2019-08-20 - Not Telling

When did he get into the habit of telling August frikkin' everything?

It happened at some point in the last few weeks, natural as could be. Itzhak would, at the end of his day, take a few minutes to tell Roen what was going on with him. What he was feeling. What he was thinking. He wanted to know what August thought about--well, everything.

Is he in love with the guy? ...A little, in a platonic kind of way?

It's just been so rare somebody genuinely cared to hear about all the dumb minutiae of his life. And would have opinions to express on them, to boot. He wasn't about to inflict himself like that on Finch, or de Santos, or Izzy, or Alexander, or Bex, or the other unlikely friends he'd made in this town. They had enough bullshit to cope with, they didn't need his too.

Not that August didn't. Not that August wasn't just as dysfunctional and fucked-up as the rest of them. Only, he had a way of making it okay that they were all fucked up. Itzhak didn't understand it, but it was a pretty good trick to have.

Anyway, that's why he finds himself in bed with his phone in his hand and his thumb hovering over August's number and a cold chill in his gut.

What do you think you'll say to him, Itzil? Alexander's smoking hot cop friend came over and flirted with me then roughed me up?

Technically he flirted with him first. August would probably know that without being told. August had a firm grasp on the kind of asshole Itzhak excelled at being.

Hey so it turns out I sold my soul to Felix Monaghan and now de la Vega thinks I know something about those murders?

You know how hot de la Vega is, right? He's even hotter when he's got you in an armlock

Would August be pissed off about that, or laugh? Or both? Either way he'd tell Itzhak that the police captain is bad news, no matter how mouthwateringly thick his ass in those jeans. See? He didn't even need to text him, he knows exactly what he'd say.

So I'm in hock deep to our local crime lord, de la Vega knows I'm working for him, and I don't want to go back, I can't go back, I can't not with Naomi sick and Ma older than ever and is a stuffed unicorn going to be all Mireleh remembers of me? I kept my nose clean goddammit, right up until those funny cells showed up in Naoshka's biopsy, cells that were smeared with dozens of owl's-eyes and growing in a twisted landscape somewhere in her breast, cells that forgot how to die and how was she supposed to pay to survive them, when her scumbag ex-husband don't even pay child support and she can't get insurance, ha ha, who needs health care when you're an adjunct at four different schools to make ends meet and your ex-con failure of a brother is wrenching under the table and your ma gave everything she had every fucking scrap to keep a roof over the two of you after Pop died and I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK

The phone is just a blurry glow. Itzhak blinks. Water trickles down his temples to nest in his curly black hair.

He sets the phone down with exaggerated gentleness. August can go unhassled tonight.

Sleeping isn't a great idea. Itzhak slides out of bed. A solid six hours of competitive Overwatch is what he needs instead, right?

Right.