2019-11-20 - Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major: Prelude

They'll be leaving Portland soon, but two things first: later, a trip into the Tunnels, to check out the Veil (it won't go as planned, but they don't know that yet); now, a trip to meet August's family, because August needs it, and he knows Itzhak needs it. Especially after last night.

He's asked Itzhak to bring his violin and been cryptic as to why. But when he stops his car outside the blue Dutch Colonial in Sellwood that early evening, he doesn't immediately get out. He fiddles with his keys, staring at nothing in particular. "What happened last night, it wasn't your fault." He looks askance at Itzhak. He's exhausted and still hurting, but keeping it together. In some ways this is old hat for him. There were always setbacks. "You know that, right?"

Itzhak is exhausted, too, which manifests itself in him as jittering nervous energy. He'd brought his violin without question.

(August may have heard him playing it, after they were thrown out of the Dream. Around five or six AM, presumably after he got done crying in the shower and clinging to Isolde, he'd played until someone on staff came around and told him he had to stop. Then he'd gone outside and played, standing in the cold damp despite what it can do to an instrument. Eventually he came back in, or someone coaxed him back in--Isolde? Ruiz? Maybe even August himself?--but not before he'd accidentally earned a good fifty bucks. People had become so insistent on giving him money that he gave up and opened his violin case for them to put it in.)

He laughs, now, a bitter voiceless huff. "No, to be real fuckin' honest, I don't know that. Seems to me like it was all about me." Then he shakes his head. "It don't matter. It's fine."

It's not fine. But Itzhak gets out and opens the back door to get his cherry-red violin case. He's even dressed up a little, wearing his crisp black button-down shirt open at the throat, the steel-blue jacket from the suit Bex gave him (the FIRST suit, the black one is the second, he hasn't let her give him any more--yet), and of course his jeans and workboots. He could be accused of looking like a hipster, with this outfit, his eternal scruff and his inked knuckles, but the fact is, hipsters emulate him.

"Yeah," August murmurs as Itzhak gets out of the car. They can talk about it later. It's still too raw, too tender. Time for some painkillers, then.

August isn't quite so dressed up, as it's his own family. They're stuck with him. But he's seen fit to put on a black, merino wool sweater, a dark blue, cable-knit cardigan over that, a nice, clean pair of denim jeans, and his brown suede boots. Casual Urban PNW man is go.

They head up the old, cracked and mossy steps through the rambling garden to the porch and front door. As soon as August knocks they hear two girls' voices say 'I've got it', and then there's a discussion that never quite becomes an argument over who is letting them. It treads dangerously close, though, until another, older girl's voice announces, "It's my house so I pick. You both open it." There's a notable pause in the proceedings. And then the door opens, pulled by two girls who could be twins if not for their apparent age difference: round faces, black, wavy hair, gray green eyes. A taller girl--much taller, almost Itzhak's own height--stands behind them; she's got tightly coiled auburn hair, tawny skin, and freckles.

"Uncle Gus!" the youngest girl says, and launches at August. The other two smile at him, and then stare at Itzhak. He has tattoos on his knuckles and a suit jacket and--

"Is that a violin?" asks the black-haired girl who didn't latch onto August, staring at Itzhak's case with wide eyes.

Despite his overtired tension, Itzhak finds the mossy steps and the rambling garden soothing enough to relax him a little. The place reminds him of August's cabin, if not quite so survival-woodsman oriented. One thing he's gotta say about the PNW: the atmosphere can be pretty calming.

He smothers a smirk when he hears the unmistakable sound of sibling squabbles behind the door, and flicks an amused glance at August. Who then gets launch-hugged and Itzhak can't help the grin that blooms across his narrow face. "Hi," he says to the girls, eyebrows ticking up when he realizes how damn tall the tall girl is. They're staring at him, but he's used to that. He knows he's somethin' to look at. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, this is a violin." He's carrying it by the handle, other hand tucked in his jeans pocket, rucking up the jacket on that side.

August grunts, catching the smallest girl and mussing her hair, which makes her bat at him. "Girls, this is Itzhak. Itzhak, this is Gabrielle," he pats the now-messy hair he will be charged with fixing, "Rachel," a nod for the girl who looks like an older Gabrielle, "and Eliza." A gesture at the tall girl. They're all dressed semi-casually, Eliza in a boho patchwork skirt and black peasant blouse, Gabrielle in a forest green sweater twinset and dark gray pants, and Rachel in a dark gray, flower-embroidered hoodie over a black Henley shirt with some plain denim jeans.

Eliza grins and waves. "Hi." Gabby waves from where she's still hugging August.

"Oh," Rachel, whispers, still staring at the case. A sort of hopeful tension fills her eyes, and she bites at her lip. "Um, hi." She adds it as an afterthought, suddenly shy, and draws back.

A voice calls from inside, "Girls, what have I told you about stranding your uncle on the porch."

"Sorry mom!" Eliza shouts behind her, then spins and gestures for Itzhak and August to come in.

"How's by ya." Itzhak upnods to the niecen, with a little pop of his eyebrows. The look Rachel is giving his violin case makes him follow her line of sight to it, not sure if there's a bug on it or something. "You, uh, you like violin?" he hazards, glancing back to her. Maybe this is why August wanted him to bring it! He knows that look.

Now that it's down to the brass tacks of meeting August's family who aren't just adorable teenagers, though, Itzhak gets bashful. Oh no. He's going to have to account for himself to actual adults. So he tips his chin up and saunters in after August, determined to get through this.

"I play cello," Rachel says, voice low. She puts her hands behind her back and wrings them, suddenly shy and withdrawn. August gives Itzhak a knowing look, arches an eyebrow at him, and heads in after Eliza.

The first adult is in fact right inside the front door, seated on a couch in the living room and scowling thunderously at a tablet as he swipes at it. He's average height, so not even as tall as Eliza, and average build; pale, with thick, wavy black hair, black brown eyes, and a hawkish nose complementing a strong chin. He's muttering under his breath in Portuguese, but he stops when Gabrielle sucks in a breath.

"You didn't hear that," he informs her, even as Gabrille says, "Dad, language."

Spying August and Itzhak, the man sets his tablet aside, gives them an apologetic look. "Sorry. Work." He offers his hand to Itzhak. "Joachim. Zelda's husband."

"Mom said you can't do work while we're on vacation," Rachel reminds her father. Joachim sighs.

"It's one email."

A woman's voice sing-songs from the kitchen, "No email, Joachim."

"I know, I know hon," he calls back.

