It's almost balmy these nights in Monaco. Warm breeze drift inland from the sea, carrying the sounds of foghorns and calls from the many yachts that pack the marinas and coast. It is the time of the year on the golden coast, and the Grimaldis once more play host to the wealthiest of the wealthy, the oldest families of the continent, and to some they only hear of in whispers from dark corners.
     Many boutiques are reaping a great benefit from the stellar weather. Casinos are flush with patrons sparkling from head to toe. Remaindered di Marcos, Medicis, Rothschilds, Kellers, and Braunsteins haunt the cobbled streets and curves of the hillside municipality, speeding in sportscars on the terraces or jetting about the islets below.
     There's no place else to be, truthfully.
     Homes and luxury apartments teem with parties...of all kinds. You just have to know the right people or be the right people. The smallest sailboats to heliported yachts flow easily with the tides in and out of the bay to the open waters, a party on each of them.
     And in Monte Carlo itself? The money flows. A spill unable to stop. These nights, some old families keep their businesses open late, just to accommodate certain people who tread the world in the shadows.

     Sakir has been walking the sidestreets of this small citystate for what seems, to him, like weeks. Strange how such a tiny dot on a map can seem so large from within. Uncounted dozens of people have joined the legions he has talked with. Where might I find this address? Can you tell me how to find this street? Is this store still open? Would you, perhaps, know this man? Searching, that is what occupies Sakir's time. Not that he knows what he searches for, merely where to find it. If only things were that simple. This store, perhaps? An new building, at least by european standards, middle of the last century he would guess -- if asked -- given the architecture. It felt right, so he walks in. Never ignore a hunch.

     A party at his heels. It echoes behind him in the motion of the parted silk. Dressed to feel the warm breeze, colored as if he spent he days in the sun prior to his evenings in the private Grimaldi and Medici suites and casinos. As if...
     On foot tonight, my dear. And a cigarette -- no less than the seventh and more like the twelfth -- dangling from the full mouth. A smile constant, lifting at the corners if not spreading smooth. Unlike the previous few evenings, he is not tangled, eye-deep in royalty. It is a relatively quiet evening.
     As quiet as evenings ever get in Monte Carlo...
     A hand captures the cigarette and he pauses the stroll at the window of such a boutique. Antiques. He sees the centuries in fleshy memories, as much in the plush things past the glass. "That would be nice," The French pulls quiet and languid, lilting southern. And then the cigarette returns, and the glass echoes back to him the indigo of his own eyes. Turning his head to his companion, William slants a grin. "Stop me... sometime while we are here... tell me No. It will be good for me." He chuckles quietly, half-turning from the glass, and the things it holds to ... others equally nice. In time to catch a passing figure... a quiet word, "Pardon..." and his languid motion continues. He is in no rush to ... get anywhere...

     Ach. Ian comes to a halt, distracted in listening to William. The 'pardonnez' is meant by them both. The blonde looks at his companion, grey eyes sparkling as he chuckles. "The minute," his broguish French comes, "...I tell you no," he explains, "...then there is something terribly wrong with me, laird..." Some strange endearment.
     "Oh, wait, this is it," Ian says, twisting and looking upwards at an address. He reaches out and catches the door to the antique shop open after the stranger enters, keeping the path in safe for his companion.
     Ah, but when they enter...it is like the balmy breeze comes in at their heels. It is like the pulsing of a heart, this feeling, something pendulous imminent. The energy sweeps around the pair: blonde and grey, onyx and indigo, a buffer to the world and announcement of their present arrival.

     A comet. Shooting star from his fingertips. A cigarette is vaulted from his right hand, dying before it reaches a guttered street. And laughter is what lives behind it. And some residue of the smell of the non-tobacco he was smoking. Something of cinnamon. Something more herbal.
     "I did not promise I would not complain... oui?" Baritone, deep and quiet, moves over the syllables elongated by some persistent accent. It is not your Paris vintage, that.
     He is the last to enter, and his dark eyes lift in quick, but absorbing survey. And then... indigo distraction. Yet the laughter lingers on William's mouth, a spirit of it retained in the smile.

