2019-10-29 - Long Day's Journey

It's been a long, exhausting day. Couple of days. ...week. It's been a week.

The dryads and their ichor high and the trip to the asylum would have been way more than enough to warrant August needing a few days off. But being attacked by zombies in a fucking graveyard, well, that was some bullshit. They even fucked up his jacket.

It takes him a few tries to fix it with his Glimmer, but he manages. Then he gets the gouges on his chest cleaned and bandaged. Then, a bath. A long, hot bath.

He soaking in the hot water and steam when it occurs to him to check up on Itzhak. So he sighs, rubs at his eyes, and reaches out. He probably won't have the strength for anything else after this. He winds down the road, through the town, seeking. Almost absently, without thinking about where he's looking. He's so tired. The dryad's effect lingers in the form of a gentle, fuzzy, golden glow in the landscape of his mind, like a moon drifting overhead is casting a gentle light on everything.

<<Hey.>>

Itzhak's also been thrown for a hell of a loop over the last few days, for different reasons. One thing's for sure: the visit to Starling rattled him. Her power, granted by a harpy, is like nothing he's ever seen in another human being. August's mind finds him at home, with a musical instrument...but not his violin. It's starting to seem like he hasn't touched his violin (but he doesn't think of it as 'his'; he thinks of it as just some violin) since the funeral. What's in his hands now is a mandolin. He's playing it, remembering how it feels. That's when he lifts his head, black curls falling into his eyes. <<Hey.>>

If he hadn't just helped slaughter a legion of zombies, August might be more afraid of Starling. Instead, his entire position on her is 'she can meet me in the pit'. Ill-advised, an attitude from his 30s, but he's running on fumes.

<<That had to be rough for you.>> He can say this for all of them, himself included, but it's easier to focus on someone else just now. <<How're you holding up.>> His chest twinges, and he shifts in the tub, which jobs a memory loose about the trip. About...how Itzhak felt. Well, time for that later.

The music Itzhak is picking from the mandolin winds through his head, amid a towering fractal clutter of other things and other experiences, some very very recent and most of which he doesn't know how to process. His emotions are turbulent, although his fingers are as always steady and skillful on the instrument. He keeps playing, sweet and melancholy. <<'m okay.>> It's not a lie! It's just a blanket response covering things that are big and lumpy and not really all that okay. <<You okay? You feel like you're at the end of ya rope.>>

A brief flicker of August lying in the bathtub with a nice heavy gouge across his chest, there and gone in a second. <<Not really, but I'll be fine.>> He drifts a second, listening to the mandolin with a smile, even though it's not the violin. <<It's alright if you're not. Okay, I mean.>> A pause while the soft golden light of the dryad's ichor drifts through his mind. For a second he can feel the water evaporating from his skin and the pores tightening in response.

Yeah, he's exhausted. <<Do you wanna talk about any of it?>> The asylum, he's thinking, shown as a shard of memory: the Dream, Starling, the...the rather interesting condition Itzhak had been in. But also the fact that it's a mandolin in his hands and not a violin. August knows what mourning and grief look like.

Itzhak's attention is caught by that drift. Intent, he observes it float like golden sunlight, illuminating things normally unseen. Meanwhile his fingers don't pause. Whatever this song is, it's not immediately recognizable. <<Look at that,>> he murmurs, appreciative. <<Gorgeous.>> He winces, for the gouge in August's chest. <<Okay, but, I feel like if you run through a graveyard in October, in this fuckin' town, that kinda thing might happen.>> He's not scolding him, just rueful, like yeah, of course zombies. Why NOT zombies?

He can't touch August with any of his own senses from here. Their rapport has been cut off by distance, a thing that happened despite everything they sacrificed to get rid of Gohl. Itzhak does pause, though, fingers stilling, when he realizes August had sensed his own injuries. Bruises in the shapes of bite marks on his shoulders and an extremely sore ass. <<....Shit. I really can't hide anything from you.>>

It had occurred to August, when Eleanor first mentioned the run, but August had thought, 'surely that would have happened by now'. Joke's on him, in the form of a nice cut.

Another moment of the zombies; this is much worse. There are people bleeding and injured and he's try not to throw up as he heals them. And some of the zombies are also on fire. He shoves it aside as quickly as it forms, because he's not in good enough shape to not throw up. No adrenaline high to keep him going now, just the crash.

But for a second, Itzhak can see that one of those people is Ruiz.