"Ya play cello?" Itzhak echoes, surprised and pleased. "How long?" ...since that's how string players often judge each other's skill level. Then he feels like an asshole. The kid's like twelve, she can't have been playing for THAT long. "I mean, uh, what's the hardest song you can play?" There, that's better. So of course he immediately wants to jump into a discussion about music! But he has to greet Joachim and pretend to be a normal adult for five minutes.

He shakes Joachim's hand. "Itzhak. How ya doin'." Maybe someone named Joachim can handle his name. He grins when Gabrille calls her dad out on language. "I don't speak whatever that was, so your secret's safe with me."

This most acceptable of topics draws Rachel a little out of her shyness. "Yes," she says, warming. Now she's not meeting her uncle's close friend, who has tattoos on his hands and is wearing a suit jacket. She's meeting a fellow musician. A fellow string musician. "For seven years. Since I was eight." She frowns at the rephrased question. "Hardest? I guess the Bach suites. I'm still learning those." Middling level difficulty--certainly nothing to sneeze at. But the rest of this has to wait. Now comes adult introductions.

"Itzhak," Joachim repeats without trouble. "Good to meet you. And, it was Portuguese." He tilts his head at Itzhak for a second. "But, ah, avlo Ladino?"

Out from the kitchen drifts the salty, savory smell of a fresh crust on pot pies. Casual dinnerware is already on the table. A woman and a man emerge from a room in the hallway--the woman is older, with dark gray, gently curled hair and golden brown eyes in the very face which August inherited, while the man is a tall, fit, and dusky skinned, with a proud, flat nose, close-shorn hair and neat beard flecked with white, and a dusting of darker freckles. "Ah, they're here," the woman says, moving towards Itzhak. She's dressed comfortably, in a white shawl knit from angora or something similar, a dark brown, velvety sweatshirt, and black slacks, while the man's in black denim jeans, and a dark gray, cable knit sweater.

"Seven years, that's pretty good," Itzhak says to Rachel, and he means it. "Lemme hear ya later. I gotta talk to ya folks first." He's not even thinking now of what August is scheming. All he knows is he gets to talk to a fellow string musician. Itzhak may talk funny, with a New York Yiddish accent that could sour milk, but his real language is music.

Which is probably exactly what August is scheming, to get him to feel better.

When Joachim asks him if he speaks Ladino, Itzhak's eyes widen, and his hand drifts over his heart. "My grandmother was Ladino. I never learned to speak it. Wish I had. She died when I was real young." Oh no, he's met this man and in the first five seconds he's telling him boring stories about himself and his family. Come on Rosencrantz, nobody wants to hear that! Self-recrimination makes him redden, so he's blushing when he has to meet August's parents.

But he's memorized the magic words, and he deploys them, offering the woman his hand. "Hey, uh, hi, I'm Itzhak. Roen's my buddy. August, I mean. I just call him Roen all the time because, you know, why not? Sounds musical." Most of those words weren't the correct ones, ITZHAK. Oh God this is a disaster. He's a disaster.

Rachel grins at the compliment, showing her teeth. Shyness defeated. Victory: Itzhak.

Joachim smiles and spreads his hands, sorry to hear of Itzhak's grandmother but glad to share in the history. If he cares at all about the sudden life story, there's no indication. Blushing doesn't seem to bother him either. "Hey, same! I mean, my dad's mom, she was Sephardic, babysat me all the time. I picked it up from her. Well," he holds thumb and index finger together, "a little. Now I'm trying to learn it properly, maybe teach the girls. Keep it alive, you know?" Joachim stops there, because the woman who can only be August's mother has stepped forward. She offers a long-fingered hang knotted with age and arthritis.

"Musical, and no more likely to be spelled right than my own surname," she says on a wry smile. "Thank you, Itzhak, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Ilana." She gestures at the man next to her, who's a little younger than August. "This is Eliza's father, Xavier." Indeed, there's a bit of a resemblence; the nose, the shape of her face. Ilana continues, "August's father on the phone with his brother, he'll be out shortly, and my girls are in the kitchen finishing dinner. Pot pies made from our leftovers, more candied yams than you could ever want, and some twice-good potatoes."

Xavier leans in to shakes hands with Itzhak. "Pleased to meet you, Itzhak."

Ilana eyes Itzhak a moment, golden brown eyes shrewd. She nods at the living room with its collection of large sitting chairs, loveseat, and sofa. "Why don't you have a seat in the living room, hm? Gus and I will grab the two of you something to drink. The girls might attempt to discuss video games with you, you've been warned."

Itzhak is careful with Ilana's hand, more cradling her hand in his than anything else. His long, calloused fingers close gently around her thin, cool skin. Her poor knotted joints, oy vey, he can only imagine how scary it might be risking a handshake from a strange, rough-looking guy. Then again, August brought him over, so maybe not so scary? In any case, he's firmer with Xavier, more a guy's handshake. Man is it just him or is Xavier hot as hell? Does he just have a thing for guys named J/Xavier now? Don't get weird at Roen's brother-out-law! "It's great to meet ya," he tells them both, honestly if anxiously. "August's been an amazing friend to me."

He blushes a little hotter when Ilana suggests he have a seat. He is well aware that she knows that he's nervous. She just has that look when she looks at him like that, like his own ma would give him when he's an anxious wreck and trying to hide it. "Uhm. Sure, uhm...Gus, huh." Itzhak has to slide August a mischievous, affectionate glance. "Video game talk don't bother me none."

Xavier's smile for Itzhak is friendly and--is there a little glint in his eyes? There might be. Itzhak might be getting checked out. Well, August did say Xavier and Hannah were in an open deal...

Ilana smiles at Itzhak's careful handling, grateful that he's aware of the beed for it. "I'm glad he has been. You've been wonderful for him." A small lift of her eyebrows letting Itzhak wonder what she's heard, and then she's steering her son into the kitchen.

As his mother leads him off, August shoots Itzhak a warning look over his shoulder which says, 'Use that nickname at your peril.' Then he's being press-ganged into helping with dinner, and so isn't likely to rejoin Itzhak in the living room any time soon.

"Oh you've done it now," Joachim says, just as Gabby materializes at Itzhak's elbow.

"What video games do you play?" she asks, eyes wide, awaiting the answer with baited breath for a whole two seconds. "We have our Switch. And Rachel has her little tablet for Minecraft. And Eliza--"

"Sweetie," Joachim says, resting a hand on Gabby's shoulder, "how about you show him to the couch, and then you can get out the games."

