2019-08-09 - Nintendo and Not Sleeping

Alexander does walk around the festival a bit more, if only because there is no point in sitting at home and fretting about his friends. But, ultimately, the noise and sheer volume of people drive him away, and he's made his way back home. It's after dark now, but the light from the windows make it clear that someone is home at 13 Elm Street. Since there's no one to see his arms, he's taken off the too-hot button-down shirt, revealing the bandage on one arm that goes from wrist to elbow. He's sitting on the couch, playing Super Mario Brothers on an actual Nintendo that is kept meticulously in working order. Both controllers are out, although he's playing single player; the other one is given to Luigi, who is pecking at it as if he has any idea what he's doing.

Despite this utterly adorable bird and his favorite game, Alexander's face is blank, and his play mechanical, almost meditative while he concentrates on other things somewhere in the reaches of his mind.

Knock knock, light on the front door. Itzhak's there, with a frankly enormous tupperware and dark circles around his eyes. He leans on the doorframe with one arm, holding himself up. Without waiting for an answer he calls, "Hey, ya home?"

Alexander jumps at the knock on the door, and Luigi calls out before fluttering in a wide circle around the living room and landing in an indignant heap on top of his cage. For his part, Alexander looks more wary than indignant, at least until he recognizes the voice. He stands, and makes his way to the door, opening it. "Itzhak?" It sounds a little confused, but he steps back enough so that he can invite the other man in, staring at him. "You look underslept. Are you well?"

"Hi." Itzhak slips past, taking exaggerated care not to brush up against Alexander. He goes right to the kitchen like he owns it to set the container down. "Stephanie made baked spaghetti for you guys." Stephanie, the woman who owns number 15, in whose basement Itzhak lives. "You oughta be flattered, it's her specialty." His tone is flat. "I...yeah, I'm fine. Just. Shit. Shit."

Alexander closes and locks the door behind Itzhak - this may be the nicer end of Elm, but it's still Elm. He follows him to the kitchen, brow furrowed. Carefully, he says, "Please thank her for me. I don't think I've ever spoken to her before." He leans a hip against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest, and studies the other man. "You're concerned about Isolde," he hazards, carefully. "She'll be fine. Her injuries were comparatively minor, and they're really only holding her for observation because they're confused. I'll do my best to have her home tomorrow."

Itzhak rubs his eyes. "I mean it didn't feel great to get a text that she was in the hospital, but that's...only part of it. I went to see her, she's mostly okay." It's a cold assessment, for a guy who spent an hour playing violin at Isolde's bedside. He slumps his weight against a wall and looks at Alexander, eyebrows tilted up unhappily.

"I heard what they call you in town. That ain't it either but, it don't help."

"I'm glad you did. She likes you. I'm sure it made her happy to see you." It's soft. Alexander studies Itzhak, and his lips twitch upwards at the last. "What? Crazy Clayton? Or is there another, more clever, nickname running around that I haven't heard yet?" He waves towards the couch. "Go sit down, Itzhak. I'll get us a couple of sodas." Because they definitely need stimulants and sugar right now. "And if it isn't any of those things, tell me what it is."

Itzhak sighs, obeying. As he flumps his tall lanky ass down on the couch, he says, "That. You're not crazy. I know that. I've seen you. Makes me wanna push someone's teeth in, teach 'em manners. I don't like the way people talk about you, Alexander."

Still isn't 'it'. Itzhak rubs his mouth, now. "I can't. I can't talk about some of it."

Alexander stares at Itzhak, for a moment. Then he turns away to open the fridge and get two sodas. He comes back, and offers one to Itzhak before he sits wherever Itzhak isn't on the couch. "They're not wrong," he says, with a shrug. "Not entirely. I'm not what you'd call a stable sort of person - some of that is having too much of," he waves his bottle at his head, "but other people have just as much and deal with it better. Even in Gray Harbor. And I used to be worse, as a kid. A lot of people remember that. I won't say it doesn't hurt, but...I gave them reason."

He settles back and rests his head on the back of the couch, studying the other man. "Okay. If you say you can't, then you can't. I'm sorry, to have added to whatever it is."

Itzhak accepts the soda, has a swig. "So fucking what? People are all different. I couldn't hear a siren when I was a kid, I'd freak my shit. That don't give nobody the right to stand around--" he's getting heated, gesticulating sharply, scowling at nothing. He makes himself stop, eyes closing.

"No," he murmurs. "You got nothin' to apologize for. It's them should apologize to you."