<<Injuries are injuries. You don't have to say anything, I know you've been dying to find yourself a guy who'd rail you good and proper.>> He's almost laughing. <<I'm probably never going to not know if you guys are injured. I think I don't know how to not sense it. It'd be like not having a sense of smell.>>

Inevitably Itzhak blushes, smiling a little, wry. <<Feh.>> He resumes playing, bright plinks of melody mixed with strumming chords. It's good, but it's no violin. <<I sure got railed real good and proper. Oy, what a night.>> Buuuut he doesn't say much else about his wild night, quietly letting August remember the awful things, offering himself as a sort of witness to the bad and the horror and also to August's heroism. That always inspires some level of joy in him, despite knowing the cost. August is a hero. August is his hero.

Then he catches the glimpse of Ruiz in the mix, and fear spikes in him, dilating pupils and capillaries. <<Is-->> He stops himself, biting his lip. <<Is anybody dead?>>

<<Long as he took care of you after.>> August has standards in this regard. You don't fuck someone's brains out and then not be a gentleman about it.

The wind sighs in trees; August doesn't particularly think of himself as heroic, isn't entirely sure why Itzhak does, not when he has to claw his way past nausea and panic every time someone near him gets hurt. Not especially heroic. Anyways he'd be happy to never have to be heroic or anything like it ever again. Raise his motley collection of animals, help Eleanor learn how to not fear the forest anymore, grow plants, make sure his friends are happy and healthy. That's all he wants. This stupid Veil and the stupid shit pouring out of it are determined to get in his way.

<<No,>> he says, distantly, <<but a few of us were pretty banged up.>>

There's a notable pause. The enitre landscape is still. In his bathtub, August squints, replaying what he just felt, that terror and concern. A slow smile spreads across his face.

<<So. This guy who tore a strip out of you. Anyone I know?>> He's not even trying to be casual or subtle about it.

Itzhak's mental voice (still a violin, always a violin, no grief can ever change that) squeaks across the strings. <<Fuck!>> He tosses his mandolin to the couch cushions, covers his hot red face with both hands. <<Before you say anything, I know it was a bad idea. I know, I know, I know.>> Real embarrassment and shame erupts in a fractal construct, arcing above the forest. <<I just... he just... fuck.>> Memories surface and they're not of the sex, though they shiver with the heat that Itzhak knows comes after them. These memories are of Ruiz giving him an old copy of 'The Little Prince', of letting him keep his hoodie, of the burning wolf that's his mental presence in the kythe.

August's response is almost immediately concilliatory and soothing. <<No, hey, hang on.>> He stops there for a time, letting the landscape just be, embracing the violin music. Something in how Itzhak's reacting has August distinctly unhappy.

He some time in responding. The river's voice returns only gradually. <<You don't have anything to be ashamed of. You know that, right? I'm sorry if I've ever made you feel like you should, for that. I'd never be...I don't know--disappointed in you, for that kind of thing, if that's what this is.>> Bitter laughter, a memory here and there of August getting with plenty of that kind of guy, some of them far worse than Ruiz. <<That'd be fucking hypocritical of me, and I try not to be a total hypocrit.>> Anothe rpause, so all of that can sink in. <<I might worry, because I know where this kind of thing can end up, but I don't want you feeling bad about it because I know and you think I'm gonna lecture you. I'm not.>>

He mulls over the other bits that come along about Ruiz. The aspens in the volcano crater shift and flicker, thoughtful. <<The only thing I want, is for you to be okay. That's all. Sure, maybe fucking him wasn't a great idea. I also got dryad ichor in me and proceeded to fuck my lady's brains out so I'm not exactly batting a thousand on perfect life choices.>>

Itzhak shakes his head and scrubs over his face. He almost started tearing up and he's scolding himself internally for it in savage tones. "No," he says hoarsely, then flops back on the couch alongside his mandolin. <<I don't think you're...you're any of that. I don't. Okay? I'm mad at myself. I knew if de la Vega kept coming around and flirting with me I was gonna fuck him sooner or later and I let him keep doing it. I don't know what's going on with me and Bex, and Izeleh, she's getting better and that hurts and I have no idea why. And I thought we could break the curse on Fincheleh but-->>

The harpy Celaeno, comes the voice of Rhuk from 'The Last Unicorn.' Sister of the rainbow, believe it or not...

<<Now I'm not so sure.>> Itzhak wipes his eyes. <<Shit, I'm sorry. Last thing you need is me plotzing at you after you escaped from zombies.>>

August lets all of that sit between them for a time, so they can each take the shape of it. <<You need to talk to Bex, that's true.>> God what a healing that had been. He hadn't been able to eat for hours; feeling her life slip further and further away as he tried to shove all the medications out of her.