"Yeah go get the Switch," Rachel says. It sounds innocent enough, but it's clearly a ploy to get Gabrielle out of the room for a few minutes. It works, though; she says, "Okay!" and scampers off.

Rachel heads to the couch and sits. "I play Overwatch," Eliza supplies from her seat in one of the big, overstuffed chairs. She's draped her legs over the arms of it and is swiping away on her phone. "And random stuff on Steam."

Oh no, oh no, don't blush. DON'T BLUSH--Itzhak blushes. Gallantly he pretends he's not, but this tiny, subtle checking-out he's getting from Xavier and August's own mother telling him he's good for August, it's too much for a poor Yid. Mercifully, Ilana steers August off and Itzhak can't resist popping his eyebrows at him in a silent promise that he'll call him Gus when he least expects it. Years from now, August will be peacefully weeding his garden or maybe writing another book and Itzhak will appear and call him Gus.

Gabby appears and he's actually pretty grateful for her breathless excited questions. Video games, this he can do. He goes ahead and sits as he was told. "Oh yeah, I play Minecraft. Don't have a Switch though, more a PC guy than console. Hey, I play Overwatch too, who's your main?" he asks Eliza, unable to keep that quirky lopsided smile off his face when Rachel sends her little sister off on a made-up errand. Oh the times he did that to Naomi. "I'm a tank main. Reinhardt's my guy."

Xavier smiles at the blush, and wow, guess who brings the drinks out a minute later? Yeah it's Xavier. He puts a thirstystone coaster on the coffee table and a Crater Lake root beer on top of it with a napkin, heads back into the kitchen. He might have winked, but it was so fast it's hard to catch with the nieces now focused on their uncle's friend with the snazzy clothes and the tattoos and who plays Overwatch.

"PC's too hard to carry around, laptop's too expensive," Rachel says, sounding a little glum about that. She pulls out a tablet; a relatively modest one, but hey, she can play Minecraft on it with her little Bluetooth keyboard, so minimal complaints.

Eliza says, "Junkrat," decisively. "And sometimes Bastion, sometimes Symmetra."

"She never heals," Rachel asides in a low voice. Eliza overhears anyways, groans.

"I know, I know," she laments, "and it drives Joy and Todd crazy, but I'm bad at it, okay? I'm bad at it, I'm just bad."

"She's bad!" Gabrielle confirms, returning with the Switch in record time. "I watched her whole group get wrecked when--"

Eliza points at her. "We don't talk about that."

"I think we should, it was amazing. For the other team."

Eliza scowls. "Have you beat that boss in Skyward Sword yet?"

Gabrielle huffs and sits down, plainly irritated at this reminder. "I'm going to, right now."

In the midst of all this Rachel's pulled up her Minecraft server for Itzhak to peruse. "They're very competitive," she murmurs. "I just like to make things in Minecraft."

"Healing ain't for everyone," Itzhak says. That maybe-wink from Xavier is more than enough to keep him red, as he tells him, "Thanks," and picks up the root beer for a swig. Dammit! He's trying to be a normal person here for one night, Xavier. "Not everybody got a playstyle that works for healing, yannow? Some people do better at DPS or tanking. I'm a tank, I'm a--" he almost said 'fucking', maybe dial down the F-bombs there, Rosencrantz, "--a lousy healer. I can DPS okay, but why, when a tank's always in demand?"

He's a tank at the very core of his bristly, aggravated soul, but the kids don't need to know that. He leans over to check out Rachel's Minecraft build with genuine interest. "Aww, hey, look at that!" Also he's genuinely impressed. "You got a pretty garden and everything."

Why is it so good to be around kids, listening to them be excited about their things, talking to them about those things? In a way it makes him feel old, battered and grizzled. In another way it makes him feel like a kid again himself.

Meanwhile, to the girls, Itzhak is another friend of their Uncle's; not a Friend, like Eleanor, though of course, they wouldn't even mind if he was. That's old hat for them now, with Xavier and Hannah as they are, and their Uncle Jake with Ron (now his husband, what a wedding that had been). And their Uncle is a Cool Uncle, so Itzhak has the potential to be a Cool Friend.

"Exactly, thank you," Eliza says. "I tell people that all the time, I get too nervous when I try to heal, like I'm going to mess it up and they'll just die anyways. I'm better killing the other team's healers." She swipes at her phone, giggles at something, swipes again, sobers. "We should exchange b-tags," she says. I can DPS for you. That I'm good at."

"When she's not respawning," Gabrielle says, brow furrowed as she works on a boss in her Zelda game. Eliza rolls her eyes.

Meanwhile Rachel nods. "A garden, just like Uncle Gus has." She pulls up a picture of August's cabin, from just after the aspen suckers all popped up, and why yes, Rachel has emulated August's big working garden as closely as she can. She can't actually do it 100%; her own aspens (from a mod) grow up too fast. "I was thinking of putting them on a block whiich would slow down how fast they grow," she explains. "So it would look the same." She's even put chickens and goats and geese and ducks in various pens. Of course, there are also manticores, unicorns, and about a dozen cats, but that's beside the point. And is one of the unicorns red orange, and another blue and purple...?

An older man--the only one old enough to be August's father--comes out from a side room, smartphone in hand. "Ah, the girls are holding court, I see." Rachel and Gabrielle have his round face, and his eyes are the same hazel green August has. He's less silver than August is, though, with only a bit of white and gray here and there in his black hair. His skin's olive toned and he's solidly built even for his age; it's easy to imagine August looking a bit more like him when he was younger. "Itzhak, I heard? I'm Ben, Gus' father." That voice is definitely all August, deep and husky.

"Sure. I usually play pretty late, though." Itzhak's conscious that he probably shouldn't encourage Eliza to play Overwatch with him starting around eleven PM on school nights, or possibly any night. "Maybe on the weekend sometime."

He gets Rachel to show him around her build, vocally admiring all of the details she's put into it. "Your geese ain't as mean as ya uncle's." When Ben comes out, Itzhak looks up at him and his smile is real. He's honestly having a great time. Offering his hand, he says, "Hi, Ben, how's by ya."

For once, in the company of real people, Itzhak isn't too painfully selfconscious about his knuckle ink. Could totally be hipster nonsense. At least, that's what he's telling himself.

Eliza nods in agreement. This might be a bargain she's already had to strike with her mom. "Weekend's best, I have practice early in the morning during the week."

