Harbinger of spring, the blossoming baskets that hang along the edge of the Canale Grande perfume the air made otherwise dank by old water and rising temperatures. A growing warmth reddens the cheeks of the floating city's inhabitants. They buzz like bees, these mortals do. After a long, cold, wet winter, anything sets them off. Add flowers and sunshine and, worse yet, hope and you have a recipe for frenzy.
     Spring stretches its arms in April. What March suggested, April becomes. The nights from your arrival until now have been as orderly as a Bach concerto. One could set a metronome by your husband's coming and going, and the steady arrival of gifts. Things to occupy you in his absence. Things to let you know that though he may be covered in marble and up to his eyeballs in engineering, he's first and last thoughts were always of you.
     This night, however, he bested himself. Not long after sunset, long enough for you to be up and moving, you received a visitor. Giuseppe Marsalus, a carpenter, showed up with instructions. He was to see the Earl of Strathfayr to discuss a gift to be made for him, commissioned by his benefactor.
     (Of course, you recognized a ruse when you heard one, still...)
     Ah, Giuseppe. He had skin that is used to the sunlight, and already colored by it, and yet with that olive tone shared by another. Dark hair, hazelnut eyes. Not overly tall, but tall enough. And strong. And like all Italian men, he had the eyes of a gypsy -- prone to heat and laughter, usually concurrently. He came in wearing his white shirt and jeans. A young man, a carpenter with a fantastic opportunity to give back to Venice.
     And to you...
     It is some hours later. Many hours later -- in fact, it is midnight. What has become of Giuseppe? Shall you and he yet be in one another's arms? Shall he be bleeding again for you, that gift of a carpenter -- the real reason he was sent? The door of the main suite sounds with a click as it opens. There, also the rolling of a cart.
     "Just inside, that is fine," comes a languid baritone pouring over Italian. William. "Grazie." On the cart? A service of champagne in beautiful serving bowls, with Murano glasses to make an art out of such a drink. Pushing the cart, and now leaving, a young waiter with a handful of a healthy tip. You and William will be going down in history here, yes?
     William appears, clothed all in white -- a white shirt, fitted, that is tucked into white workpants. Black shoes are sturdy, good for footing in dark places on slick stone. He closes the door behind him, and he locks it. And he looks for you, a smile already stretching its arms like April over his mouth.

     The carpenter is still there, it is true, but he's quite dressed as he rests upon a sofa quietly. A short break from this world - an earned courtesy from the blonde man with whom he has had such pleasant time and company.
     For his part, Ian sits upon a chaise, book open. He is dressed casually in simple black slacks and black shirt. It can make him appear like Death Incarnate, but this night, why not?
     "Well," Ian says softly, eyes slow to leave his book, "...how was tonight?" He glances at his watch from the book, and then looks to you. He always begins the same, asking about the night and leaving it open to whatever you'd like to tell.
     "Thank you," Ian motions towards the carpenter, "...nice." The only evaluation of the night.
     Shall you have found him in any other manner than this?
     "You are early," Ian wonders, chin turned upwards now.

     Indigo eyes lift from his continued pushing of the cart -- and such a cart it is, loaded with champagne bottles and ice and silver and glass -- to see the sleeping...resting...no, recovering form of the carpenter on the sofa. Those eyes return to you. "I am glad you liked. I thought you might."
     "Ah, oui... a little early. They have worked so hard, and I have worked so hard," William smiles, "...that tonight I let us leave an hour early. It is going well. Very well. And ahead of estimates. So..." he makes a wave to the assortment of riches on the cart, "... a celebration en peu."
     He does not ask you if you want to join him. He tears the golden foil and begins the first uncorking. His mouth, that mouth, makes the beginnings of a smile. A deep smile, a heated smile. One that has considered how your early evening has gone, and one, also, that has secret delights all its own.
     The cork pops, only a little froth is wasted, and he pours two Murano flutes. "So well, in fact, that I think I can already say what is on my mind. But first, a drink, yes? A toast," he carries a glass to you. "To us," he murmurs.