Just like earlier, with Ruiz, and Thorne, and that other officer. And before that--

He shuts that door, firmly and gently. He'll think about that after his bath, with some bourbon.

<<You do need to talk to her,>> he reiterates. The subject of Isolde, though, that's thornier. He mulls it over. The hazy gold of the dryad's blood swells, and a little blood from the cut on his chest becomes a river draining down into an ocean. <<Are you maybe thinking once she's well enough, she'll realize you're no good, and not want you? Because she won't, and anyways, it's not true.>>

A pause. Then the last bit. <<That probably plays into why you kept letting him come around. But if you're going to keep doing that, you have to talk to them about that too.>> Gentle and firm. They have to know. He has to man up and tell them, if it's not just the once. The bit about not needing Itzhak plotzing at him he ignores. It's crazy talk.

Maybe it's slightly crazy talk, born out of a heart that broke and healed unevenly. Itzhak picks up his mandolin during the quiet, begins playing. (Pressure of the strings under his fingertips, the curve of his hand as he strums.) <<I dunno,>> he sends, braiding the pain into the music. Music and pain are both better together, make each other shine. <<Maybe? I want her to get better. If she wants to break up once she realizes what a loser I am, fine, I don't care, as long as she's better.>> Hah, liar. Itzhak grimaces and strikes the mandolin strings with a spang!. <<I'll tell 'em. I'm not that big of an asshole. But dunno if I'm gonna keep sleeping with him, the prick.>> This too has the flavor of a lie. He's scared, and reverting to old bad habits. The little rippling songs in his music that happen to the names of Isolde and Alexander and Bex have a new addition. Javier.

August makes no comment about whether or not Itzhak will keep sleeping with Ruiz; the fact that he let him keep coming around speaks for itself. He drifts with the music, following the little bits of blood as they lose themselves in the bathwater. That situation will be what it is. <<That's good. You don't want Isolde finding out because Ruiz lets it slip to Alexander and Alexander assumes she knows.>> Does he sound like he's been at ground zero of that kind of situation? Oh yes, he does.

<<Losers don't restore unicorns to themselves. They don't save stupid old jackasses from their own grief. They don't walk back into hell just because a friend needs to make a trip there.>> He says all of this like he's describing a type of tree; a simple, factual description.<<So she's not going to realize that, because you're not a loser.>>

He considers the rest of what Itzhak said before. <<We don't know that we can't break the Curse. We just know it won't be easy. I didn't expect it to be. Don't lose hope on that, not yet. We haven't seen all there is to see.>> Of course, there's the chance it'll go the way it did with Gohl--a Pyrrhic victory. But he doesn't say that. It hasn't escaped him that they're all men, helping Finch, and it's men the Harpy expects to have sacrificed.

Despite himself Itzhak coughs a laugh, picking up what Roen is laying down on the topic of not telling but it magically gets around anyhow. <<Yeah. I been there.>> So many regrets. He'd made up for lost time when he was out of prison and that kind of situation had seemed to generate itself out of nowhere.

He listens close to what August has to tell him about himself, his music becoming spare and minimalist to accompany those thoughts. In a way he's hungry for the understanding other people have of him. Starving, really. His ability for self-reflection is one of the things he lost in prison, and it wasn't all that great to start out with. While he fumbles around trying to redevelop it, Itzhak has to rely on people like August to figure out what the hell is happening to him. He grunts, then. <<Ugh. Prove me wrong with facts, why don't ya.>> Grudgingly accepting, a little bit, for now.

The curse, though--he shudders, thinking of Starling. <<That old lady runs that joint. But...she tipped Fincheleh off. She could do anything she wanted to us, Jesus, Roen, to think of how we just went in there, into her fuckin' lair. But she didn't.>>

Gently, between the strains of the music, August murmurs, <<Don't be so hard on yourself.>> He doesn't just mean the 'loser' bit now. He means the part about Ruiz maybe being a bad idea (okay...not just 'maybe') and Itzhak still doing him, the falling back into bad habits like ruts in a dirt road. The way prison shattered and reassembled him into a different person, one that looks similar to who he was before, yet who's wholly different in all the ways that matter. <<The only thing you should be hard on yourself for is hurting someone by being careless. And you haven't. Not yet.>>