     The door opens and closes behind him, but Sakir fails to notice. Perhaps chooses not to. He walks amongst the ancient objects, like offerings left in the tomb of a pharoah. All these worldy possessions intent on travelling to the next life with their owner. A pity their journey was interrupted.
     Sakir lets his fingers do most of the seeing. Feeling the grain of wood, the press of cloth. Feeling the age in this, the youth in that. And ever on, he lets the scent of what he searches for lead him through the maze. Although his eyes are open, they seem glazed, vacant. Watching somewhere else in that rarified way that art critics have when watching a movie. A smile sets on his lips, relaxed and equally empty.

     Immediately, a finely-dressed woman and a suited gentlemen rise and bob their heads. She...moves towards the pair, while he moves to the single browser. Each smile and offer greetings, but know well how to stay out of the way of things. Real buyers do not speak, they simply choose and provide remuneration.

     The blonde gives a smile at his darker companion, hands folding across his chest. He wanders from his companion a bit, towards the more ancient objects. Ian avoids getting into the path of the other visitor, choosing to stand back a bit until he can examine the objects just as closely.
     "Monsieur Dunross...it has been a while," she whispers, turning towards William and giving a bright smile. No need to raise her voice and call his name, else others are disturbed. She remains a discreet distance from Ian, simply there, like the furniture.

     "Sir," comes the male's voice to you, Sakir. He too remains a few feet away, simply letting you know his attendance is yours, if needed.

     "Please... amours... remember," comes the whisper of the dark one to the one far more golden. "There was a night in Monte Carlo where I asked for restraint..." Spoken in a hush, like all myths should be. Yes, mark it well. It will disappear in the balmy air, and fly to the sea with the next breeze. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind, non?
     William turns upon a half-step, a pivot to the first thing that catches his eyes. And he stands there, an incline of his head. An artist's study of lines, negative and positive space, aesthetic. A prince's study of worth and era. A lift of his eyes and William smiles to the woman -- his eyes passing briefly over the other gentleman. Good evening is mouthed, only. He will leave Ian to the procuring. He, he will have the greedy eyes.

     Sakir looks over as the suited man approaches him, empty smile faultering a moment before he nods a slight greeting. Returning to his material quest he proceeds to completely ignore the man in the suit. Not looking for him, or anything he is wearing. He taps the writing desk he stands beside, fingers lightly feeling the grain of mahogany the colour of his own eyes.
     Then with a smile to the man in the suit, he slips past, heading towards a display case. Its treasures set as before a king. Bracelets, rings, necklaces, all from another era. Here seems better. But which? Would they let him manhandle each and every piece? Probably not. His eyes narrow as he looks at the contents of the case, one hand beginning to fidget with the string of tourquoise around his neck.

     Ian snorts. Somehow, he disbelieves the sincerity of it all. "I'll remember," he murmurs, grinning as he moves toward a tryptich, 15th century. This causes his brows to raise.
     "Not my thing," he says to his companion from the corner of his mouth, "...but...your Italian friend might enjoy this?" hand appearing suddenly and elegantly waving at the piece. He sighs then, finding himself buying for someone else. Again. Gah.
     Ian's lips twist and he turns to face William, looking over to where the other patron walks. Always interesting to see what others find compelling. He stands for a moment, watching Sakir move about another case.

     A winding smile moves across him mouth, but the warmth of it, the humor of it, is truly housed in the eyes. "Antonio is exceedingly easy to please..." And to have your name attached to it? He might sleep with it...
     Pity that's not an exaggeration...
     Dark eyes lift from it and his companion to the woman. And the warmth ignites, in gaze... and echoed in the smile that broadens. A gesture to the tryptich...
     Oui...
     But when eyes return from woman, they reflect from the gold to the one Ian is watching. Ah, to people watch... this requires a cigarette and something to drink. I have to have my hands and mouth occupied. Best for cafe...
     And so William pivots, turning again. Smiling more so. Finding something, a gesture to the woman again, and then his finger is lifted to his mouth. Pressed lightly there. Do not tell him...