Ben's hands are a little arthritic like his wife's, though more than that they're calloused and creased. A dockworker, August has said of him, and boy it sure looks like it was a lot of hard labor. "Quite well, thank you. I'm so glad Gus came down with people for us to meet." He seems like he might add on to that, but thinks better of it. Sotto voce, he says, "I hear you brought a violin case. Maybe Rachel here would like to bring out Cordelia and you two could play for us."

Rachel's eyes widen, and she looks askance at Itzhak. She wasn't going to dare ask him to play in front of people he just met. Maybe in a back room with her. "Only if you really want to," she assures Itzhak, clearly worried he's going to be nervous or upset at the request.

"Here comes dinner!" August says, and he and his sisters comes out of the kitchen with pot pies on plates. Hannah, Eliza's mother (easy to spot by the resemblance) is nearly as tall as August. She has her mother's long, square face and golden eyes, her father's black hair (with tighter curls like August), and is all lanky, hard edges. The other sister then is Zelda, Rachel and Gabrielle's mother; she's a much closer echo of Ben, with a rounder face, proud nose, olive toned skin, and hazel green eyes. Zelda is carrying four plates and making it look easy, while Hannah and August have hedged their bets and stuck to two. Xavier follows behind with four more. "Joachim can you fetch the yams and potatoes?" Zelda asks as she starts setting pies down on plates. They're each cooked in a little ramekin, with flaky crusts sporting an herb and egg wash.

Itzhak flashes Rachel a brilliant smile. "Your cello's named Cordelia? Love it. You know any of the Bach duets for cello and violin? Been a while since I played one, but I can probably fake it pretty good."

Then, Ben says that. He can almost hear it: the 'it's so good to see he's making friends'. I'm so glad Itzil's doing so well now that he's on parole, maybe he will meet a nice girl who doesn't mind his past and settle down, raise a family, stop it with all the mishegoss. Itzhak's mouth twitches, even as he's already scolding himself not to be a dick.

"Ya Gus is the finest man I ever met who wasn't my own pop," is what he settles on, and he fucking means it, and he lets Ben see that he means it. He meets his eyes despite how tough it is for him, and holds his gaze, for long enough to make the impression on him.

Of course, Itzhak's still an ex-con with prison ink on his hands and too many lines on his face for thirty-six. Maybe his surety don't count for as much. Hell, the guy's a dockworker, he's seen his share of reprobates, maybe it don't matter.

He stands just in time to see Zelda performing her balancing act, which alarms him a little. "Roen, c'mon, I can carry a plate!" he calls to August.

Ben Roen has, in fact, seen more than a few people trying to turn it around (as Itzhak has guessed, his line of work is part of why; the family's meager beginnings in a trailer park is the rest of it). And this makes what Itzhak says mean a great deal more to him; that August's friend is, himself, some from harder circumstances, someone who's aware of the uglier twists and turns life might take. It means he's far less likely to be surprised or put off by the inevitable episodes, because they happen. Ben knows that they do, even suspects one has just happened with how tired and wrung out his son looks when only two days ago he seemed in perfectly good shape.

All of this he expresses with a warm, gentle smile. "Thank you, Itzhak--that's a wonderful to hear."

Rachel grins. "I do, my best friend Rita plays violin with me. Does yours have a name?"

But then, dinner. "Music after dinner," Ben assures Rachel, who's almost bouncing in place. She'll just have to eat faster. She puts away her tablet, hops off the couch.

Eliza uncoils from the chair. "Come on, Gabby, the princess can await your salvation after you've eaten."

Gabrielle groans, pauses her game. "This boss is dumb," she grouses.

Before August can reply, Zelda says, "Oh we're fine, Itzhak--it's Itzhak, right? I'm Zelda, good to meet you." She says this while juggling her plates with ease, setting them out like a professional. "Xavier and I waited tables together in a five star back in college. That's how he and Hannah met, she was coming to see me at work."

Xavier is, indeed, handling the plates with similar skill. Joachim gets up, nods at the kitchen. "You can help me with the bread and potatoes," he says. "And drinks. And there's probably something else to bring out, give it like thirty seconds and one of them will ask for something."

Hannah, having set down her two plates, comes over to introduce herself before Joachim drags Itzhak off. "It's good to meet you, Itzhak," she says. Her voice is like her fathers and brother's, deep for a woman's.

Relief makes Itzhak's face relax. He's bad at this body language, unspoken words thing, but right now, he's catching the drift. Ben's happy that he, specifically, is August's friend. Itzhak isn't used to anybody being happy that their son is his friend. So that's new, and...he kinda likes it. He returns the smile, and if his isn't as gentle or warm, it's just that he doesn't have as much practice.

"Every word is true," he says, and stands up. "Mine don't got a name," he tells Rachel, as they get moving, "haven't had it for long. Just a couple months. But, well, my old one didn't got a name either. She was just mine."

He waits for the hit of fury and grief to spike his heart. But it doesn't come near so strong. He feels it, all right, but the worst of it is quick, just bam! there and gone. The ache flares up, it always does, yet right now it's almost tolerable. Wow. Weird, considering what a rough time he and Roen just had. Well, after all, Naishka's playing again. They played mariachi music together for the first time in way too long, and Itzhak saw his own pop, and he danced for a precious stolen moment with his new man. Itzhak hadn't thought of it this way before, but his violin was one of the beloved dead who he celebrated.

The Art, the Song, is terrible in its way. He can acknowledge that now. It's beautiful, too, and its beauty lives in Itzhak's heart, shining on.

He greets Zelda cheerfully. "Hey! Well you got them plates handled like a pro all right." Which makes Xavier even hotter ugh stop it! "Nice ta meetcha, Hannah. Some good Jewish names in this family, huh?" and follows Joachim into the kitchen to help.

If Ben notices that Itzhak's out of practice on the whole smiling deal, well, he doesn't let on. His remains as pleased as ever.

Rachel isn't oblivious to the way Itzhak pauses, nor to his use of 'old one' and 'haven't had it for long'. She gives him a sort of look, yet doesn't ask. Instead, she insists, "You should name it." She hovers near the table, waiting to see where Itzhak sits so she can claim a spot next to him. "They like it better when you name them."

Taking her seat with a glass of water, Ilana says, "Not an accident." There are wine glasses out--nothing fancy, but they have a dinner guest, so, wine. "My mother's family converted, oh...probably somewhere in her great grandmother's time, or maybe a generation prior. We can't tell for sure. My father's family was a little more recent, so they're still di Moise, with no odd changes to the spelling." She says it the original way, 'dee Moy-she', not any Americanized version. "But my parents weren't particularly religious. It wasn't until I began doing some digging that I even found out." She gives Itzhak a dry look. Naturally, she had to go find it; no one had thought to tell her.

