat plane of his solid pectoral. The top two buttons of his jeans are undone and folded carefully back. A dark gold haze of fuzz runs up from the V in the cloth, around the hollow of his navel, over the lucid skin of his belly to the center of his chest. The fabric cupping Nick's groin strains over the rounded bulge between his thighs.
Lacroix stands before Nick, facing him, a bit to the right, straddling his left leg. Tailored black slacks fit neatly over his narrow hips and lean thighs. The matching jacket has been draped over the point of the Caddy's right tail fin. He bends forward over his backward leaning protégé, left hand resting upon Nick's side, the lightly curving fingers following the line of bared ribs. This movement stretches raven-glossy silk tight across his broad shoulders. His shirt's left tail has been yanked from his pants, the droop as it dangles over his hip and buttock hinting that it has been unbuttoned down the front. The right tail is still tucked in, Nick's hand covering that buttock instead, his fingers jammed into the pant's rear pocket as he pulls Lacroix's pelvis toward him.
The fingers of Lacroix's right hand are tangled in the dark gold hair on the top of Nick's head, tilting his face up, starlight catching on the high cheekbone and the strong line of his jaw. The lift of Nick's chin makes taut the smooth, pale skin on the strong column of his throat. Lacroix, leaning close, has turned his head toward Nick, his lips, open as though he speaks, nearly brushing his companion's ear. Heavy lids nearly hood his eyes, though a pale light glints beneath the curve of his lashes. Nick stares up into the dark sky, gaze unfocused as he listens to the voice breathing in his ear. His lips part slightly, one side of his mouth quirking up in the beginning of a slanting grin.
October
Setting: the top of a high stone wall set around with a waist high parapet. A midnight's full moon silvers the pale stone and diminishes the pinprick points of the stars in the black sky.
Nicholas stands on the parapet, knees slightly bent as he balances on its very edge. The bright moon streaks the sleek dark fabric of his snug hose, following the tight lines of his flexing thighs and calves. His white linen shirt, its ties undone at the throat, flows loosely over his torso, tight fitting only at his wrists. The open V of his shirt frames the graceful contours of his collarbone, the shadow smudged hollow at the base of his throat. He holds his near arm away from his side, hand hovering level with his waist, the slightly curved fingers spread tensely. He stretches out his far arm, the full sleeve draping along its length, hand lifted up to grasp something just beyond his reach.
Floating in the air just before and slightly above him is Lacroix. The moonlight falling upon his broad chest is absorbed by the black velvet of the elder vampire's doublet and leaves a dim smear across his shoulders. It gleams more brightly on the glossy black leather of his high boots. Lacroix's legs hang relaxed below him, knees slightly bent, feet dangling. His near hand, stark white against the plush velvet, rests easily at his side, thumb caught casually in the belt cinched around his waist. With his other hand, he reaches down, gently curving fingers perhaps a foot away from those Nicholas holds outstretched.
The moonlight catches in the tips of Lacroix's short clipped hair, forming a pale haze across the top of his head. It plays over his high forehead, then the strong lines of his nose and cheekbones as he looks down at Nicholas, full lips bent in a small smile, eyes hidden in the deep shadows beneath his brows. The cool light tangles in the wayward locks framing Nicholas's uplifted face, then spills down to illuminate his alabaster features. The young vampire meets Lacroix's hooded gaze, widened eyes bright with mingled delight and apprehension.
November
Setting: A room, probably in an inn, given the small heap of leather saddlebags and riding boots in the far left corner. Simple and clean, its dark wood floor is well polished and the unadorned walls whitewashed. A large bed, covered with a blanket of natural white and black wool, fills much of the small room, its head shoved up against the right wall. A heavy black traveling cloak has been draped over the shutters of the tiny window set high in the left-hand wall. A haze of defuse golden sunlight seeps in over top edge of the cloak. A small table stands beneath this window, hard up against the wall. Beside the table is a sturdy chair, turned to face the bed opposite.
Lacroix reclines on top of the bed's smoothed cover, upper back propped up on the pillows plumped against its headboard. His long legs are crossed easily at the ankles, the fabric of his black wool hose fitting snugly over the lean lines of his calves and thighs. He has tucked his near hand behind his head on the pillow, while the other hand lifts a small, brown leather bound book before his face. His full, white linen shirt is untied at wrists, so that the sleeves have fallen back from his forearms to gather at his elbows. The laces at the throat are also undone, the collar spread wide, the V of the opening ending at his sternum. The loosed, thin silk cord of the tie crisscrosses over the smooth, pale skin of his chest.
Nicholas sits in the chair by the window, facing the bed, clad only in the undergarment of a pair of white linen braies, tied low over his hips. He's tilted the chair so the top of its back rests against the wall behind him. His bare thighs are spread wide, knees clamped on the outer corners of the seat, calves tucked back so his ankles can twine around the bottom of the chair's front legs. Resting on the floor perhaps six feet in front of him is a black, wide brimmed hat, set upside down on its crown, its flowing white plume squashed unceremoniously beneath it. Scattered on the floor around the hat are a few 3 by 5 inch rectangles of heavy card-stock, decorated with bright, hand-painted figures. A few more are balanced on the brim of the overturned hat, while quite a number poke out of the hollow of the crown.
Nicholas has lifted his torso from the tilted back of the chair behind him, leaning forward slightly from his waist, flat stomach muscles taut. This levering movement makes a hard curve of the top of his thighs and knots the muscle of his upper calves. The forearm of his far arm rests on the small table beside him, fingers curled around the remainder of the thick stack of playing cards. His shoulder and biceps bunch as he lifts his near arm, putting it parallel to the floor, bent at the elbow and wrist to form a graceful curve. The heavy muscles along his forearm cord with tension. His fingers and thumb curl inward toward his palm, the first two fingers a bit more extended than the rest. Clamped between these two digits is the corner of a card, gaily painted with the vivid red and blue image of a man in Fool's motley.
Lacroix, brow furrowing slightly over pale eyes fixed on the page before him, appears entirely engrossed in his reading. Lower lip caught between his teeth, Nicholas focuses his dark blue gaze unwaveringly on his target of Lacroix's face.
(For you costuming nuts in the crowd, please note that this image has to date no earlier than about 1415, as that's when the Visconte deck of cards was first produced. The illustrations I find of braies made in this time period look more like modern boxers than the longer, more voluminous braies of the previous centuries. I guess that makes Nick, at least historically, a boxer man.)
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