2019-10-21 - After the Fire

August has opted to remain with Itzhak at least until he wakes up. For once, his trusty duffel with its spare change of clothes isn't ready to go in the back of his car, and so he's left lounging in the other chair, wrapped in towels. They're Itzhak's towels, a collection of motley beach towels. Faded and worn, the kind you keep around for weird emergencies. Like your friend burning the fuck out of your hand and then moping about it in the rain.

His leather jacket is the only thing he managed to dry under his own power, so that's hung on the back of the chair. He's wrung out the rest of his clothes as much as he can, and spread them about in a vain attempt at getting them slightly less soggy. So this leaves him barefoot, one towel wrapped snug and low on his hips, another around his shoulders to keep him moderately warm, texting one his phone.

Itzhak slept for a couple of solid hours, exhausted in spirit and in the way the body remembers it was injured. Like a cat, somehow he can sleep draped over the arm of the stuffed chair.

He shifts, waking up--but he doesn't know where he is. Concrete, extremely uncomfortable bed... He doesn't know where he is! Itzhak springs out of the chair, launching to his feet in a surge, fists clenched and raised, snarling something half in Yiddish and half in English. Totally incomprehensible but the intent is obvious: come get some.

The sudden 0 to 60 that Itzhak undergoes has August shifting up in his chair, awkwardly so as to keep the towel in place. He grimaces, realizing this is yet more shit which is his fault, stays still. The scars stand out starkly where they're visible, especially the new one on his right shoulder.

After a few seconds, he asks, "How you feeling?"

Sometimes, Itzhak can forget. Sometimes he can pretend the words on his knuckles are just hipster nonsense, that the reason he can't get a job is just because he's an asshole with autism who can't make nice. Then he wakes up fighting and terrified and all the pretending stops.

He stares at August, quivering with adrenaline, fists up, running threat assessment. The answer he comes up with is an older man wearing nothing but a towel is probably not going to do him much damage. (It's wrong, of course, in this case, but this isn't about logic.) After far too many seconds, he takes a breath and lets his hands drop. The pale healed patch of skin on his right hand is obvious, almost glowing against the weathering of the rest. "Why are you naked in my garage?"

A scarred up, middle aged man wearing an old, faded purple towel around his waist and an orange one like a shawl, his smartphone in hand and his hair only now drying off. The only thing that suggests the danger is that patch of new skin on Itzhak's hand.

August glances at it, down at his lap. "Alexander had me practicing. In the rain." He glances at his jacket. "Could only get it out of my jacket. Didn't really want to get covered in a rash or soak my car, also," he glances back up at Itzhak, "figured least I could do is keep an eye on you."

Itzhak whooshes out a breath and winds both hands into his hair, pulling, but not too awfully hard. Just enough to get himself grounded. He nods, closing his eyes. "Okay. ...Gotta piss." He schleps into the bathroom, moving slow.

Back out after a few minutes, he comes over to pick up his mug, returned from the grave, and rubs a thumb over the glossy ceramic. It looks like new and not like something his sister got him five years ago. He gestures at August with it. "Thanks." Sitting down, he looks at August, tired and wary. But what he says is, "Don't blame yaself."

August makes a face about the mug. "Sorry I couldn't make it look like...it did." Something that he'd received years ago, from a loved one. "Still working on this whole finite control thing." He winces as soon as he's said it, because really, who knows that best now?

Not blame himself? Please. "Too late," he says. "I already packed my bags for that guilt trip, even spent a little while in," he gestures outside, "your sunny parting lot, setting concrete on fire."

He takes in a shaky breath, lets it out. Stares at his phone, playing with it. "You're one of the last people I'd ever want to hurt."

Itzhak spreads his hands, hitching a shoulder. "Eh. Fair. Glad Alexander was here in that case." He sets the mug down and leans forward to look at August intently. He even looks him in the eyes. "I'm not mad at you. Do I gotta say it in ya head? 'Cuz I will if that's how you gotta have it."

"I'm glad he was too." August's voice is a little rough when he says that; he has to clear it a few times.

He raises his eyes, hazel to hazel. Shifts, licks his lips, nods. He gathers the shoulder towel a little more comfortably, leans back in the chair. It takes a second for him to reach out; he's tentative like he hasn't been in the past, uncertain. Who knows all the ways his power had changed? Not him.

Itzhak spills out of his chair and kneels on the rug next to August. He grips his wrist, and makes contact. Sure, he has no reason to hold back. For all his brainpower, his ability to affect the brains of others is very low.