Ben picks up the thread. "And my mother's family were already quite secularied when they came to the States." He settles next to Ilana. "She was just a little girl, then, so was raised entirely without the history. She decided to give her sons Jewish names, though, and we thought, well, we could continue with some of that."

"Though," Ilana finishes, "I wanted at least one Roman name, since my mother's family is Roman." She gestures at August. "I kept the tradition on the middle name for Gus."

Joachim and Itzhak make it into the kitchen entrance, and August is there to greet them with a casserole of leftover candied yams (this he gives to Itzhak) and twice good potatoes (which go to Joachim). "Let him guess what the middle name is," he tells his mom, and chases it with a sly smile for Itzhak and Joachim.

Joachim gets a frustrated look on his face. "It starts with an...I?"

August points at Zelda, whose mouth has just opened to correct Joachim. "Uh huh," he says, and she stops, smiles.

Itzhak can't help laughing a little ruefully when Rachel insists he should name his violins. "Yeah, I--I know they like it." That makes perfect sense to him. "I name everything else. I name my cars. I just never did. Ya uncle's gonna help with a custom instrument, that one's definitely gonna get a name." As he says it, a name occurs to him. "Maybe Rimon. That means 'pomegranate' in Hebrew. Like on my tattoos." Of course, he's forgotten he's wearing a suit jacket and a long-sleeve button-down, so said tattoos aren't visible.

Rimon has another meaning: hand grenade. Itzhak doesn't tell Rachel about that one, although privately, he's very satisfied with it.

He takes the yams from August, eyebrows up after having heard all about August's family history. "You didn't tell me you're Hebrew!" he says to him, grinning, playfully accusing. "You're gonna wait a long time on me guessin' your middle name, though. You wanna know mine? It really does start with an 'I', like my folks couldn't get enough of the I names."

Bringing the yams over to the table and finding a place to sit (and permitting Rachel to sit next to him, she's SO cute, is this what Miriam will be like in ten years?), he tells Ben and Ilana, "My family's all Ashkenazim on my pop's side, and part Sephardi on my ma's. I kinda got the Ladino coloring, and the nose. My sister's all Euro-lookin'." There's nothing a Jew would rather bore people with more than his family history!

"That sounds perfect," Rachel says, and so the name is blessed by another musician. But her eyes just about pop out of her head at the other revelation. "A custom one?" She looks at August, skeptical and accusatory. He's no luthier, also, how could he not tell her. "Are you helping him pick out trees?" she demands, suspicious.

August coughs, clears his throat. "Yes," he says. Its not a lie, strictly speaking. Rachel relaxes a fraction. "You have to send me pictures, Uncle Gus."

"You have to send all of us pictures," Hannah says, eyes bright with curiosty. A

August shifts in his seat, turns to Itzhak's other comment. He starts to say something in response, seems to think better of it, just shrugs and smiles. A topic for later, as to why he never mentioned it. He tilts his head, thinking about Itzhak's middle name. "Isaiah?" he guesses.

"Israel?" Ilana tries.

With an amused glance at his wife, Ben says, "Ilan?" She rolls her eyes.

Rachel says, with certainty, "Ishmael."

"His middle name is Josephus," Xavier aside to Itzhak in the midst of all this.

Ben nods, and Ilana supplies, "Ben's brother Jacob is fairly Ladino looking himself. So was their Aunt Rebecca. We suspect one of Ben's acestors was Iberian, though we haven't sorted out who."

Ben makes a face. "The records were largely lost after the war." World War II, he means, of course. "And the expulsion from Italy makes it hard to research Ilana's family." He shrugs. "Joachim and I look into it when we have spare time."

"Yes," Joachim says, dropping the basket redolent with sourdough onto the table, "our copious spare time."

"So are your family back in New York, then?" Zelda asks, eyebrows raised.

Oops! Itzhak didn't think that maybe August hadn't talked to his family about their plans, even in a bowdlerized fashion. He flashes him a sorry-not-sorry half-smile, eyebrow quirking. "Ya uncle knows how to find real good tonewoods. I don't know nothin' about that, I'm just a fiddler." Then he laughs as everybody tries to guess his middle name, an honest laugh that makes all his lines and crow's-feet crinkle. "Immanuel! Good guesses though. My pop's name is Joseph, too, in Hebrew. Yusef."

He nods, about the records lost during the war (which war? there's only one World War people of Jewish descent tend to talk about). "My family...well, we're German." Itzhak stops there. He doesn't need to say anything else. Especially not in front of the kids. "Came to New York before the war." Fled to New York is the subtext there. "Most of us're still there, yeah. We're one of the families still in the Lower East Side. Dunno for how long, with all the gentrification goin' on there. Ma says they'll have to take the place apart piece by piece around her before she'll leave."

August relaxes some when Itzhak puts their teaming up for the instrument in this light. That, at least, won't be hard to spin. And in fact Zelda gives an assist without realizing it. "Well that's true, you did all that work with the trees up in Olympic, right?" August nods, and Zelda makes a 'not bad' sort of face.

Rachel seems more excited than ever. "You have to tell me all about it. Pictures, the trees, all of it."

"We will," August assures her. Then he tilts his head at Itzhak. "Yusef? Really?" He smiles, faint; this is relevant to him in a way it's not to the rest of the family. He turns to filling his plate, though, and the ritual passing of the dishes commences.

"Immanuel!" Joachim sounds annoyed with himself. "I should have guessed that one."

Everyone makes small sounds of sympathy about Itzhak's family being German. "Ah, good ol' gentrification," Joachim says, tone dry. "I feel for them, my father's family landed in New York too. Spanish Harlem. Mostly had to move out, though." He shrugs, makes a face. "Avo said he wouldn't leave, but eventually, the rent was too much."

Ilana mmmms and nods. "New York is where my mother's family first lived too. They moved West gradually, until we found ourselves," she gestures, "as far as we could go."

Once the plates are filled, Ben pauses. "Itzhak, did you want to say a blessing for the meal? We don't usually, but..." He raises his eyebrows, suggesting if that's something which Itzhak would like, he's entirely welcome to.

"Yusef, really." Itzhak grins a little at August. He can, in fact, act like a civilized human being once in a while. (Only once in a while.) The question from Ben catches him by surprise, though, and he promptly turns the same color as a tomato.

"I, uh, I haven't said it in years. I grew up frum--Orthodox, that is--but not since... uh, well, yeah, okay." Itzhak closes his eyes on instinct so he doesn't have to see everybody reacting to him turning beet frikkin' red. MORE DISASTERS ARE OCCURING.

