"J'aime vraiment la voiture..."
     He is a man of sublime understatement. The words, said with the pull of that mouth, that grin of Ages, belie the true delight found in such a gift. Did the nail-embedding drive through poor Ille de Bouchard, Panzoult and through the back roads of the neighboring wineries not convey it better? Did not the rhythmic embrace of a most grateful husband show the depth of his gratitude?
     Repeatedly?
     And still he says it. I truly like the car. Still, he rolls his head against the pillow and looks at you that way that only he can -- with humor, intimacy, predatorial grace and noblesse oblige all rolled into one Angevin expression. William smiles, short hair mussed about an Olympian face, as he lifts himself up on his elbow, elbow sinking into the feather pillow and his other hand at your face, the index finger tapping your mouth. "Vous m'abimez, bien que vous sachiez qu'elle menera a ruiner." Indigo glints and the world turns to fire. He lowers for a kiss, his shadow by the low light of the bedroom (he is far too fond of the shadows you make together to be without light) cast along you first. There is the image of a kiss before the kiss becomes reality at your mouth.
     On the bedside table, the canister. Simple. Unadorned. As of yet, unopened. It is there, and shall be there until joined hands open it. But these hands have been too busy with one another, have they not? It sits there, waiting, brooding like a child wanting of attention. If canisters may be said to brood....

     Ian's chin lifts as he yearns for the kiss, accepting it as tenderly as he's embraced everything else impressed upon him since the return. He grins as you part, and his pale brows arch knowingly. "I will pay the price," he laments, some truth in that, "...I have paid it," he says softer, 'I will continue to pay." It is his lot in the universe, and Ian is thus resigned. "But I do not know any other way," Ian smiles wanly, eyes brightening when he focuses them on you once more. "I wouldn't want it any other way, Guillaume. It is how I wanted it..." he thinks, "...from that first night."
     Ian snorts quietly at himself, eyes lowering to look ahead, towards the foot of the bed. "I am glad you like it," he grins slightly. "I thank the universe regularly that you're so easy to buy for..."

     "I am easy," he confirms is quiet Gaelic. "Maybe a little too easy," he continues in French with a slight tilt of his head, a slight Gallic shrug. He accepts this about him as much as you accept what you have borne, do bear and will continue to bear. "A man of simple tastes," he chuckles, "...grandiose needs, and insatiable appetite." Lowering, he leaves another kiss behind and sinks once more to the surface of the bed. He glances to the nightstand, to the canister, and then to you.
     "Do you want to see what made me leave my bed with you? It had better be good, you are thinking. I had to go to Switzerland to get it. Aux chambres fortes," William whispers, a glint of a wink cast to you again. He takes it in hand, he brings it to you, and he offers it to you. "You should open it," he murmurs. "Your hands should be the only ones, your eyes to see it. I will judge it by your reaction. For... I only want what comes from your hands."
     And he surrenders the canister as easily as he surrenders to a kiss, giving the painting to your hands, his mouth to your mouth. A breath given, a look given. Dark blue-violet eyes are close to your grey, revealed (oh, what an expression) by the upturning of lashes. "Open it," William smiles. "I want to see the look on your face..."

     "You are too much of a vampire," Ian grins, shaking his head. "It is not mine," he explains, "...it was meant for your eyes for your work, William. A good Toreador would not want to take away that first moment," he reminds, just in case you've forgotten.
     "You open it," Ian nods, content with the suggestion.

     "Finally, at last, he becomes a vampire," comes the languid drawl, the mock opine. "Very well, but you must look at it with me. You could not see what held me in my vaults for so long," William says more seriously, "...but you should see what I have been given in return for that work." On that note, he will brook no argument or further discussion. That much is in his face. Then the full mouth makes a little smile.
     Toreador? There are no such creatures here. No matter what the immortal press corps might think...
     Sitting up, pillows propped behind his back, William sits flush to you, legs spreading out upon the territory of his bed, beneath the covers. Only a man who has packed so many paintings thus could free one from such and with such a flourish. A very careful flourish. He twists his shoulders just slightly, making sure that you can see, as he begins to carefully unfurl it.