     Two words: "Byzantine jewelry?" Sakir asks of the man who shadows him -- voice surprisingly fluid, somehow reminiscent of a low river. None of what is in the display case fits that bill, so he must be asking if they have anything of the sort. And yet, he doesn't turn to see if the man even heard him. He continues to look at the display case, its contents. Then his hand snaps away from his necklace, and points through the glass at a ring. "That please. I would see it." He is not a native speaker, though he handles the language well.
     Dutifully the ring is taken for closer examination. Closer now, Sakir seems uncomfortable in such proximity to another. "May I?" precedes him taking the ring with both hands. Care like one would show a young kitten, he runs a finger along the gold rim, along lapis lazuli inlay. His smile deepens, and his eyes unfocus. Yes. This, but not only this.

     There comes a sigh from Ian. He notices not the woman moving in the spaces behind him, picking up tryptich and the other bit. He is watching the ring and the man who's found it. Nice item. Glowing lapis.
     "It is...always nice to see someone with exquisite taste," Ian says, breaking all boundaries by raising his voice. At another patron, of all people. Should you not be able to spend your thousands in silence?
     He grins and cocks his head, letting blonde locks rest on the shoulder of his suit. What shall the Other Patron get next? A finger waggles at William and point at you, Sakir.

     Byzantine jewelry...
      It causes the dark haired, dark eyed man to turn. A slow turn from his last look, his last gesture, the secreted gift. Byzantine and Constantinople...Istanbul. It has more than a ... passing fascination.
     No, that is all for now. A parting smile to the dear woman. And it is a meander to the displays, becoming ... so it may seem... distracted along the way. And in the tilting of his head, black hair -- portions of it long enough that it touches at cheekbones. Indigo lifts and lingers on his companion, then shifts... and fastens with interest on the other. It is an artist's distracted study...
     Midway between the Unknown and the Sparkling...

     Sakir returns the ring to the man. "This, I will have." He then turns, his companion forgotten once more, as he continues his hunt. He hears Ian, that is certain. The slight misstep in an otherwise perfect rhythm. The almost-glance, that instead translates into close examination of a goblet. Then eyes drag themselves up to a candle sconce.
     He stands there, looking a bit perplexed, looking at the silver that shines in the light. Moments drag past, as his eyes consider its form, then he turns and continues with a mutter to himself that is too low for hearing.

     Now that gets a smile and a self-effacing snicker. Alright, maybe I should shut up. Ian wiggles his brows at William, turning about to move towards something Roman.
     "Learned my lesson, I think," he chuckles in English to William. Ah well. He should expect no less in this city, in this shop. A numismatics case catches his eye, and he bends to see what goodies are held inside.

     There is a quiet laugh. The sound of a finger touching the glass. Perhaps all but one misses that completely. A shake of his head, and William looks over the array of gold... platinum. And with a lifted hand and with a slight motion, he beckons.
     Come here for a moment...
     "I need your hand," comes the languid baritone, the murmur that lilts and drags in its French.
     The fingers move again. "Hmmm... if not, we will have more lessons later... but first, I want to see if this fits..."

     He stops again, a confused fellow this. Sakir returns his gaze to that candle sconce. He doesn't wear the same expression he did with the ring, more calculating. A present for someone, a political gift, an unexpected surprise. The expression he wears speaks of these things.
     But then he turns again, brushing questing fingertips against silk cushions.
     "Byzantine jewelry?" He says again, as the man returns. He then tilts his head, using this as an excuse to glance at the other patrons, then "French renaissance bookshelf?"

     The man nods and motions to a glass case. You ask for French renaissance, of course you must mean the earliest pressings.

      "What?" Ian blinks, distracted from the other patron. Maybe he should not practice his greeting skills in snooty antique shops. But he smiles and looks to William, sticking his hand out in splayed fashion. "What is it?" he wonders, gaze angling to give Will his full attention.