     "Always," Ian remarks, though already skeptical. He smiles sweetly, if askance. "Hard work makes..." Ian considers for a moment, but then leaves it there. He grins at you, closing the book and setting it aside.
     The drink is stared at for moment; the colors of liquor always making Ian pensive on first examination. The glass is swirled, and the liquid considered. Only after silence has really settled does Ian says, "So...Gui...what is your mind?"

     There is only a smile as William holds out his glass, lifts it a moment, and then he takes a first swallow, not timid in the slightest but a full drink. "Hard work has served us well," he says as he comes to sit beside you. Once again his hair is short, its natural thickness and wave allowing it to stand here and there as mussed or as desired. There is marble dust in it, and it stands where his hand's last raking set it.
     "When I started this endeavor," William begins, settling back and taking his glass of champagne with him, "...art, not just the Salute," he further explains. And he turns his head, looking to you with the tilt of that archaic grin. "...I was searching for a place, a way to get to you. A business that I could start. And I did, and then it grew and grew."
     He chuckles a little, taking another swallow of champagne. "You want me to get to the point, yes? What does this mean? It means, my husband and love, that once the Della Salute is complete, I will be getting out of the art business. I will ...have done all I could possibly do with it. I will be ...slowly... liquidating my holdings. All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."
     "Of course," he mentions off-hand with a motion of his champagne flute and another sip of the bubbly liquid, "...you will have first pick of my collection, and the first right of refusal. Then Genevieve..."

     Not that some part of that wasn't expected. The feelings of something passing through was shared. But what it was, precisely, Ian could not have understood.
     "We have had an art business for...well, since it became a business, Will," Ian begins. He drinks from his own glass, then sits back a little. "That is like you hearing me say that I would sell Midlothian..."
     Impossible to think, it's true.
     "You are bored, Will. Tired of it. It holds no personal interest, other than simply business. The emotion is gone, and so you think...it is time to part with the..." and word said for emphasis, "...business."
     "Why should you give up an income as that? We live in uncertain times, laird."

     "It was ... a choice I made. I found a skill and then... used it with great aplomb and ingenuity. And now, I think we should enjoy it as it is meant to be enjoyed. To sell that which I cannot absolutely live without, or that which simply cannot be sold at this point. All of Leonardo's work, all of the Renaissance, I am keeping, holding. It does not need to work now. It is established. Nothing is going to happen to that market but gain. There are others, Vermeer for example... Monet, Manet...things that I invested in for us, in some cases simply to keep others from gaining from them. Those things I will liquidate at current market value, or trade or broker depending on the painting and the interest. That money will be ours, free and clear, to do with as we like. I am not giving up income. I am simply, as they say, cashing in..."
     He smiles at the mention of Midlothian. "Oui...it is like that in some fashion. But... there is nothing more for me to do, after this building. What, the Taj Mahal? What is left to do, to create, to recreate? I am ready for something else. I have become emperor of art," William chuckles. "There is only one above me, but I can live with that. I feel... good about it. It is a load off of my mind, my shoulders. My soul. I can... learn something new. Maybe I will go to work for you," he grins, leaning in to you.
     With a final tilt of his glass, he finishes his champagne. He looks to see if you would have more and he rises to pour himself another. "I never meant to keep it forever. Just...long enough. Long enough to make us enough money to ...live forever, if we wished it." He pours another glass for himself, indigo eyes lifting to look at you. Do you wish another, amours?
     "Now, the liquidation will give us a ...very nice nest egg." William smiles smoothly, "...as if we need more nests. It will be for us, for whatever we want. We will see what interests us. What interests me." He pauses, the smile becoming a grin. "Do not worry, amours. We are about to be... as they say...filthy rich... and money is always worth money. Art...?" He rolls a broad shoulder. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