The violin fades in, thin and thready at first, then (the sense of Itzhak adding weight to his bow) grows loud and firm, floating over the churning surface of his mind. Far below lies the abyssal trench of his emotions. Fractal constructs form out of spun music and thought. <<I'm not mad at you. It was an accident.>>

The urge to yank his arm back is strong, and August has to clamp down on it. He's not touch averse like Alexander, but he's particular, and he's feeling a little sensitive. It's Itzhak though, so it's fine. The list of people allowed to do that is vanishingly small, but he's near the top.

Forests don't usually change this fast, but in the end, it's still just an analogy. The aspen in the caldera isn't alone. There's an entire grove in there now, green gold and white and shimmering. Everywhere the trees are bigger, the undergrowth thicker. The river's wide and deep, ending in a cascade of waterfalls down a bolder-strewn cliffside.

The violin music echoes through this new space. <<I know. Don't think I'm not grateful. But it still happened.>> Though it's filled with trees, still the ruined side of the volcano sits torn open, with only small wildflowers pushing up through the heavy mud and ash. A reminder of what came before.

Itzhak is in fact taking advantage of his status with August to kneel so close to him, to wrap long calloused fingers around his wrist. All while August is as close to completely naked as makes no difference. Itzhak wants to get close to him (the thought comes through), prove to him he's not scared of him. A little rare physical intimacy is given to go with their emotional intimacy.

<<You changed again. Wow.>> Itzhak's mental violin-voice sings in genuine wonder. <<You're prettier than ever.>> And he and Alexander and Ruiz helped! He's proud, suddenly, proud and grateful that he gets to see August like this. <<Alexander said you had a breakthrough. I can tell.>>

It's a calming thought, Itzhak's desire to prove that to August in all ways that matter. He's feeling pretty bad, especially given how hard he's worked to never strike out like he did when he first got out of the hospital. He'd been lucky, then, that he'd shut himself off from his power so thoroughly that he was months in getting back, because it took about that long for him to get his anger under control. The memories of that time after ache, an old wound groaning with the change of seasons.

<<Alexander said there could be more.>> August doesn't know how to feel about that, and it comes through in the random splashes of the water down the falls, a stir of some nervous animal in the forest. <<This might not be as strong as I can get.>> So what other things night he do unawares? God, he doesn't want to think about it.

...so he doesn't. He focuses on Itzhak, on the compliments. No need to borrow trouble ahead of schedule. Gray Harbor would make sure it came to him in due course. <<You helped.>> He can't help it; his spirits lift in response to the pride. <<None of this would be here if the three if you hadn't been there.>> He's going to be forever grateful for that.

<<Yeah. Maybe. He knows that kind of stuff, so I wouldn't be surprised if he's right.>> Itzhak is reliable; he always says what he's thinking. When he tries to lie, it's painfully obvious. So when he tells August that, it doesn't occur to him to try to blunt it. <<Good thing he made you practice, if that's what it's gonna be like. I can't do any of that shit and I'm a little jealous.>> A memory of him and Julia practicing on the beach with a random assortment of junk. His style is finesse, hers is blunt. Neither of them can make fire, at least not without picking up a match.

Itzhak's fingers are warm on August's wrist, almost hot. His head is bowed nearly to August's shoulder, his eyes closed, concentrating. Within, his music sweeps along the river, rippling amongst the trees. There's so much growth! Look at all this new stuff! <<This is good. I can't look at you like this and not think it's good.>>

August needs that straight forward, no holds barred truth just now, because if he is going to change again well he's not going to hurt someone in the process. So. He'll just have to be ready, next time.

<<It was so I wouldn't be afraid of it.>> He thinks of hunting, and brief moments of that come through; his father had a sister who lived in the woods in Oregon and taught him for three summers before he joined the Army. <<Like learning to use a gun I don't have a choice but to carry.>> He grunts at the jealousy, though in good humor. <<We can trade. You can have fire, I'll take the opening doors. Deal? ... Yeah, it's good. You're right.>>

August turns his attention to the fractals, leaving the trench to its privacy. <<I'm getting Hyacinth to make you a new violin now and no one can stop me.>> He listens to the music. Birds in the trees answer. <<Rebecca offered to get you strings. Fancy ones.>>

<<You kidding? It's a good thing I can't make fire. I'da burned the entire place down by this point.>> Itzhak's music runs up an arpeggio of amusement. <<Nah, it picked the right guy. You. Alexander's right, you can't be afraid of it. Easier said than done, right?>>

There's movement in the abyss. Alexander and Rebecca and although neither of them mentioned her, Isolde. The names stir the currents of his soul. <<I don't wanna let her buy strings that are TOO fancy. I'm not a concert soloist, for what do I need crazy expensive strings? But I might let her anyway. She feels bad.>> The violin plays to the forest and river, and to the blasted, silent volcanic cone as well. <<So don't you feel bad and make me let you give me too much. But. You and Hya can make me a violin.>>

August can't help it: he laughs, and the landscape laughs with him, a bright, sharp breeze though the fall forest. Not the bitter chill that passive aggressively reminds one summer is gone; no, this is the grinning face of children picking out pumpkins, of celebrating the fall harvest. (Perhaps his mother picked his name for more reasons than just 'her ancestors were Roman'.)