     French Renaissance. Isn't that a contradiction in terms? Did we actually ever get a renaissance, or did we all pile out of our respective caves and straight into wigs and Reason? It is hard to remember...
     Exactly...
     Indigo eyes lift from what they have found there in a display of jewelry. It looks like one of those...alchemist or magician rings or something of that period. 15th Century... Italian. "A lovely piece, I am going to say, from 1540 to 1580. Appears to be Venetian..." Dark eyes lift again, first to Ian with a grin and then to the woman for confirmation. "This, please..."

     Sakir looks where he is directed, behind glass. Oh, books. Not what he meant, be he walks over none the less. Glance, skim, move on. Always be polite. He then glances at a desk "Dutch?" His fingers examine the grain as his eyes watch the other patrons of the man's shoulder. Sakir shrugs before a response can issue forth, and moves off to another desk. "This. Key for drawer?" comes his question, before he tries the locked drawer.
     No key, of course, or else it would have long been opened for the patrons to examine. Sakir smiles to himself. "Yes. This too." He taps the desk again.

     "Ah," Ian nods, smiling as he looks at what William holds. "Did you just find that?" he wonders, sparkle in his teenaged features.

     The ring is of a heavy gold, but there is a play of what appears to be copper. An accenting of a more ruddy metal. There is a star ruby set upon its top, and rubies along the sides in five-sided star settings. The woman smiles, and with the lightest of touches, flips a tiny latch and the ruby head of the ring opens. There is space there for a pinch of ...whatever such a man might have wished.
     It is large, but surprisingly not gaudy for all of that. "It is 15th Century... late... and it is Venetian... It is called the Ring of the Red Doge..."
     She sets the ring upon its velvet stand. Left upon the counter for their study...

     "If there is gold and rubies involved, I will find it..." a soft pull of French, it is coupled with a similar smile. Languid, promising. Yes, if the cross at his throat is telling, rubies and gold seem to find their way to him. The cross is far older even than the ring on display. "Do you like?" At the edge of his quiet question, his dark eyes lift again, settling upon the other and his desk. Interesting. The study turns to a momentary stare.

     A frown descends on his features as Sakir glances about. With it comes an unfocused quality to his gaze, like he looking at something that far off. As he lifts from that state his drive, his purpose for being within this shop seems less sharp. No longer stalking the passages of ancient furniture, he merely browses. Idly. Passing the time instead of hunting quarry.

     "Ach," comes Ian's voice, even if his eyes wander to Sakir. A tilt of his head. But the inquiring stare does not last so long...a stunning gift has been placed before him.
     "Incroyable," he murmurs, stepping up. "Oui, absolutement, I like..." Ian bubbles softly, stepping up to the counter to inspect. He bends faintly, an image seen across many of the diamond counters in Antwerp or even the table at a business meeting. "It is a marvelous thing, really," he smiles, "I..." wait. I haven't seen one of those in ages.
     He begins again.
     "I really like it," he nods, looking between the woman, William, and the a glance askance to the other two men in the room. His hand lifts and strokes the nape of his neck, as if something was back there, tickling...
     "I'd like it," he murmurs at William, grinning now from ear to ear.

     A handful of steps. He doesn't feel like leaving the close pharoah's tomb atmosphere of this place quite yet. Comfortable. Sakir hums something unconsciously to himself, a medieval italian folk tune. Or perhaps something modern designed to sound old. "I need time to consider." He says to his shadow, the proprietor. "May I sit?" He gestures at a chair, not so old as some of the others, not so worn.
     Permission given, Sakir gently sits, his eyes fixed on an upright mirror so he may watch the store and its contents. Now that he is unmoving, he seems quite like a statue in repose.

     There is only a smile and a glance to seal the transaction. A desire made manifest with the shifting of a look. It is enough for her -- and the woman's hands lift the old piece, closing the ruby setting. A smile to them both, and she turns. The easy smile is one who sees such things come and go every night...