The words for the blessing over bread rise easily to his tongue though. He lifts his voice and sings, quick, the melody rippling up and down.

"Barukh atah Adonai
Eloheinu melekh ha’olam
Hamotzi lehem min ha’aretz.
Aaaa-aa-men."

August grins back, warmer than he has since the Dream, has a sip of his water.

Ilana gives Ben a Look for putting Itzhak in the spot like that. He spreads his hands in a silent, 'what?' Hannah and Zelda also give him the evil eye of disapproval.

But Itzhak agrees to it and starts singing the prayer before anyone can assure him he doesn't need to, and when he's done, there's a moment of quiet, contemplative joy. Time and happenstance have eroded this part of the family's history, but now, Itzhak's given a little back to them. "Amen," echoes around the table.

"I would like the yams, please," Gabrielle announces into the silence. Eliza nudges her.

"Thank you Itzhak, that was lovely," Ben says, and raises his wine glass in a toast. Everyone follows suit and has a drink.

Itzhak hitches one shoulder and flips that hand over in a silent 'ehhh wasn't the worst thing ever I GUESS', looking sheepish. Thank God for Gabby and her big mouth, that broke the tension for him. He raises his glass, mutters, "L'chaim," and drinks.

The taste of both wine and Hebrew on his tongue remind him so forcibly of Shabbos that his heart thumps against the underside of his breastbone. Ma always lit the candles, as is a woman's right, and Pop always sang the prayers over wine and challah. That became Itzhak's job after Yusef died, and he'd done it for a while, but eventually...eventually he couldn't see why it was important at all. It didn't matter. Pop was still dead, they were desperately poor, and what did it fucking matter if he said some Hebrew over some bread?

The quiet after the prayer, though. Now he knows why it's important.

August gives Itzhak a small, quiet smile, bobs his eyebrows. Then the final filling of the plates, and the dinner gets well and truly underway.

Everyone would like to know things about Itzhak, but August steers the conversation any time it gets too close to home. Ilana picks up on this, and begins doing it as well. So if there was any question who helped out with August when he first got back from Bosnia, well, that's the answer.

Thus, music dominates the conversation; Rachel wants to learn all kinds of styles, not just chamber and orchestral. August approves, not just because he wants her to get him free tickets to jazz and blues shows, he swears. The price of instruments and lessons. Is Eliza thinking about college, or does she plan to wait before putting herself and the family six figures in debt? And so on.

Dessert is a choice of apple or pumpkin pie, or cheesecake with chocolate and raspberry sauce. (August takes the later.) Everyone convenes in the living room, and Joachim goes to fetch Rachel's cello from the back room. The case is old and well-loved; too old to have been Rachel's only. A hand-me-down. The instrument stays in the case while they eat, but Rachel gets out her sheet music to look for some duets.

Itzhak eats well, including slices of ALL the pies because he's a greedy bastard like that (just look at who he's sleeping with! a bouquet of beauty, male and female, he can't get enough). He is perfectly happy to talk about music, the bands he's played in, the times he and the Cajun band went to New Orleans to compete (they didn't win either time, but who CARES, the amount of fun they had was literally illegal). That Lyric asked him to be the lead singer for her band, which, he'll tell you (and he tells them at length), he's still not so sure about. He's never been the front man or lead anything. He's a terrible front man! No charisma, awkward all over the place. Let him stand in the back and fiddle. That's where he shines.

Or so he thinks.

He's also happy to flip open his new, cherry-red violin case and get out his poor rental fiddle. He's starting to feel bad about how much he doesn't care about it. But it's still a fiddle, and it's still his to play, so he tunes while people finish dessert.

"I ain't played classical in a million years, so don't expect too much," he says, cheerily, plunking the strings of his violin. Not strictly true. He played classical for de la Vega, but nobody needs to know that except August.

With an air which suggests Rachel is used to giving this sort of encouragement, she says, "That's okay, I'm still learning too." She pages through her sheet music, eventually produces a duet. "Maybe this one." 'Tango Eight' is the name, by none other than Jeremy Cohen. (And since despite his classical training under Itzhak Perlman he does a good deal of jazz violin, there's a nonzero chance August was involved in her receiving this sheet music.)

Only once she's finished her pumpkin pie and washed her hands does Rachel get Cordelia out. The cello's practically as big as her, but she handles it without needing help. It's a medium quality piece; a step up from a student's cello, but nothing professional or fancy. The back has a lovely flame Maple design and double purfling, suggesting an interesting history despite its modest nature. She sets it up in front of the fireplace, which is currently cold, making it a safe, clear spot. She even has a little plastic, fold out music stand.

After a round of helping with the dishes August comes into the living room and sits next to Zelda. He has a mug of coffee and a plate with a cheesecake, which he begins working on. Everyone else sits in various spots, fetching drinks for themselves and others as requested.

Rachel settles with her cello, looking thoughtful. "I wanna try the Prelude first. I think I can get it this time."

Ilana holds up a hand. "Only if you want to, Rachel. I know you've been working very hard on that one."

Itzhak picks up the sheet music (of course his hands are washed too; the good thing about being an autistic mechanic is you can indulge all the excessive handwashing urges you could possibly want) for 'Tango Eight', eyebrows popping up interestedly. He thinks he's so smooth but one look at those eyebrows and anybody knows what he's thinking. He can't help a quick, crooked smile in Rachel's direction when she reassures him that she's still learning too. "We're all still learning, mameleh." Oh no. Here come the Yiddish terms of endearment. That one translates as 'little mother', literally; an affectionate term for a young girl. "We never stop, not so long as we keep pickin' up an instrument."

While she sets up Cordelia, Itzhak reads over the music, humming to himself, tapping the toe of his boot to the beat. It's actually kind of complicated, definitely not the kind of thing he'd usually play off-the-cuff. But hell with it. He suddenly feels like nothing he could do, on the violin at least, would cause this family to judge him.

He doesn't know it himself, but that's when he really shines. When he's free to be himself to the hilt.

"Number One in G Major, you mean?" he says, looking up. "Man, I'd love to hear it if you wanna give 'er a go."

Rachel thinks about what Itzhak's said, nods. "I like that. Makes me feel better about messing up." She smiles, shifts on her chair. She bites her lip as her grandmother offers her an out, but then there's Itzhak's encouragement. "Okay," she says.

She spends a second tuning the cello, pulls up the sheet music. Not that she really needs it at this point, she's been obsessing over this piece for weeks now, but it's a helpful reminder. She contemplates it for a time, then sets the bow to her cello.