     There's a certain injustice to the curled paper, to the oils and marks of time that curling has allowed. But such it is. Perhaps these patrons have so much that to keep a thing in a roll, well, maybe it has not much value. Maybe it must remain a secret, and those not kept, protected, in glass and frame.
     There is much elaborate as the canvas unfurls and cracked oils reveal. The edges are burned and frayed, decomposed in some areas, yet the color remains. Swirls of unfathomable shades of off-whites to blue, representing a background. The top of the image must be in the left hand. White wisps of toile shape as an open fan, yet curving as a shawl. A flag with a pole. Then, shoulders. Small and creamy. Face of an cherubic angel, flesh thick and plump. The gold of a crest curves, and a man's face with steel and bronzed armor. A second face, head plumed in gold and blue. A warrior, but with his hand upon his face. The landscape behind the man in steel and gold -- he's upon a horse -- and his barefooted blue and gold counterpart soon rises to jagged taupe mountains in the distance. Shapes and figures, lightly drawn for perspective and backdrop, surround the central man in blue, his horseman with the flag, and their angelic guide. Men, all, but brown of African origin, accompany the one in blue, who stands....surveying.
     Every part of the canvas is filled, though the image is certainly a neoclassical throwback.

     Ian sighs and looks over at his bedside table. The glass there is empty, which causes Ian to close his eyes. His hand runs over his head, and he twists behind to pull at the pillow and set it upright.

     He is quiet for a long time. His eyes may be seen to take it all in at once, then to focus for a moment upon the edges, each one in a slow turn. His eyes trail over the painting in a way that his fingers never could, even if they dared do such a sacrilegious thing, from top to bottom, side to side, to the center, to the spot over the angel's head, to the flag propped upon the shoulder of the man on horse. To the faces fading in the near background, tilted up toward the three principle figures. The smell, the colors -- even those. It is a long, quiet and intense absorption.
     "It is a Goya," his voice is soft but sudden after so much quiet. "Surrendered by Spanish interests," such as he expects the mysterious benefactors of the lost Caravaggio to truly be. "Not something surrendered lightly, as was said. Interesting. You can tell by the palate, by the figures, subject matter, approximate age. The figure there..." The armored one he means. William says nothing else for a time, his mind working back through the files of his memory. A lost painting for a lost painting; a secret for a secret. Dark eyebrows lift slightly. "It is the Hannibal. The mountains in the background, the armed men, the shadowed and faint images of other horses, other men. Leading the armies of Africa, the armies of Carthage... through the Alps..."
     Who knows the Lost and Found of the art world better than a forger-collector-artist? "I will put it in the vaults. Work on it when I have time. A project ... a rare project... one that I can keep. Hmm," he makes a sound of Thought and Consideration and carefully rolls it up again. "I should probably burn my project diaries," William notes, "... since I was allowed to keep the memory of the work and process. But...that they remain in the vaults too should be sufficient enough." Especially since none but you know of its existence. William looks to you finally. "What do you think of this, something to keep me busy when I am here, hmm?"

     He's sat quietly, observing the painting's revelation. "A wreck," he murmurs, eyes darting left and right, up and down the canvas. "From someone's personal collection?" he wonders, seeing how it's treated. "A commodity. Bearer bond..." he says disdainfully.
     "It will keep you busy," Ian nods.

     "I have seen worse. You would not have wanted to see what I just fixed if you think this is a wreck." His mouth twists a little. "At least this one doesn't seem to have been trampled on by mules and dunked in the Lagoon," he is joking, so says the murred tone of his voice. "Some damage, though," William nods, "...and discoloration. Considering its age," he smirks, "...it has been through hell. A civil war or two, early," fingers move against the charred edges and then he rolls it back up. "Well, it will look better after I have had a chance to perform my surgery on it. Maybe next year, year after."
     It is eased back into the canister, the canister closed and set aside. "I will have to see what Goya is going for these days. I do not usually deal in Spanish art. Not even Picasso. I think I do not understand its motivations well, or that to me most Spanish motivations seem hollow, almost as if it were France... but in pantomime..." Indigo takes you in again as he turns his face toward you. "Perhaps I am just too rooted in the Renaissance," he exhales, untroubled. William grins, "...but it pays the bills well, ne c'est pas? So many buildings of that age to be repaired. I am set for life if I do nothing else."