He turns to the subject of Starling, the deceptively deadly woman theoretically locked in a prison. Eventually, he says, <<I'm not sure. Maybe she didn't actually want to kill them, and the Curse gave her no choice. Or she wants the situation created by Wren resolved; either way, she has to help Finch with that.>> He mulls it over, sighs. <<Once we find her dad, we can think about heading Over There and...find what we can find.>>

<<Not yet.>> Itzhak is grim with the possibility. <<I can't let my dick ruin things for me, August. I wouldn't hurt Bex or Izeleh, not for the world I wouldn't, but sometimes...>>

He lets the thought hang. Sometimes, trauma and impulsivity rise up to make his decisions for him. Sometimes a person captured his heart and groin and he couldn't let it go. Sometimes being pursued by a troubled bad boy or a woman who wanted him to be rough with her were things he could not resist. And love, treacherous love, would burgeon in him and then he would fuck everything up out of terror.

He wipes his eyes again, sniffs. <<Yeah. Get that picture, track him down.>> Better to focus on a mission than whatever that mess is.

<<It's hard to live with those kinds of aches.>> That's how August thinks of them; like the titanium in his bones, holding him together and making him twinge in the cold. Or like scars. Some heal up alright, but some don't. They itch and pull and they're never comfortable again. And you can only feel that prodding at you for so long before you want to scratch.

Sometimes, they slip, drop their guard, forget to leave it. They scratch at the old wound, draw new blood, deepen the list of aches. So it goes.

<<Sometimes,>> he agrees, quiet. <<But I'm willing to help you make it not this time, if there's something you want me to do.>> Something he even can do. (He's aware there might not be.)

Gratitude for the metaphor sings from Itzhak's strings. Yes. Exactly. His scars are mostly emotional, not nearly so many on his body as on his heart, but that's exactly how it feels. Parts of him don't work, others were stitched together out of need but will never be the same again. <<I...I dunno. Don't think there's anything you could do.>>

But he knows what would help, he just can't access what he knows to bring the words to the surface. He knows what is helping: August willing to listen to his disasters, accepting of however Itzhak is at the moment. August joshes him about them, but he's never cruel, never would use such intimate knowledge against him. Good thing he doesn't need to think of the words! He can just feel it, and let August feel it too.

There's that love, swelling his music. Love for August, for their younger friends, for all his lovers in their variety. The hose may be bent, but the water still gets through somehow.

<<Loser indeed,>> August murmurs, smiling and sighing in the tub. <<Losers don't love people like you do.>> The forest gathers up the violin music, filtering it through the ferns and the sound of the river and the branches of the aspens in the crater and even over the barren, blasted side that was destroyed. Even there, where the only growth is a few flowers poking up in defiance.

<<I can do that. Let you be you. Listen to you plotz. Especially if it helps.>> He's quiet and thoughtful for a time. <<Just remember that we want you to be okay. More then anything else. It's alright if getting there's a bumpy ride. It is for all of us.>> A bit more silence, the two of them just existing. <<I guess we need to see about going Over There.>> The sense of him yawning, a ripple of exhaustion thorough the landscape. <<I should patch these up and sleep for a century. I like the mandolin.>> The afterthought swirls through the golden haze of the dryad ichor.

<<Rest. Don't let me keep you up. That cut looks nasty. I know you don't like lettin' people heal you, but if a zombie gave you that, you really oughta let Fincheleh do it. Who knows what could be in there?>> Itzhak's fussing has a real Jewish mother feeling to it. The voice of his own mother comes through his end of the kythe, underlying Itzhak's like a rhythm section. He smiles a little, unhappily, when August says he likes his mandolin. <<Thanks.>> He could say a lot more, but...no. August needs rest, not to listen to him yammer on about music. <<Gonna play it at the open mic night so you got that to look forward to. So go to bed already.>>

Unfortunately, Itzhak is right. There's probably grave dirt in there. Old grave dirt. That gave rise to damned zombies. <<Yeah yeah.>> August's old man grumbling makes the ground shudder, though it's a 'yeah yeah' of 'I will' rather than 'you're not the boss of me'.

He seems surprised, about the mandolin and not the violin for the open mic. The river murmurs with concern. But August is too tired to chase that particular issue just now. <<A lot to look forward to. Kind of nice to get some of my old suits on again.>> A brief visual of his mask, which Erica left on his porch: a crown of elk antlers (in miniature, of course) formed from branches, blood red bittersweet berries and vines woven among them, black raven or crow feathers forming the eye mask. <<Take care of yourself.>>

Then he drifts away, the dryad ichor-dust swirling where he was.