     There follows an exhale at her turn and depture, and William half-turns. A slight pivot brings him near flush to the one alongside him. "Shall we back to the ship tonight," comes the mull of his voice, quiet. Quiet, but not so private as all that. "How shall we spend the many hours left..." Myself, I could use a drink and another cigarette. "It is a nice evening. A good evening to lie about on deck..."
     He shows his hand in this, what he himself wishes. A revelation in the asking...
     And yet at the song, his eyes move again. A lift of indigo, dark and brilliant both, to other portions of the shop. A meandering survey, like a visual drag of a finger across this... over that... and lastly to the one who sits so still. A glance. The tilt of a smile. A beginning. The birth of a grin.

     There it is again. Ian angles as well, hand back at the nape of his neck, silver-grey eyes narrowing. It's there, Dunross, it is. Keeping searching. Accessing. The information exists.
     There's a murble to William of some sort. Some tongue not French. A lilting brogish comment that shows little relation to English. And eyes upon the man in the chair as the words come for Ian's companion.
     Do we know him? Say something and see...
     Ian suddenly nudges William, as if encouraging him....

     Sakir, for all the attention he has drawn, seems not to have noticed. Watching the angled mirror, or merely staring through it to what rests behind reflections, he seems to be continuing to peruse what the shop has to offer.
     Occasionally, very occasionally, he shifts slightly to a different position, but maintains his eyes on one mirror or other.

     "What is the name of that tune," his voice carries, a baritone smooth that pulls upon the cadence of his accent. It is a lilt, it is a drag. It is flecked with fire, it is warm. "It will..." His full mouth pulls into a grin, "...bother me all night if I do not know. It is ... infectious... that song..." He speaks French -- it is a common tongue heard in Monte Carlo, is it not. And there is an element of humor there, but his voice resonates with curiosity. William glances to Ian and shrugs, both a roll of broad shoulders and an arching of black eyebrows.
     I do not know what else to say, amours...
     The song, if not the man, is familiar... what is that again...

     He speaks for the both of them, William does. Both the Flower of Europe. Ian takes a step closer to his companion to wait on a response, hands coming down to clasp with the other at his front. Suit falls about him in tailored lines, clearly cut for him.

     How can he not hear that voice? Or at least, pretend not to. Sakir tilts his head to glance at the one who addresses him. "Pardonez moi?" The words roll out, and then he smiles. "Le chanson? I do not know its name."
     His hand has returned to his necklace, fidgeting. Signs of motion. "Something I picked up a while ago. As you say, infectious."
     His mouth twitches a smile. A greeting of sorts, one guesses.

     The smile broadens, though it does so slowly. And though laughter lives in dark eyes, it does not yet sound at the throat, echo in the broad chest, or leave the lips. "Something like... Stella Nova... but... it is not that, I think." William straightens, a look from the one to the other is followed by an exhale. "And I shall have to hum it all night to find out... no doubt..."
     Indigo crosses to the other man again, and reaching him... fastens there a moment. Who are you... you have a certain... command over space. You sit and pull this room in. And with it, us. Intriguing. "But I am fortunate, at least in that it is a lovely tune." A pause. A half moment of consideration...
     "You... enjoy your evening..." And William tilts his head toward him, in the nod dark hair drapes forward somewhat.
     Do you know him, amours? My memory's a fog...

     And in the meantime, the woman has returned. There is a small box, wrapped in gold foil paper, which is handed to William. There are two other items that have been tagged. They will be delivered. One, an antique globe with the coordinates of constellations, and illumination done by Flemish hands.

     There comes a shake of Ian's head at something communicated. Or not. Though William is silent, there is some understanding conveyed. A sigh and Ian simply moves from his position, toward the gentleman at the chair. As he moves, frames are lost. Each instant that makes up the image of motion in the mind's eye...ever so often, one instant vanishes.
     And suddenly, he is near Sakir, goldenboy that Ian is. Hand extends, the cuff expertly at his wrist and rising.
     "Ian Dunross," he states politely, other hand tucked behind his back.