     Ian nods again, sliding back down to his bed and pillow. The down's adjusted, and he closes his eyes a moment. Opening them, his cheek turns to the pillow, gaze upon his husband. "I will admit," Ian looks to the canopy again, "I am not...I don't like this...secrecy. Not like this, Will." It doesn't sit well with him. "Aren't you concerned? They wanted your memory now..." Ian's brows arch, "...they are willing to trade for something...like this?"

     "It is part of the business," You see he wants to smoke, but he resists the urge while an old painting is in the room. "On this level, it has more to do with piracy and politics, theft and murder than it has to do with the art. This is precisely what I have done to others, what I continue to do with the collections. Payments made but never made for paintings never owned. Where there is art, there is subterfuge." William looks to you, lying close, flush yet again. "This is why Antonio and I have the arrangement that we have. I employ Florentine spies and Medici bankers for a reason. The only thing that keeps it somewhat free of bloodshed is the potential for control of world treasures," he holds up one finger, "...and the prestige and power that brings. And profit," he holds up a second finger.
     "For things such as the Goya and the painting for which it was offered as payment, it is more about control and prestige. The lost must remain lost for them to have any power or influence. That it is worth... perhaps a million dollars... is secondary. It can't be appraised and retain its value. In order to have real value it must remain lost. At least until the world demands for it to be found. That takes time, subtle press, and the whim of collectors. I have released a lost painting onto the market... the Leonardo. I netted five-hundred-million dollars American. Any other moment but that one... and it would not have been worth it to me to ever turn loose of it. And even for five-hundred-million dollars, I regret doing it."
     His arm slips beneath you and he draws you to him, his mouth warmly finding your forehead. "It is a game. One of the oldest. Who is better, sharper, who owns more of the treasures of the world. My known collection, what I publish? It is very small. Most do not know what ... or who... I really own. Not even you," he smiles a little. "Fortunately, I do not have to go far to find someone to repair such things. Others... do not have that luxury. They must reveal their holdings to me if they wish me to repair them. And then, though I do not know who they are, I can get a sense of what they have and who is moving it. Now, I know there is a group of collectors who has had two lost paintings. I can gather other information about them from how this was done. I can also have a sense of who is a deeper player in the game than I thought by what actually occurred. I am not concerned. I am observant."

     "And they know you know, William," Ian says. "And they know I know. And behind it all...is a threat, laird. I agree, it is as you explain. It's about power and control. And power and control, at the end of the day, does not care about Art."
     "That much, I know."
     That is the world he has dealt in for a thousand years. Ian smiles. "Be prepared. It is not over. They now know what you will and will not do. They know your relationship to Genevieve, and what she will or will not do. They know your pricetags, both of you."
     Ian smiles. "I know you know all this. I just want to you to make sure," Ian's brow arches, "...what the other side," like him, "...would see..."

     Yes he knows and realizes what you have expressed. "So many devils, so few advocates," William murmurs. "... Each one holds a piece of Understanding and of Knowledge and of Assumptions about the other. No more, no less. They will extrapolate what they extrapolate from my actions, even as I have theirs and those that will come after them."
     William smiles at you. "I will be prepared. As should they be. And any others. It is an old game, Ian. Behind all games... there is a threat. That is the way of it. Whether it wears the veneer of art or the cloak of insurance or shipping conglomerates. It's the same game. And you know ... how I play, oui? I ... do not have a business such as I do, and control such as I have it, because I am good-looking and lucky."
     William looks at you for many moments. "You... do know this, yes?"

     "Well," Ian hesitates, squinting at you. "I...would hope so," he says, suddenly laughing. No, no, he's not really so sure, but will take your word for it...with much amusement.

     "That's a fine thing for a husband," comes a sudden roll of quick-lilting Gaelic. "Not trusting his partner. Maybe I should have one of the boys," William chuckles, "...follow me around the house in case I take a tumble down the stairs...would that make you feel better? Do I need to get bodyguards because you're no longer sure I can shoot a gun? You know, I saved a bundle this year. I could afford the expense..." Eyes roll and he settles on the bed beside you, a glance given to the canister again.
     You're paranoid. You'd have to be to be this old. You and me both. But what I fear in men I make up for with a stunning amount of self-confidence...
     But well he knows...
     You've never had confidence in his business acumen. It was the fodder for many tempestuous arguments. It rises again, but he doesn't take the bait of quick tempered, defensive response. You don't believe, do you. Oh well, you never did. Oh well, you have to have something to argue about. Perfection's simply not interesting.