Since it's a middling instrument and not professional-quality, the sound pops without much effort on Rachel's part. She's good enough to give it a little extra oomph, though, and takes the piece at a modest pace, not rushing through it. Itzhak can hear mistakes; nothing major, she's just still getting used to the bowing. It's right at the edge of her ability level in many ways.

Everyone sits and listens. Even Eliza and Gabrielle, look up frequently from their smartphone and Switch to pay attention. There's a point where Itzhak can tell Rachel's moved past a blocker, because her expression becomes quite hopeful as she closes on the end of the piece, and Zelda cuts August an excited look. He and Itzhak haven't watched Rachel labor over it, and yet the very real relief on her face as the last bar fades says all that's necessary.

"That was great!" Gabrielle announces over the family's clapping.

Zelda wiggles in her seat. "First time all the way through," she says, beaming.

Itzhak goes into another mode when Rachel begins to play. He finds something to look at to keep his eyes busy (the stone of the fireplace will do, got texture) so he doesn't stare fixedly at the poor girl. He shifts his brain into gear to listen with such intensity that his other senses all fall away. And just like that, sitting perched on the edge of a chair, elbows on his knees, head ducked with an ear turned towards Rachel and her cello, he stays until she's played the piece through.

"First time?" he says, coming back to life abruptly. "Fuck yeah!"

Then he turns red. What was that about the F-bombs? Well, whatever, it's exactly what he would have said to a friend when he was 15. It's hard to high-five a cellist.

"Uh, I mean," he adds, grinning ruefully, "ya sounded great."

Everyone laughs at Itzhak's exclamation; not for his embarrassment, but in agreement of the sentiment. Zelda assures him, "On occasion it's acceptable." This gets a roll of Joachim's eyes ('Oh sure the guests can swear!') and a laugh from the rest. Eliza gives Itzhak a discrete thumbs-up from her seat sprawled in one of the big chairs. August grins and winks at him reassuringly. 'It's fine,' that wink says.

Rachel beams, elated. "Finally," she says, and sighs. "Still have a lot to work on, but, that's the first time I didn't feel...stuck." She leans forward to bring up the tango. "Want to try this one? I'll probably make mistakes, but I can get through it."

Itzhak laughs, embarrassed as heck. This mouth of his! August winks at him and he shoots him a sideways glance that's grateful and fond.

Family, kids, and music are exactly what Itzhak needed. Probably what they both needed. August is smart. August can figure these things out, where Itzhak just storms around in a temper, stuck, until something gives. August is the best.

"Yeah I wanna try it!" he says, grabbing his bow out of the case for tightening and rosining. "I'm gonna mess it up, just to warn ya. Haven't played a classical duet in, uh, forever."

Since before he went to prison, but he doesn't say that.

He picks his fiddle up by the neck and flips it around to set it under his chin in a fluid, well-practiced turn of his sinewy wrist. To warm up a little, he plays a couple rounds of scales, varying his bow strokes. His playing is clean and graceful, less technically sparkling than the usual classical violinists of his skill level, but no less agile. It's obvious to an educated eye that he's been strongly influenced by folk music. In folk music, a musician cares less about perfecting technique and more about letting 'er rip.

But he hasn't forgotten his classical days, and they come back strong with a cellist by his side.

"'Bout a hundred beats per minute," he mutters, squinting at the music (wishing he brought his reading glasses). "You good with that, or you wanna go a little slower? Hell, I wouldn't mind going a little slower."

August leans back on the couch, crosses his legs. They might be heartsore from the prison and what it did to them, but this, at least, is a balm. A temporary one, but that would be enough for right now. Something to get them through until they had more time to properly go over what had happened and heal it up.

For now, music, family, food. The simple togetherness of a living room of listening ears which have no judgment for what's offered.

"Joy and I play it slower," Rachel admits, plainly relieved to hear Itzhak say that. And not just because she's not up to 100 bpm on this piece; e's clearly played much longer than she has. "So we can definitely go slower."

"As slow as you like," Ben says, sipping from his coffee. "I promise, we'll love it either way."

Rachel sighs, because of course they will, but she wants to be good, not just 'good enough for her family'. But she's also young, there's time for that. She raises her bow, looks to Itzhak to count them off, since he's the least familiar with the piece.

"A'ight. Let's take her andante." Not too fast, not too slow. Those fancy Italian words don't mean as much as people tend to think they do. Itzhak counts off the tempo he wants, tapping his boot. One-and-two-and-three-and-four--and he swings into the tango, with its prancing, aggressive, slinky attitude.

The first few measures are him alone, and he plays them with utmost confidence. He falls so naturally back into taking the position of the violin with melody that he just glances at Rachel to cue her in, expecting her to know what he means.

Rachel seems used to this kind of cue, so maybe she's used to Joy having her wait to join in. It's fast finger work, up and down the cello's neck, and she's obviously been practicing a fair amount by how her mistakes are minimal and the sort one could expect of an intermediate player attempting a piece of this sort. Nothing ventured, though, and she keeps at it despite slip-ups; really, unlike more chamber-oriented classical pieces, this one lends itself to turning mistakes into new opportunities. Of course, she's too new to be particularly good at that manner of improv, but with August plying her with jazz, R&B, and the like, she'll get there. It's only a matter of time.

August's foot keeps time with the piece, and there's a little lean from him in certain parts, so he's familiar with it. (Likelihood he got her the sheet music: approaching 100%.) Joachim and Zelda seem to be as well, though the rest of the family sits and listens, entirely focused on the pair. Rachel has an intense focus when she plays, a kind which suggests the room beyond her music stand doesn't exist. There's her, and Itzhak, and their instruments, and the piece in front of them, and that's all.

Itzhak's smirking while he plays, something his bandmates and instructors always made fun of him for, but he can't help it. He's having too much fun! His version of violin-face is that delighted, wicked smirk, while his eyebrows quirk along with his bowing. Rachel plays and he plays and they follow the dips and swoops of the tango, dancing together with nothing but their fingers on strings.

About halfway through Itzhak loses his place on the sheet music. Uh, oops. Was he on line 8 or 10? He bites his lip--a tell that he's having trouble, though nobody here knows that, in youth orchestra his stand partner would have tapped the right line--and decides, what the hell. "Keep goin'," he mutters to Rachel, and steps off the musical cliff.

