Ilad, Jean-Paul
The day is bright and clear, warm and pleasant. When Ilad enters the bookstore, it is at a kind of mosey, at the close of a long and fairly leisurely walk through town outside. His dark leather jacket is worn open, his shirt beneath a rich burgundy worn open at the collar. His hands clasped loosely behind him, he stands straight as he pauses, surveying the shop with a long sweep of his glance as he draws a breath of the dusty, papery scent of the air in here.
Jean-Paul is not hard to spot between the rows of books. His hair, silver-streaked and wind-tousled, is typically ... striking. His head bowed, he reads the back of a book, flips inside the cover to read page after page of glowing reviews, and then slides it back on the shelf. Hands settling in his pockets he glances down the rows of books with an expression of mild frustration, thwarted in his search. He is not wearing a jacket. He is wearing a shirt. (And jeans, and shoes.)
Ilad is also wearing jeans and shoes, so neither of them are in danger of violating any public indecency ordinances. Uhm, at least not that one. Gaze catching on the familiar figure among the stacks, Ilad paces across the brief distance between to pause at his row. Expression thoughtful, he slants a look along the rows of books, marking the section, and says, "That time of year, hm?"
Noting Ilad's approach in his peripheral vision, Jean-Paul turns his head as the distance closes. Welcome a muted thing, expressed in a lightness of his gaze and tip of his head, he nods. His sigh is tragic as he looks back to the books. "It was easier when I only had to buy for my sister," he says, reaching out to tug on the spine of a book and then shove it back in place. "Do you guys do Christmas at all? Or just Hanukkah?"
The shake of Ilad's head is slight. "No," he says, "no Christmas. I understand many Jews do, in a secular fashion, but -- well, I believe Avraham might give presents to girls," he corrects himself, with a twitch of one of his eyebrows higher than the other. "Come Purim next month, perhaps I will give out gifts. Baffle everyone." He glances at the shelf, mouth twitching at one corner as he surveys the titles.
"Not really much of a religious holiday any more," Jean-Paul agrees. His disapproving exasperation is but a light gloss. "Unless your religion is commercialism." He turns away from the shelves -- fiction, general -- to face Ilad. "Purim?"
"The Book of Esther," Ilad answers helpfully, lifting his hand to draw his knuckles along the curve of his jaw. "One more holiday to celebrate not being exterminated. That is supposedly our day to exchange gifts, not Hanukkah, but, well--" He opens his hand, letting it fall away from his face. "Commercialism."
"Ah." That is ... mildly enlightening. Jean-Paul's lips twitch, half smile and half grimace, with the expression folded crooked in faded edge. "You likely will have a lot of confusion," he agrees.
"Perverse of me," Ilad says. His head tips in a slight inclination, gaze skipping with a kind of sympathetic rue over Jean-Paul's expression before he looks back to the books. "You find the pickings slim on the shelves, then?"
"Oh, I don't know. There are certainly /books/, but books for a gift--?" Shrugging, Jean-Paul turns away with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. "I was about to give up and head out."
"I cheated, myself," Ilad says, shift of weight subtle in his settle on his heels. "Buying a new bike and giving my brother the old one. Thoroughly uncreative generosity."
Subtle thought it might be, Jean-Paul marks that settling with a glance and tips his head. He remains poised on the edge of movement: as he said, about to head out. Any time now. "Leftover presents. Nice," he teases.
Smile a slight ghost in answer, Ilad says, "Yet so much more exciting than anything I might have actually come up with." He considers a few titles in the quick dart of his glance, and shakes his head. "What is Plan B?" he asks.
"Walk until I find something," Jean-Paul says with a sort of resignation. "Amazon. Actually, probably Amazon."
Breath caught in a low chuckle in his throat, Ilad turns a hand in an acknowledging gesture. "Right," he says. "Amazon, practically the commercial god. I was shopping the windows myself out there," he adds, glancing back over his shoulder toward the spill of light from outside into the bookstore. "Though I suppose I might turn that into the real thing if I actually saw ... something. I might have some ... ah, holiday reciprocity." His eyebrows twitch together, reflective of a moment's baffle.
"And that is how it starts. It might not be your holiday, but people buy you things because it is theirs, and so you are forced to return the favor." Canting his head, Jean-Paul says, "Tribute to the mighty god of Visa." He smiles, and his gaze slides outward, to the front door. "Who will you have to buy for?"
"Ah," Ilad says, and he shakes his head slowly. "Yes. Holiday entrapment." Mystification reflected in tone rather than his expression, which largely remains mild, he shares: "Alden brought me a pair of -- cuff links. Pearl ones. I suppose in the spirit of true reciprocity, I should find him a leaf blower."
Jean-Paul's gaze skips back to Ilad with a sharp twitch of his eyebrows. "He ... bought you cuff links," he says, the words carefully shaped, like maybe they will reveal their meaning in repetition.
"He did," Ilad confirms. He blinks once as he lifts his gaze to meet Jean-Paul's, and although his expression is not exactly an unyielding or inscrutable mask, it only suggests a continuing mystery.
Scrutiny brief, Jean-Paul allows a slow touch of irony to hue the arch of his eyebrows. "Cuff links may be more practical than a leaf blower, you know."
Ilad holds up both of his hands, knuckles curled inward. He displays his jacket at either wrist. It is leather. You cannot put cuff links on it.
"And yet," Jean-Paul says, humor mild at this display.
Ilad turns his hands outward, palms up, in a gesture of defeat that carries humor only in the curve of his mouth, before he lets his hands fall. "Maybe a tool belt," he says. "What do you think? Screwdrivers, hammers? Very practical."
"Practical," Jean-Paul agrees. Glancing low-lashed across the book store, he says, "Unlikely to be found here, however."
"True," Ilad says. Although the likelihood of finding a leaf blower at the bookstore seems pretty slim, too. He glances toward the front door again. "I am sure there is a hardware store around here somewhere," he adds philosophically. "Who are you shopping for?"
"I was hoping for secret santa inspiration," Jean-Paul says with a sort of sigh, and then regards Ilad thoughtfully. "Any idea what -- might like?"
Ilad's eyebrows go up. He considers, a moment thoughtful, his gaze flicking away and then back again. "Something colorful, maybe," he comes out with at length. "The bead shop up the block was displaying some agate necklaces and ... that sort of thing, when I wandered by."
"The bead shop." Jean-Paul's silence draws long and resigned.
"If your masculinity would suffer too much to set foot in such a place," Ilad says, his smile lighting his features in a quicksilver flash, "you may dispatch me instead."
Jean-Paul glances to Ilad, thoughtful. "That sounds almost like a challenge."
"A challenge," Ilad repeats, with a whisper of query in the low thread of humor that warms the words. "A bead challenge."
"I might stop by," Jean-Paul says. "We'll see." His tone is airy. w/e beads. He can handle it. "I should get going, though. Good luck with your own shopping."
"My thanks," Ilad answers with an inclination of his head in Jean-Paul's direction. "B'hatzlacha." Now he is just doing it to be a brat.
Eyes narrowing, Jean-Paul says, "I can't even spell that."
"Well," Ilad says, another chuckle in his voice as his dark eyes glint bright humor at Jean-Paul over a mouth held largely solemn, "that hardly matters; any spelling in your alphabet would be about as right or wrong as any other."
With a twist of two fingers, Jean-Paul waves a salute in acknowledgment. He then turns, off to go ... look at beads. "Later, Ilad."
"Later," Ilad answers, so at least he bids farewell in English this time. He turns a thoughtful look after Jean-Paul's departure, and then walks up another aisle on a new course.
Christmakkuh shopping?