     Ian looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Words. When he returns, he shakes his head, "You are convinced we are...filthy rich. By whose standards? Do not say Marquette or others, who may outduel us, if needed. The business...of art...of oil...is to defend ourselves, Will. Yes, you enjoyed your art, it was a passion. It is not any more, but does that mean you..." he frowns, "...get rid of one of our shields? Our sword...because it is no longer the one you enjoy swinging?"
     "Will," Ian drinks the last from his glass, "...you are not me. I am not you. But LionCorp is not about you...and what you learned. It is a business, nothing more. If you do not enjoy it, then...leave it to your ghouls who can see to it. Or I'll buy it, intact. I'll find someone to run it..."

     LionCorp...
     Ah, you think it is to go with the paintings...
     William smiles to you. Saying nothing but smiling warmly with that Casanovan tilt, he goes to you with refreshment in hand. He hands the new glass of champagne to you and he leans in placing a kiss upon your mouth. "Mon mari," he murmurs and that smile traces slanting, and then tenderly divulging even before he speaks. A large hand comes to lie upon your thigh. "I am not talking of liquidating the corporation, only one set of its assets, and how I will be spending my time. Or not spending it."
     He lifts your hand to him, he kisses it, and behind it he smiles. The devil. Your devil. "I shall tell you a secret. Art... was my little pet project. LionCorp ... is much more than that. This... release of certain assets will allow us to be lean," William grins, "...and mean, oui? Able to move quickly, to adjust quickly. It will give us flexibility. Something I think will become more and more important as this century unfolds itself. I do not need to keep every painting I have ever laid eyes on." He chuckles suddenly.
     "You see," he softly continues as he leans against the body of the sofa, curling that great form of his before you, his hand continuing its meandering against your leg, "In the 20th Century, with things valued so greatly, I was able to invest in other things. To begin to shift focus. With Stephen's acumen and guidance. And in many ways, his insistence." He winks now, scattering violet to you. "I love you... hmm... " There is no question, not in that kiss. The sound in his throat is confirmation, if you needed it vocalized. All for you, do you see it now? All for you... and for the Us that you have made with him.

     There's a skeptical look, a twist of thin lips. Ian's brow furrows, as if to indicate that he does not agree, but he will let it be on the rationale. You have thought of it at least. "Well, art was not a pet project," he does oppose. "It was everything...for a long time. But," he lifts his hand, "...I do want first right, is all. I'll have someone look, if..." he waves his hand as if to let you give such allowance.
     The kiss does not wipe away Ian's cantankerous look. He laughs a little though, letting his mood lighten. "I cannot believe you..." want to do this. Let it go. "Almost five centuries is a long time to shift." He will never shift, and he knows it.

     "It was everything for a while, this is true. But ... I always knew there would come a day when I would have to readjust. I prefer to do it myself rather than due to the vagaries of the market." William grins as you eventually laugh a little. Your eyes are so bright when you think I'm nuts. That mouth of his slants, full blooded.
     "The first right of refusal is yours, bien sur. My treasures...who else but my husband," another kiss, "... shall view them first, and choose from them," and another kiss, "...whatever his heart desires." William grins again. "From the 18th Century to present, at any rate. The Titian, Leonardo, Raphael," he waves his hands, "...those are not going anywhere. Most are too priceless to move at this point." That is both a good thing and a bad thing.
     "Girault will assume Couer, the restoration teams. I am not sure I will sell my share of the Ufizzi or not. Probably not. It is convenient, and it gives us a final sanctuary should all else fail." William rests against the body of the sofa, giving himself to it and to the Unknown. "That was my reward for Firenze," he murmurs. Another secret given. There was much more to that than met the eyes. In his mind, it was the least they could do, having kept him from you.
     Indigo eyes shift to you, the look tender. Unafraid. Steady. "It is a long time to shift. It is stranger, to me, that I have done it for so long... rather than I should, at last, give it up." He reaches for your hand again, the one without the champagne. "I want my hands free, mon mari, to tend to Our things... not my own vanities. It is that simple. And We and Our Future are more important to me. I will still paint from time to time, I am sure. It stills me, it helps me think. But ...as a career? Non. I have neither the time nor the inclination."