     "Oh, I'm sorry, laird," Ian offers, trying to quash the amusement he finds in the conversation, "I know you know. I do. And yes, I am...well, never sure of anything. You must know this by now," he grins, rolling now onto his side to meet you. "Never ask me am I sure of something. I am sure of so little, save -- I am here. You are here. That is about all that I know, Guillaume. That is all that I ever have faith in. Nothing else. Nothing."
     It's a free confession. He is paranoid, distrusting, and unwilling to lean on anything that he cannot touch, handle, control, and manipulate. Ian's brows arch openly, as if asking for forgiveness. "Maybe I cannot change as much as I feared," he says softer, eyes wide to see if his apology's accepted.

     "I understand," William says quietly in response. "You have a healthy paranoia of undead worlds and motivations. Well, a smart paranoia, let's call it," he smiles out. Healthy doesn't really enter into it. He raises up on his elbow again, head propped up on his hand. "I have always sought your approval. That is not fair, perhaps. Maybe, I should have simply asked for your faith. Faith in me. I think that is what I want from you. I want to know it."
     You are given his weight suddenly as William rolls over, settling upon you again, his hands to either side of your face. "You do not have to ...agree with me. I just... need you to believe in me, Ian..." There is no amusement in his features but a placid, earnest expression. "There is a part of me... who has ...always wanted to know this. I made so many mistakes... trying to get at the answer to this... very simple question, far more simple than love," William whispers. His eyes fasten their gaze onto your own. "I am no better than any other childe," his mouth pulls in a slight slant.

     "I laid my trust and belief in you...a long time ago," Ian says again softer, with a genuine smile. "But you are no childe, though I know what you meant," Ian exhales. "I have given you my faith, my betrothal, have I not?" Ian wonders, questioning himself now.

     "Yes, you have," William replies. "And of the heart I have no doubt. Sometimes, I'm curious about the mind, I will admit it." A soft admittance at that. "Sometimes... I wonder what you think. Even now, even after eight-hundred years and more. Of what you think of me. Handsome, yes I know... a worthy bedmate, a lover and spouse. We talk at length about these things. But my politics, my leadership, my business abilities. I have... never had the true sense that you approved of these things. We ... used to argue about such. A conversation like tonight... ten years ago would have ended up with me in another room and one of us smarting. I think... we have changed how we react to such matters. But...still I get the sense that you do not think much of how I do what I do... as if I do not think of such things. Maybe... I am not hearing what you mean, only... old dialogue..."

     There's a frown from Ian. "No, I fear you hear correctly," he says, closing his eyes. "That is my fear."
     "Even as I said it, I thought..." he finds it difficult to admit, "...he has my heart. Have I confused my faith with it?"
     "But you want me to agree with you, William, even as you said that you did not. So," Ian inhales, "...my standards are...unfair. To you, to anyone. Do you have my heart -- William, no other controls me as you do. You are...that which rules my passion, my emotion, my innermost self. I know that now."
     "Yet, it is my head that keeps me safe. That has allowed me to exist, despite all that has happened to me. My trust and belief in myself. I have clung to it," Ian smiles, "...sometimes too tightly...as a raft in a sea of despair and destruction. No," Ian swallows, "I do not give primacy to much more than my own mind that has kept my alive for a thousand years."
     Ian quiets. "It is there...we have struggled, yes? For you spurned my heart that was given to you freely," Ian looks, wondering about his words now, "...for words that I could not say. Maybe I did not need to say them. No, we do not agree on how to handle politics," Ian grins, "...no, we do not see the universe the same. No," Ian smirks, "...Art is not the same or equal to shipping and more...well, other business. I admit, it is a double-standard on my part. You do what you do well, but it is not what I do. And yes, unfairly to you, I see the commodity of Art...as a lesser pastime. For that, I can only ask apology for my feeling, but the sentiment perhaps will never change."
     "But," Ian adds, touching your cheek "...what does it matter what I think of your business? You do it well and successfully. It is your business, not mine. And I am glad that you are successful in it and enjoy it. Does..." Ian frown, "...anything else I think...and in truth, I don't think about it at all until we are in conversations like this,...is irrelevant. You in your business will thrive. And I hope it does. Just as I hope you wish for mine to do the same. But...we are in different business worlds. And I am glad for it," Ian smiles.
     "We are different," Ian adds. "I like that, William," he smiles. "I know now that...it is good that we are different."