     Chuckles slightly, the sound of water over rocks. "Lovely? I barely hear it anymore, I didn't even realize I was even humming it." French, fluid and easy. "And thank you."
     A moment then "Enjoy your evening as well." His hand, rather his fingernails, examining the grain of the wood on the armrest. His eyes unfocus once more, "Stella nova?" he murmurs to himself, "Sounds familiar."
     As the woman returns to the others, Sakir's eyes flit to the mirror -- glancing at the objects that she delivers. He smiles to himself, satisfied, pleased about something perhaps.
     But then he is rising to stand. He is being approached. Extended hand meets extended hand. "Sakir Arkalay." The voice's accent seems middle eastern, though moments before no accent was hinted at.

     You have found yourself within the swirl of energy before, the palpable pulse that was there at the door. Ian's hand shakes firmly, as if done a million times. He is the picture of the British businessman, even if young. "A pleasure," he nods, slowly releasing the grip, "...you have a fine eye," he notes for the record again, restating the notion from earlier. He watched.
     A twist, and he looks back to call his companion over. "Interest in Italian music?" he wonders, making conversation until William arrives.

     Large hands, large but finer than they perhaps should be, swallow the box as it is handed to him. And it is placed in the pocket of his shirt. The leather can afford no home to it. It is quite taken up with simply holding him. The woman is offered a brilliant smile, warm and curved with familiarity.
     And then...
     He is turning, the smile yet upon his lips. Warming, casually, the fullness there. He follows a half-moment after. "Stella Nova," he says, and in the smile there is resplendence found. "At once a hymn and a song to a ... stalling lover..." And his laughter follows, quietly. Held in throat and chest. His hand is next to come out. "Guillaume d'Angevin..." Here, it is a name that is understood. He, like so many in Monte Carlo, is the remnant of once great families...
     "A pleasure..."

     He seems momentarily off balance. People aren't meant to be -- this. Palpable. "I --" Sakir begins, but pauses to shake his head slightly; brushing away some thought or other "-- merely know what appeals to me." Merely. His eyes simply chew up and discard most of the offerings in this tomb. Don't even see the lesser things.
     "Memory for notes. For music." He taps his neck, slightly behind the left ear. Gold watch sparkles in its motion. "Is it Italian? Guillame d'Angevin? I didn't know." Yes he did. His smile betrays him.
     "It is a fine night to meet new people." He replies to William's greeting, fluid French still -- accentless.

     "Well," Ian speaks, clearly Scottish, "...few know what appeals to them," he grins, "...that is knowledge and advantage in itself."
     No, no young man should be so composed.
     "It is a nice night to meet others," he agrees, looking between the two men, "...though I apologize for disturbing your archaeological forays," silver eyes looking about the store.

     Palpable. A stirring of air, with a secondary layer of cinnamon. Beneath this, something perhaps of another eastern spice. An oil worn on the skin. Or is it almond?
     Ah, it's been centuries since anyone's called me 'new'...
     The smile comes to him easily. The eyes both dark and brilliant have their own fire in their violet and blue. It is spark of imagination, perhaps. It is passion, perhaps. Perhaps it is... what they call... the joy of life...
     There is nothing said to the song now in particular. Just the slant of a smile. The smile might seem to ...deepen to the perceptive. A brief look to the one beside him, the one with whom he walks this night...
     And all nights...
     "Italian songs, Italian wine and Italian bread appeal to me. Now, I am in a mood for it..." He is from France. France is everywhere evident on his tongue. But it is not the France of Paris. His comes with a tug midway between Italy and France. Best... to say Provence.
     William nods, "A very fine foray, at that. I have enjoyed watching from a distance... it is a pleasing thing to watch a collector with a sharp eye at work."
     "No apologies." English words. Londoner? But he doesn't seem to grasp the language well. "Things can wait forever. People fade with each passing day." French again, without missing a beat between words.