     There is still skepticism, but Ian gives a small smile with his heaping of reticence. The hand is returned with a kiss from him. Ian looks at you a long moment, then drinks from his own glass of champagne, a sip done. He exhales, leaning to set the flute on the nearby table.
     "Enough of that," Ian finishes, leaning back slightly.
     "Is there..." Ian's chin dips, "...something else?" You look odd. Ian gives a slight smile, to encourage more, if it exists.

     "Non," William offers quietly. He laughs at that look, he cannot help it. "Look... I know that you are skeptical...yes? You would not be you if you did not wonder after something I did: is he crazy or a genius? I know...and I am not expecting you to jump up and down, mais oui. I am happy for me, for both of us."
     Chuckling, William shakes his head. "Non, amours... there is nothing else. No other shoes to drop. Business is done for the night, I am yours." It is then that indigo eyes shift subtly in the direction of your Italian. "That is... if you are not too tired or full. Giuseppe... was to your liking?"
     Sitting up, William readjusts himself. He realizes he is still in his work clothes and slowly works to rectify that from where he sits. The white t-shirt is tugged out of white work trousers and he peels out of it. "Did he... fix the drip in the bathroom?" That mouth curves a knowing smile as he glances around then finally tosses the shirt aside on the ottoman.

     "He did," Ian says evenly, without reservation. He is not one to talk about such things, it is true, and tonight is no exception. Never has he kissed and told.
     "I am...happy for you, Gui," Ian says softly, moving closer. "I am. I am happy for you and what delights you." Now that brings a smile, being one of those. But Ian goes on, "And I am not too tired." In case you were confused.
     "Care to take a walk?" Ian wonders softly. "Ah, I cannot wait for Chenonceau...we never walk there," he smirks.

     "What is mine, is yours," he murmurs. "And it is ... for us. And a walk? Certainement. I would like that." A hand goes to your face -- an anchor there, you to him and him to you. You may not kiss and tell, and the story of Giuseppe may not linger on your lips, but his mouth has its own gossip to spread.
     "Chenonceau is perfect for walking," he nods, the kiss parting. Leaning back, William takes your hand and he stands. "I don't think we've even taken a walk through the gardens there. We will have to rectify that."
     Shirtless, he is a wonder. Is he going out like that? It appears so. "I am happy, too. Happy that you are not tired," he chuckles, a sound in his throat lingering. "I have been at work all day," those arms surround you, no painter has arms like this. "And I missed you..."

     "Ach," Ian grins, shaking his head. "Stop...we are leaving for a walk," he complains, grinning as he pushes your arms. "It is too bad the shops are closed," he notes for the record. "Well, the cafes are open."
     Ian gives another kiss, almost chaste. "Come on...we will sit and watch people pass by as they come from the bad nightclubs," he grumbles. "And you can tell which pieces I should steal from your collection."

     "Steal," he chuckles, his arms withdrawing with a sigh. I should not send you beautiful Italians for lunch. You have no appetite when I get home. "Ah, mais oui," comes the audible sigh and a look to you. "I will put something on...something that has not been under the building. Hmm? Ah, and Stephen should..." His hand motions toward the sleeping, handsome Giuseppe.
     Yes, someone should send him home...
     Another kiss, another grin and he is stepping away, your William, stretching as he goes. "You will want the Vermeer, I suppose," comes the languid baritone. "The Rembrandts...but... steal, amours. That is such a dirty word..."
     He laughs. He should. He stole them once himself.

Posted by rowan at March 13, 2006 11:59 AM