<<I want to contradict you and yet...>> A brief memory; Itzhak and Ruiz, suddenly given the Gift August has, setting a meadow on fire while Alexander tried to get them under control. A soft sigh of agreement follows the wake of that visual, harrowing then but a cause for amusement now. <<Yeah. Easier said. But I'll get there.>> He will, because he has to.

A low rumble from the river answers the violin. <<I'll try not to. I can't make any promises about Hyacinth Addington, though.>> Another breeze, this one teasing and light, chases the music. <<I dunno, maybe you've got a future in the Seattle Symphony.>>

Itzhak laughs too, under his breath as well as in the kythe. <<What for should they want with me? I'm a fiddler.>> Other, less pleasant reasons are wound up with that one. Like, orchestras don't hire ex-cons, and particularly not ones who look like him. Maybe he'd pass a blind audition, but his skill on the violin is the least of the obstacles to that kind of a career. Itzhak doesn't let those reasons weigh down his musical kythe. He's well-used to them...and they contribute to why he's a fiddler.

He lifts his head, eyes drifting open, focusing on August. "You believe me?" he asks, voice quiet and gravelly.

The trees sigh in the wind, decrying those reasons. He's as good as any of their violinists. He should be recognized as such. That's not the world they live in, though, much as it would be nice if it was.

August lets out a long, slow breath, opens his eyes. He studies Itzhak for a long, long time, eventually nods. "Yeah." He still feels bad about it, but he also believes him. He holds up his free hand, examines it. He gives Itzhak a wary look. "I won't do it around you if you'd rather I didn't. Practice, I mean, or at all."

Itzhak looks August in the eye again, eyebrows up. "Why would I want that? I been hurt worse. By people who were doing it on purpose." He grabs August's lifted hand, smooches the back, then before either of them can get too embarrassed, levers off his knees to his feet. "I kinda figure none of us can afford to be picky about that anyway," he calls as he goes to gather up August's clothes. "What about when you gotta go flame-on in front of me, what then? Be reasonable, Roen!"

It's on the tip of August's tongue to say 'do you mean aside from the part where I just burned the fuck out of you', except they've established Itzhak's not mad about it, and he knows what a U-turn into self-blame feels like. So he accepts the kiss with a wry twist of his lips and gets up, careful to keep the towel-skirt in place.

"I don't plan on using it like that. And before you say something like 'men plan, God laughs', I know, there's always a chance I'll have to." He watches Itzhak gather his clothes. Seems to hesitate, then says, "Do you want to see it, then?"

"Yeah I wanna see it." Itzhak smirks, shooting August a glance over his shoulder. "I got no secrets from you. That's exactly what I was gonna say. Der mentsh trakht, un Gott lakht."

The clothes in his arms, he considers them. He looks over at the cherry-red violin case, then wrinkles his nose at it. He taps out a beat, toe of his boot against the concrete, whistles something sprightly. August's clothes begin to drip and steam. Surprised, Itzhak juggles the armload of cloth. "Shit. I made it hot. How did I do that? Well, whatever works I guess?"

"It's all machine washable," August says, shrugging. He ambles towards the open bay door, because on the off chance there's an issue, he plans to do nothing more than fail to set fire to sodden ground.

The practice has helped; August is able to hold out his hand and the sparks don't form until he wills them to. They spin into a little vortex, flash, and a teardrop-shaped flame appears in his hand. There's a faint lavender tint to it, almost like there's a bit of pre-mixed oxygen going into however August's actually powering it. Maybe on accident for now, though he wonders if he shouldn't sort out how to do that intentionally. It casts stark, dancing shadows on his face.

Itzhak drops August's clothes where they are, slightly dismayed that he didn't work what he intended on them. Is that good? Bad? Who knows! Not him! He follows August to the bay door, and gives him a sideways look. "You're showin' what you got to the entire industrial park. Lucky them, yeah?" He's noticed the new scar, but he hasn't asked.

The flame springs to life and Itzhak's eyebrows perform a similar feat up his forehead. "Now you can do what Fincheleh can do. You're both strong as hell, I can hear it." He turns his head, listening to something only he can hear.

