In spite of himself, a single chuckle wells up and echoes dryly out of Tivan’s throat; it isn’t often anyone is at ease enough with him to try for humor, and it is rarer still that their paltry attempts at such should amuse him. But this man, bright-eyed and strange, offends him not: he inclines his head in a thing close enough to a bow, particularly for an Asgardian noble, to suit the Collector’s needs, and he is steady in meeting the Collector’s eyes. A rare thing indeed.
A pity to see it–him–have to go so soon.
The mingling of their laughter in this more deserted arm of the museum is quite strange. This is one of the few wings in which Tivan will take visitors, after all, being both inanimate and inoffensive. No creature stirs here, nor does there here lay any artifact which was once a living beast. It is a silent place, normally, which now swallows the small sounds made in it: polite, quiet laughter is seldom made for a life more extensive than this, though it shudders to die in such solitude, no doubt.
–Strange thoughts. Tivan dismisses them simply by raising his proud chin, though he then finds himself inclining his head in recognition of the great compliment paid to him. Yes, his Museum…his Collection…beyond compare, though rarely above reproach. He opens his mouth to respond with the compliment, but finds his words–halted, withering, when the young visitor….
“Such empty flattery is unnecessary,” Tivan replies. His tone is delicate despite his frank words; he would rather the most charming of this loutish band not sully his reputation with tasteless coquetry. He hardly needs more convincing to continue his trade with Asgard - to have them leverage sex against him would only be insulting, particularly in debasing a young lord to accomplish it.
Tivan lays a heavy hand on the shoulder of the young man - it is not cool enough to be felt through the fabric, though it is, naturally, chillier than most. He is…distracted, momentarily, by the fine make of the clothes, durable but delicate, elegantly crafted, light…. He pinches the fabric between forefinger and thumb and watches the smooth glide of it as he rubs it in between, saying only, and mildly, “You need not trouble yourself for the sake of our negotiations. I assure you, they are yet in no danger of turning. That would be…unfavorable to all. I would not have you debase yourself for the sake of a few credits.”
“Empty?”
Fandral repeats, his tone on the road to indignation, but then the Collector’s hand lands upon his shoulder, heavy and strong, and Fandral looks down at it, his lips still parted: further protestation dies off before it can fly from his tongue, and Fandral inhales slightly. Against the vibrant, verdant green of his tunic, Tivan’s glove looks blacker than black, and Fandral cannot help but wonder how skilled his hands might be - as a doctor’s, perhaps, well-trained and wrong? Or more as a librarian’s, delicate and perhaps with the pallid flesh ink-stained beneath the leather?
The way that the fingers drag over the fabric, pinch at the cloth, makes Fandral smile slightly, and he looks at the Collector with no thought for holding back the want in his eyes, nor in the set of his mouth.
“I don’t care a jot about credits,” Fandral murmurs, and it is true - credits mean naught to him, he who will likely never spend so much as a gold piece outside of the Nine Realms. When he travels farther afield, as he has to Knowhere, it is as a member of Thor’s convoy, and he might make a loan of some credits from Thor or Loki if there is something he desperately desires in the markets, but for the most part, he will only ever use the currencies of Asgard and Alfheim, and that is all. The credits are for use by the Asgardian treasury in other pursuits, and hardly affect Fandral himself.
Exhaling and laughing quietly, his gaze flits down, to the Collector’s breast. He takes in the fine make of his clothes - like armour, they seem to him, with no easy in for a man such as Fandral to undo them - and at the furl of fur that curls about the Collector’s mighty shoulder.
Taking a glance to the hand on his shoulder, Fandral is BOLD, as is his wont: he reaches out, with one hand - neither glove nor gauntlet protecting the bare, sun-kissed skin - and brushes his fingers through the fur of Tivan’s cowl. It is softer than he had expected, and after dragging his palm through the strands of fibre, he draws his hand back, then bows his head again: low enough, nearly, to brush Tivan’s chest between them.
Although not quite.
“I’ve made my intentions unclear,” Fandral murmurs, in the tone of one apologising, and then he draws back, reaching up and letting his hand hover over Tivan’s hand, but not quite touching it, not quite daring. “My-- empty flattery, dearest Collector, was personal. I hardly wander your halls, forgetting my party, in my capacity as ambassador. I’m sure, sir, were I to try negotiations with you, you would run circles about me, and tie my tongue in knots. Better that I watch from without, and admire the professionals.”