     He blinks as he absorbs all of what you say. He rolls off of you as it continues to its completion, and through the second playing of it in his head. "How could it not matter? That you, the man I love and live for and with, thinks that what I do is less? Not important. I'm good at it, well I suppose that's a consolation..." William chuckles quietly, briefly. He looks to the ceiling, to God, and then back to you. "When I'm beneath tons of marble and up to my ass in sea water, that's going to be a real inspiration, Ian. Good on you, William. Rather pointless though, don't you think?" He laughs, shakes his head and then sighs.
     "You're right, it's not the same as shipping guns to Uganda, it's not even remotely like ruling the world, I'll grant you that. It is... as you say... different, but you are going to love me and say that it is less? And that it should not be important to me? How could my life's work not be important? You hope I thrive, I believe that. But ... it's not really a consolation, Ian. To be thought of as...capable in lesser works and unimportant things. Thriving, well... it's easy to isn't it. It's just art. Jesus...this is what you really think of me. I am... just a good shag in a pretty package..." William chuckles again. "If we're going to have this conversation, I'm going to have to have a drink. How about some brandy..." His hand pats your leg as if you and he were talking about anything other than this topic and he starts to twist, turning over toward the nightstand and the bottle he left there (as if it would be far). Brandy. He made that, too. He supposes a distiller might a bit higher on your list of approved professions.
     "I don't want to change your mind," he says softly. "I don't have to defend my position. There's nothing to defend." Purple brandy (plum) pools into the waiting glass. "I'm not ashamed of what I do. I think the world without my work would be a worse place. I am proud of what I have built, proud of what I have painted, proud of what I have stolen, cheated and given away. I ... will say I am disappointed." He pauses and turns, looking at you, eyebrow lifting. "Brandy?"

     Ian's eyes close again and he puts his hand over his eyes. I should have remained silent.
     "I did not say I was right," Ian thinks he restates his entire argument. "In fact, I am trying to say that while I think this way, it is perhaps not right, nor should it be important."
     "And I ship arms to whoever will buy them," Ian shrugs. "I know it. You know it. Is my life's work important?" Ian laughs, "No," he grins, lowering his hand. "Maybe your work is the long-lasting. I bring death and ruin. You...try to stave it off. Maybe...I should not have this conversation. Not be allowed to have such a conversation."
     "And no, thank you, laird."

     "Right ... wrong... for better or worse," William says as he swallows the brandy. He looks in the glass, tips it a little to watch the color. "It doesn't matter, Ian. It's your opinion. Right or wrong, you're entitled to it," he shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I still love you," he looks at you to make sure you see it. "Do I want to impress you? Of course, what lover does not. Do I want you to find what I do important? Of course, what spouse does not. That's all." And, well, we have our answer. It is what it is. No one promised us we'd like it.
     He exhales as he takes another swallow of the brandy. "I don't stave off death. I only stave off decay. I'm a glorified janitor to the world, really. It's a fine ending to a long, family infamy." He finishes the glass and does not follow it with another. Lying back, the once knightly arm shifting the pillow about as he reclines, he breathes into the pillow. "There are worse things than being a beautiful, kept man. I think, in a way, I am at my best thus."
     An indigo eye opens and looks at you. It conveys things he cannot trust his mouth to do just now. Not to be wry or sarcastic or sardonic. There is understanding and tenderness and love.
     I still love you...

     "You are not a kept man," Ian exhales. "You make your own way in the world. You are a businessman and a professional. Your talents are desired the world over."
     "But you do impress me, Will," Ian says, tossing the covers back and standing. He walks to meet you. "I am impressed with you....why do you think that I must somehow value your work to be impressed by what you do?"
     "I value your work for what it means to Art," Ian shrugs. "I think you are splitting hairs with me," he murmurs, looking at the scotch.