"Scars and chest hair--nothing any of them haven't seen before," August says with a sideways look.

The fire's real, and quite hot. His shield from the matter Gift can only do so much; he starts to feel it after a few more seconds. "Yeah," he says, a little distantly. He turns, takes aim at a concrete highway barrier, and tosses. The fire flies, roughly ball shaped, and thankfully as before it manages to connect. It splashes, scorching the barrier and sizzling out in the rain in an instant.

August takes in a deep breath and lets it out. No sparks on either hand. "Think I'm getting the hang of it." He licks his lips. "Lilith also said something about...bringing people back." He looks askance at Itzhak, back at the scorched concrete. "When they're on the brink. You know?"

"That is so bad ass," Itzhak mutters, honestly impressed. He twitched a little, on the inside, when August flung the fire, but he's got long, bitter experience with not showing a reaction to dangerous stuff. (Get a pretty girl or a hot guy to flirt with him and he can't hide anything, on the other hand.) "Bringing people back...? From the brink?" Itzhak has to take a minute to translate that. "You mean. If they're gonna die. Right?"

"It's sure something." August sighs, nods a confirmation to Itzhak's question. He's been trying not to think about that. Trying real hard. Because--

No.

He laughs, nervous and bitter. "That's gonna be hard to do." He lets out a long, slow breath. He'll think about that later. Talk to Eleanor about it. Right.

He manages a smile. "So am I driving to Ellie's like this?" he asks, amused. "Not that she'll mind."

Itzhak runs his tongue over his teeth, under his upper lip. That answer gave him a lot to think about.

Then he swaggers over to August's clothes, picks up his shirt, and tosses it at him. It's still warm and damp, like it didn't spend quite long enough in the dryer. "That's up to you, pal. You're rugged, right? This rain ain't nothin'." And grins lopsided at him. Serious time over.

The thump of his shirt against him drags August further out of serious time. "Yeah yeah yeah," he says, making a face. He tosses the towel aside and pulls the Henley on. Well, he can make it to Ellie's like this, anyways. "Rugged, that just means 'tolerates a lot of stupid shit'," he mutters. He heads over to the pile of clothes, raises an eyebrow at Itzhak. "Do I need to do this in the bathroom?"

Itzhak hits the close button for the bay door. "That's definitely you then. You hired de Santos on purpose." He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, looking at August not without a certain appreciation. "You actually, literally got nothing I ain't seen before. That said, if you change in front of me I'm gonna take that as license to look." And cocks an eyebrow at him sassily.

August raises a hand as he leans over to pick up his boxers and pants. "Now, really, only maybe, 75% of his ideas are stupid. The rest are at least worth giving him thirty seconds to explain before you tell him to stop."

He raises an eyebrow back. 'Challenge accepted,' is what that says. But he doesn't make a strip show of it; towel off, he goes about the process efficiently, wincing as a pin somewhere complains about all this cold and wet he's hanging out in. No new scars from the hips down, so the one on his right shoulder is, at least, the worst things have been of late. There's a nice view of the two ravens on his left leg for a spell, then they're covered, and then everything else of note is as well. He yanks on his socks, steps into his boots. "I'm gonna learn how to do this thing with the water," he says, pointing at Itzhak. "Mark my words. I'll figure it out."

Itzhak looks, taking his time while August gets dressed, and he only gets a little red. "Oy, you're a good lookin' man. Ellie's got it made." He's still not asking about the new scar. "So figure it out. You're gonna hafta, because I sure as hell can't explain it to you."

"Oh, Isolde and Rebecca aren't doing too shabby themselves," August says on a serene smile. He shrugs on his jacket, comes over and holds out his arms, eyebrows up to ask if a hug's okay.

Itzhak steps right up and hugs August. No awkward no-homo A-frame hug here. This is the real deal, close up and personal, long arms squeezing August with aggressive affection. "Ain't nothin' changed," he murmurs. "Not between us."

August hugs Itzhak back, firm and tight. "Okay." He steps back, looks down at one of his hands. He concentrates a second, snaps his fingers. The small amount of remaining water flees off his clothes, and he grins. Of course...now it's all over Itzhak's floor. He winces, shrugs. "Sorry. Still working on the orderly part." Buy, hey, now his clothes are nice and dry!

Splip! Water on his boot. Itzhak laughs anyway. "Not bad. Gotta work on that technique." He jerks his head towards the door. "G'wan, get outta here. Gonna close up. Fuck it, right?"

"Fuck it," August agrees. He nudges Itzhak with his shoulder as he heads out, keeps a tight hold of the levity Itzhak's managed to help him find.