Alexander watches this, head tilted to one side, like he's confused about why it would even be a thing to be upset about. He opens the cap on his bottle, takes a sip. "It's not about rights. Or right and wrong. You know that. But it isn't even really just the petty cruelty of humanity. I scare them, a little." He shrugs. "They're not wrong. When I was a kid, I had a way of uncovering secrets no one wanted to hear. It freaked people out - and on top of that, I'd have explosions of anger, fear, panic. I was in elementary school and tried to bite a parent's throat out. It wasn't...I wasn't thinking about doing it, but I happened to catch too much of hatred someone had for him, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was bloody and people had to pull me off of him." His smile is wry. "That one would have gotten me expelled if my father hadn't been a teacher in the district and it wasn't such a small town."

"I'm kinda creepy, Itzhak. I know that. You're a very kind person, and I appreciate it. I do. But there are reasons I earned that nickname."

Itzhak hisses in a breath between his teeth in pained sympathy. "Jesus." And then as Alexander goes on, he laughs silent and bitter. "Alexander, yer killin' me here. That wasn't your fault, man. You were just a kid. That's fucked up for you."

He unslouches and shifts to face the other man, one leg half-tucked up under him, leaning in, hazel eyes on his face. "You deserve better'n that. Okay? I want you to know that."

Alexander makes a frustrated sound. "You don't know what I deserve, Itzhak." He takes another swig of the soda, waves the bottle towards the other man. "But. It's kind of you to say. All I ask is that you please do not get into legal or social trouble on my behalf, because you thought some townie needed to have a lesson on manners. Okay?" He tries to meet Itzhak's eyes to see if he can convey the seriousness of that request through his most serious face. Srs!

Itzhak draws in a breath to argue...lets it out in a deep sigh. He smiles crookedly. "Ahhh I can't say no to you when you make that face at me. Okay. That's the way you want it, you got it. I reserve the right to fight anyone who lays hands on you." One arm hung on the back of the couch, he almost, almost reaches to stroke a wisp of hair away from Alexander's face, catches himself in time, and rests his head on his hand instead to avoid temptation. "I guess I don't know. But. I'd like to. Get to know you better, I mean."

Alexander's eyebrows arch. "I'm making a face? I didn't notice." It's not joking - he actually seems a little puzzled. Then there's a soft laugh. "What, really? You know that I can handle that myself, don't you?" Another swallow of the soda, then he gives Itzhak a thoughtful look. "Why?" A pause. "It's not that I mind. You're interesting and competent, and I enjoy your company. But you're a charming sort of guy who has a number of friends. Hanging around with me isn't gonna help that in any way, shape, or form. You could do better." A playful waggle of the bottle.

"How you can handle yourself ain't the point. The point is I'm gonna stand up for you and that's just how it is." Itzhak drinks when Alexander does, unconsciously mirroring him--then almost sputters, swallows and presses the back of his hand to his mouth. "Charming. God, that is real sweet of you to say. Wrong, but sweet."

He really looks tired; he folds up, one foot tucked behind his other knee, head resting on his arm on the back of the couch, soda bottle balanced on his thigh. "My friends are all dysfunctional assholes just like me. Ain't no worries there." His expression turns rueful. "I oughtn'ta hassle you. I just. Really like you. And I really like Izzy, too."

"Mm. A lot of that - wrong but sweet - going around. I admit my definitions are idiosyncratic, at times." Alexander's lips quirk upwards at the sputter, though, then shade into concern as he shifts on the couch. He reaches up and behind him, to get Isolde's pillow from its place, and thrust it at the other man. "Here. Stuffing's worn to shit on this thing. Put this under your head. And you're not hassling me. If I thought you were, you'd know it. And I like you. Izzy, well, I'm pretty sure she's very fond, but that's something for you two to work out." A teasing lift of his eyebrows.

Then he shifts, quick, to something more serious. "Why haven't you been sleeping?"

Itzhak tucks the pillow under his head and shoulder, and siiiiighs. "Smells like her." He quirks his eyebrows back, equally teasing. "Well, good. Then with ya permission I'll keep flirting with you."

The question catches him out somewhat, but he answers honestly. "PTSD nightmares, partly. Partly my stupid autistic brain runs in circles around in the inside of my skull doing laps like a racecar. I'm stressed the hell out in general. Surprise, right?"

Alexander rolls his eyes, playfully. "Twitterpated," he accuses, lightly. He finishes off the bottle of soda, and leans forward to put it on the coffee table, between the two controllers. Luigi whistles from on top of his cage, and Alexander tells the bird, "Don't even think about it." Luigi chirrups, and turns his tail to both humans. Alexander's eyes flick back to Itzhak. "If you want."