     "I think we are going to have an argument," he rolls over in the bed to lie upon his back again, his arms lifting and folding beneath his head. "I don't want to have an argument." He speaks it as if he can determine his course in this universe -- and in this conversation. It is as much a decree: so let it be spoken, so let it not be done. "I do not mean to split hairs. Or heirs for that matter." A joke. It might be missed among so much weightier air. "I do not feel that in your eyes it is important. I do not know how one can be impressed by unimportance. Maybe that is splitting hairs, but it is my feeling. I wish that it was something that you esteemed more, that is all I will say. You do not, and that is your opinion, which you have a right to have. I think that about sums it up. We... can stop now. I do not think it is going to be the kind of evening we will look back at fondly if it continues." How different he is than ten years ago.
     There is no mention, of course, that you should do anything but come with him to Italy to join him on his Fool's Errand. He doesn't bring it up. It is not a point for debate. He will be there. He wants you to be there with him when he goes. Even if you do think it is a waste of time. William sits up only long enough to pour another glass of the brandy. He settles back with it and drinks quietly for a moment.
     Somebody, crack a joke or something...

     On your side of the bed, Ian stands quietly for a moment. He looks confused for an instant, twisting left and right, before padding to the foot of the bed to pick up his silk pajamas. Bending, he steps into them, choosing not to speak again.

     "I really don't like it when you do that... when you say nothing..." William exhales. He sets his glass aside. "I feel, now, as if I have done something wrong and I do not think that is fair." Talk or don't talk -- he should make up his mind, yes? You should really be quiet, William. He takes a breath. A moment later, he is also out of bed. But he does not reach for his robe, he does not find his pajamas. Gloriously naked, he takes his bottle of brandy (what's left of it), he opens his nightstand drawer and takes out his cigarettes and his lighter.
     "I am going to go downstairs for a swim and a smoke," he softly notes. Lifting his eyes to you, his expression warms. "Do you want to come with me?" The Roman styled baths are waiting. An impossible place to be and to be upset. He is going there to unwind, and perhaps to put these things into some perspective.

     "No...thank you," Ian whispers, moving back to his side of the bed slowly. He stares at the floor and sits on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his legs.

     There is another exhale. Call it what it is, it is a sigh. It comes upon the edge of the sudden vision of William crouching down in front of you. Such a vision. For a moment, he says nothing. There is only Tell me in his eyes. And then his arms lie across your thighs and, miracle of miracles, he smiles. "You're beautiful when you're angry," he teases gently. Another sigh falls from him, but this one washes against your stomach as he leans in. I'm sorry whispered there. Leaning back again, William looks to you.
     "Tell me," he softly insists. "I will stay with you. Are you worried that I do not love you? Because we are having our first disagreement in... I think it is unbelievably a year..." he's as incredulous as anyone. "I do love you, Ian." He wears it so evidently on the features of his face, in the look, he wonders how it could ever be doubted. "Very much so. And... we agreed, yes? That when something is bothering us, we should say something. Sometimes, it means," eyes drift their attention down to your stomach and thighs, "...things will not always go as planned but," looking back to your face, William inclines his head. "...it doesn't mean we should not say these things. And it doesn't mean that I don't love you..."

     Ian's gaze lifts and he stares at you for a moment. There is no anger in his face. Instead, there is sadness. "William..." Ian smiles faintly, pursing his lips. "Fuck off."
     "Go enjoy your bath," Ian says softly, turning about to lie in the bed once again.

     "You know I prefer to fuck on," he murmurs. Bottle and cigs on the floor where he left them, William rises as you lie back on the bed. He bends over, hand grasping your hip possessively but gently and a kiss left on your neck -- kiss, something more like nibble. With an exhale, he rises again, huge tower that he is. "I'll be back in a bit," he murmurs, his expressions, his timbre much more like how the evening began. With a pat upon your hip, he steps away from the bed. He opens the panel that leads to the secret stair, but he doesn't close it after. He will let you hear him. You will know where he is.

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2004 12:21 PM