     The presence of the two keeps him off balance, though he remains as composed as can be expected. Perhaps more so, though not enough. He stands as one standing near a bonfire, dancing light drawing him near, flames pushing him away.
     "Collector." The word sounds dry coming from him, strange of a voice like water to sound dry. "No better word presents itself to me." Sakir says at length, to himself more than anyone else "Collector it is then."

     "Collector?" Ian chirps, blinking at William. "I collect suits, Gui," he grins, motioning with upturned palm at Sakir, "...but this gentleman...he is a discoverer of the past. Explorer. Finder of Lost Antiquities. A man...who brings beautiful things back home." To the eye of others. Ian grins and waggles his brows, impressed with the dissertating.

     And so the energy, the humming air... it finds a new target -- the one beside him. And the look. It is more than passing familiarity. It is an instant understanding that passes between himself and his companion. "This I know... I was talking about Monsieur Arkalay... you, I know what you collect..." Warmth exudes across the features of his face. It is like the spreading of new day's light. His smile is like the sun at the horizon. "It seemed apt enough description from what my eyes happened to see," he looks from Ian to Sakir.
     But his gaze upon the new ...acquaintence is brief. Thereafter, his attention is divided. Never able to pull from his companion for too long, and yet... interested and intrigued yet by the one so recently met. "I understand the fascination... and the compulsion. It is a passion, collecting -- a second kind of artistry." There are those who make these things, and there are others who take upon themselves impassioned study of those things.

     Sakir glances at the motion of the hand, a fast motion, perhaps it went unnoticed. A cautious man, this. But he remains silent to Ian's words and actions, merely a hint to upturned corners of his mouth. Eyes move to glance at the mirror, and the proprietors who stand in its image. Listening, though feigning not to.
     William's words draw his gaze back. "Artistry." Sakir echoes. "Perhaps." And then his smile comes out from hiding, though in itself it hides something. "But could there not be a reason? Or can collection, appreciation, be the only way?"

     There's a pause from Ian and a slant of his silver-grey eyes to the ceiling. Think, Dunross, think. Then his chin comes parallel to the floor as he responds, "Yes, nothing wrong with hording," he chuckles to himself, not really needing much valor or value in his spending habits. He chuckles, slipping hands into his pockets. Art? What is that?

     And so goes the topic of art. In a warm rush of quiet laughter. And William turns, eyes lifted to other things upon the wall. So much, from floor to ceiling. "The horded and the horders... that is the dance of it..."
     As his gaze returns, and with it the ... is it charisma? is it beauty?... energy that moves around him, William smiles. A smooth upturning just at the corners of his mouth. Archaic humor. "And... speaking of... I need to find something... something for my observation room. You will help," a murmur to Ian. There, again there is that comfort, that ease. That understanding not only of his space and how he moves in his own skin, but understanding of his companion...
     But perhaps it is as much a kind of invitation to you both... horders... collectors as you are...
     "I do not even know where to start. Although... I shall surely find something in Venice ..." that to himself. As if to add restraint again.
     An echo of Ian's chuckle forms a reply from Sakir. "Hoarding? Perhaps. No other reason comes to mind?" He is going somewhere with this, a game perhaps, but one that is rather trivial seeming. "Hoarding is for tombs."

     A coppery eyebrow rises to William. "What do you seek? It is best to know before you begin to look." Hand goes to necklace again, nervous fidget. Unconscious motion.

     "Of course, I'd help you, laird," Ian smiles, leaning into William for a gentle nudge. "But...here. Someone more professional is offering," Ian smirks, turning away. No, there is no philosophy behind all of this for him, and while he leaves you to finding what William is thinking of, Ian looks to a nearby display case, wondering momentarily about the contents.

     And to you both there is a slow and spreading smile. "Ah, that is the trouble. I need ... something... which I have yet to see..." The nudge was answered by not moving away, by letting it land. Accepting it, but more than this... enjoying it. An intimacy -- ah, that is it...
     Old friends... perhaps... though neither of them are old. One, barely cresting twenty... the other somewhere mid that same decade...
     "Galileo's journals, maps, maybe even a little Ptolemy... that would be good. And furniture from the Netherlands...?" A dark brow lifts in an arch, and he looks first to Ian and then to Sakir. "That is... maybe close to what I am seeing..." And then a touch to his temple and he grins.
     "I will have to keep looking until I find it... ah, see... I am on an... expedition... of my own..." There is a nod to Sakir, more a half-bow of his head, and he looks to Ian. "Not even The Rigel has enough room for my eyes..."
     Talking about hoarding...