"Gray Harbor isn't exactly a restful place," he allows, quietly. "I'm sorry. It's not easy to deal with your own brain turning against you, on top of other stress." Voice of experience, by the tone. "How do you relax?"

"I seen some real fucked up shit and I only been here a few months. I can't imagine how much shit you must've seen." Itzhak's tone is quiet and sincere. "You and Izzy." He glances at the pair of boxy controllers. "Video games are pretty good. Let me think about something else for a change, you know? Almost all I got out here. New York, it's 2 AM and you can't sleep, there's half a million other people can't sleep either and you all kind of share that. There's plenty of places open 24/7 you can go and be miserable in some company. The sidewalks roll up at 9 PM around here, it's depressing. Gone to the beach a lot in the middle of the night." He's rambling on, softly, and stops. And smiles a little at Luigi, and then turns tired eyes back to Alexander. "I won't, if you don't want. Flirt with you. I was serious about askin' both of you out though."

Alexander laughs, softly. "Funny you should mention that, actually. Shit. A couple of months ago, a few of us got sucked into the sewers and a group of shit slimes tried to kill us. So," a wry flash of teeth, "I guess there's been a lot." He grows more serious. "I don't even know what Isolde has faced, but I think it's been very difficult. As much as I've seen, as much as I've done, I've never wanted to forget it as completely as she's forgotten a lot of her life. So." Be gentle. He doesn't have to say it, perhaps, or even Glimmer it - the look he throws the other man says it all.

"That sounds nice, though. Everything being open all the time. Even when I wasn't here, I wasn't in cities. I've never seen anywhere like New York." A touch of wistfulness. "But the beach is a good place. The forest is sometimes...nice. Dangerous, but nice." A wave of his hand at the offer. "If it makes you happy to do it, Itzhak, then do it. I don't mind. You're not gonna push me into doing anything I don't want to do." He relaxes into the couch and sighs. A twitch as a thought occurs to him. "Why 'stay down'? Does that ever work?"

"Augh." Itzhak pulls his lips back in an awful grimace. "That's fuckin' disgusting." He even shakes a hand out like a cat would shake its paw after stepping in water. Sure, tell him a story about trying to rip someone's throat out with your teeth and he takes it in stride, but shit slimes are a shit too far.

"I'm tryin' to treat her right," he goes on, "and, yannow, hassling her about her past ain't a good plan for that. Hate the way people call her crazy, too. Like it means something. Living here and coverin' up all the dirt is what's crazy, far as I'm concerned, plenty of respectable assholes in this town do that."

That question surprises him again, and he smiles, but it's chilly. "Ain't really the point. Point is to make people not try it with you to start with." He spreads his hand--DOWN--looking at the tattoos. "That said. Yeah. It works."

"It really was," Alexander says, one corner of his mouth going up. "Clothing had to be destroyed. I used up at least two hot water tanks on showers, and had a big acid burn on my chest."

There's a short, sharp nod in regards to Isolde. "I'm glad that you understand her. She deserves better than what life has given her, so far. I don't think Gray Harbor's the place to get that, as her current situation illustrates, but since she's here, we'll do the best we can."

He considers the smile, not exactly impassively, but with that blank mask of concentration that suggests mental files are being updated. "Warning coloration. I can understand that. I'm glad it works. You're clearly competent with violence, but I don't think you enjoy hurting people. I hope not, anyway." Then he stretches, and groans a little, putting the bandaged arm to his mouth to stifle a yawn. "I think there should be an attempt at sleeping. For both of us, since we clearly need it."

"Somethin', my whole life has been a circle of degradation and violence, somethin' something." Itzhak quotes True Detective in a tone dry as dust. Softer, he murmurs, "Nah. I don't enjoy hurtin' people. Not for its own sake. But there's a lotta nasty people in this world, and they enjoy it. Someone's gotta fight 'em. And that kinda fight....yeah. That, I like."

He comes back from thinking about it, and blinks muzzily at Alexander. "Yeah. Guess I'll schlep my sorry ass home. Hey, you know, talkin' with you is really nice. I feel like I can sleep, now. Thanks."

"And yet, you shine through it better than many I have seen," Alexander says, with a shrug. He stands. "You can crash on the couch if you want, and don't mind that the couch is way too short for your lanky ass." It totally is, too - only barely longer than what might be called a love seat. "But if not, then be safe on your way back, and I also enjoyed it. And I do hope you sleep well." He'll wait to see whether Itzhak stays or goes, then locks up, cuts out the lights, and heads to bed, himself.