     Professional. That gathers a smirk, then deepens and threatens to turn into a laugh. But it is caught. Stopped. Sakir's eyes travel to the same display case, but they twitch to disdain a moment, before returning to William.
     "Galileo's journals? That is a tall order." He then stops himself. "Though, I would suppose you don't mean the originals." A finge r rises to tap his lips. "Netherlands. I cannot remember having been there. Perhaps only a stop over in an airport."
     His eyes flick again, throughout the room, choosing and discarding everything in turn. Nothing appropriate. "The Rigel? I am not familiar."

     "Mm," Ian murmurs, walking down a row, "the beta star of Orion, and...a boat," he explains, distracted by something. He bends over, peering at it intently. "Well, our home for the moment," he overshares. "Like everyone else around Monaco for now." The spring and summer revellers.
     "But say," he notes, turning about to see you both, "...you never answered your own question, sir." Nothing gets past him. "Other reasons for collecting?"

      There is just the smile. Ah, maybe that is the idea. Galileo with the Leonardo. I will think about this. Distracted by the last thoughts of the observation room, it is many moments before William responds to the question. The expression... placid curiosity and then...
     And then there is a smile. Ian answers. It saves William for the moment. And so the floor is given, even as it is taken by another. He is happy in this moment to recede. To turn his energy... boundless as it is... to wandering. But he is still present. A look. A smile. It places him there. In the conversation.
     As much as is said, there is more that passes in the quiet intervals of words. In the spaces between syllables of polite discussion. "Ah oui..." Indigo flickers upward as William is himself reminded. And he glances from Ian to Sakir again.

     "I was thinking, that perhaps I had intended not to answer." Sakir shrugs, honest for the moment. "Some trivial things make better questions when solutions aren't readily given."
     "But, I fear, these poor people are waiting partially upon me." He breaks off from the two, moving towards the back. "Arrangements must be made. A moment, and I will return." He smiles, then turns to catch the eye of the expectant gentleman. "The ring I will wear" Sakir says lowly "The desk, of course, will be shipped. You do overseas, yes?" A business card changes hands.

     You feel him. A hand would go to your side. A hand would go to your back. To the back of your neck. William would kiss you now, and the room is small with it. To place the ring on your finger when there is nothing else but that and skin. And give himself to you, Ian. That is what is between the spaces of syllables. Sounding in the intervals of words.

     Ian smirks and bobs his head as Sakir makes his momentary apologies. As with all things, distraction upon distration. Ian closes his eyes for a long moment, then turns away as his lips angle in a decidedly pleased smile.

     There is a touch to the back of the golden-haired one, this one who is called Ian Dunross by his own introduction. A lean, and there is a whisper. While fingers are seen to barely touch the back. A pause, and then there is a smile.
     When William steps away, his hand goes to his shirt's pocket, lifting. Touching the box held there. A reminder. And for the rest of the time, William is quiet. Wandering. Browsing still...
      But slowly, and ever-gradually, moving toward the door. Perhaps it is enough for now. His mind is clearly elsewhere. His smiles are inward drawn. His gaze at everything and at nothing.

     The ring goes to Sakir's left thumb, with a practiced motion, as he speaks with the gentleman. Fitting snuggly, he didn't even bother trying it on any other finger. His eyes lose focus again, as his expression turns empty. With his right hand he fiddles absently with the ancient ring. Eyes snap open.
     "Thank you, good sir." Sakir says the the proprietor. "You have made myself very pleased with this." Then, arrangements made, he turns and heads towards the others without seeming to notice the subtle movement towards the door.

Posted by rowan at March 04, 2001 03:35 PM