Still a tango--dun! dun DUN dun! DUN!--still the right time, still the right key, but Itzhak takes the melody in his teeth and runs with it. Improvise? Why, he doesn't mind if he do! It's something a classical musician isn't taught, and something that a folk musician heavily relies upon. Itzhak spins the melody up (dun DUN dun) and down (da-da-da-da-da-DUN), inventing it as he goes along, closing his eyes because he doesn't want to get distracted by the sheet music. If it starts sounding a little bluegrassy, oh well, them's the breaks.

Rachel looks askance at Itzhak, keeps going as he's said. She blinks when he starts improvising, yet keeps at her own part, listening to what he's up to and how it fits with her cello's strain. She does no improv of her own, not sure where she'd start, though maybe that's okay; if they were both doing it, would the piece even make sense? Her part becomes the backbone, then, the original path that Itzhak is waltzing away from and back to, like a wanderer taking a new route to the same place.

August squints at Itzhal, a sly smile tugging at his mouth; Zelda and Joachim exchange an uncertain glance.

Carefully, dabbling her toe in the water, Rachel makes a change here and there. Nothing much--a couple of notes, an altered emphasis. Sometimes it doesn't work, sometimes it does. Any time it doesn't it simply sounds a little off. Nothing disastrous, certainly nothing worse than a standard mistake. This doesn't precisely embolden her, but it does loosen her up just a hair.

"Yes!" Itzhak encourages Rachel with a sharp little burst of a word, not smirking any more but grinning with pleasure. "Good!" Just taking that tiny bit of initiative endears her to him more than any technically perfect performance.

Ah--and he found his place again! He swings the melody around to catch up, and settles into the groove like he meant to do that. Smooooth. He and Rachel take on the last few bars together and nail 'em. Nail 'em right to the fuckin' floor.

Itzhak whoops and whips his bow into the air with a flourish. Super unprofessional of him, but when you get right down to it, that's why he strayed from classical music. Too much shit they tell you you can't do when it don't hurt nobody, for the sake of an old-boys'-club who get the vapors over any deviation from tradition.

"That's how we do it!" he says to Rachel, beaming, and offers her his knobbly inked knuckles to bump.

Rachel starts when Itzhak speaks; she's been so focused on what they were doing she wasn't expecting it. She recovers a second later, with only a single missed note. She smiles, though, at his approval and how quickly she pulls herself back together. And then they're back on track together, trading off the melody at the close.

When they finish she almost bounces in her chair. Not a perfect play through, and yet, as satisfying as anything she's ever done with Joy or her teachers. Better, really, because her family were here; her parents, her uncles and aunt, her cousin, her sister, her grandparents. She laughs and bumps Itzhak's knuckles.

"What else do you know?" she asks. She catches a look from August, changes tacks. "Actually, I want to sit down for a second. You should play." She sets Cordelia up on her stand and goes to sit next to her sister.

August gives Itzhak a faux innocent look for the recordbooks.

Itzhak's about to answer, then Rachel abandons him on stage. Betrayed! He mock-glares at August. I see you, Roen! I see you and your tricksy ways.

But, of course, it works. Why wouldn't it? Itzhak's warmed up, he's hyped from a successful round of playing, he's already up here with his violin and all. And, it occurs to him, he has a gift to give that they don't expect.

"Yeah, okay, I'll play," he says, letting bow and violin both swing from the long fingers of one big hand. "I mean, I know a lot, but you know what? For once, I'm not the only Jew in the room." And he smiles at everybody, crooked and blushy, but despite the blush he know he's got them on his line. "You guys might know," he says this for the girls' benefit as much as the adults', "in the Diaspora, particularly eastern Europe, there's a real strong Jewish fiddle tradition. I'm gonna play some of that. This is the music of my people--the music of our people."

He sets the violin under his chin, pauses for a moment to shift internal gears. In a way he's reminding himself that he's Jewish, that his roots are in this music, that his ancestors' pain and glory wove what he's about to play. Itzhak closes his eyes, swaying.

Then he sets bow to strings and draws out grief and exile and joy, sweet and bitter. Long, wavering notes cry from the violin, the Middle Eastern influence unmistakable, the cadence as rolling and hilly as Yiddish. He plays, improvising on the theme, inventing something just for his audience as he goes. Now he's not grinning or smirking; his expression is intense concentration.

Ilana sucks in a little breath and takes Ben's hand. They've heard this music before; records, played on old turntables in long-gone houses and apartments, their grandparents staring out across the room with far away looks, memories etched on their faces. Joachim smiles, sad and fond; he grew up with this more closely, and it's amazing to hear it again, in person, and with his daughters to hand no less.

And August, Zelda, and Hannah and Xavier, they're learning it somewhat a-new, like Rachel, Eliza, and Gabrielle. The girls have all set their phones down, and are listening with rapt expressions. It's one thing to read about these things, learn about them as their grandparents track the geneology and try to remember what they can. It's another to have it played, here, in Hannah and Xavier's living room; spun out of Itzhak's own experiences, so markedly different from theirs.

August shuts his eyes and listens. It's like the magic: the Gift, the Song, the Glimmer, whatever they wanted to call it. Joy and pain, light and shadow, life and death in an endless circle. Itzhak was giving voice to that thing they all experienced in their way, the ugliness and beauty which was life. If the two of them were wrapped up in something which made the stakes higher, in both directions, well. Maybe that just made the music sweeter.

Like Yiddish shouts on a street, like sunset on a Friday night, like letters from the Old Country read in tiny, dingy apartments. Like the old men playing chess in the park and the mothers weeping because their sons are marrying shiksas. Like being a too-tall, too-skinny violin dork with a bad attitude and way too much nose, fighting with his fists and all his fury to keep his instrument from harm when he's run down by other boys on the way home, splattering the cracked sidewalks of the Lower East Side with his blood and their blood.

Like that is how Itzhak plays.

He lets the last notes wind off his strings, sighing themselves into dissolution. His eyelashes are spiky and wet when he lets his bow drop. Opening his eyes, he looks at the gathered family, and bends at the waist to give them a soloist's bow.

Itzhak's eyes aren't the only ones that are wet, not by a long shot. Everyone claps as he bows, from Ilana with her arthritic hands, to August with his calloused by time and hard work. One day they'll look like his mother's.

"That was gorgeous, Itzhak, thank you," Hannah says, a hand on her heart.

Eliza says, "Encore!" which makes a few of them laugh.

Tone matter of fact, Rachel informs Itzhak, "Well, now you have to teach me how to play like that." Itzhak doesn't get a say: he has a student now. Congratulations, feel free to sort out how to talk her out of it.

"Oh Rachel," Zelda says, wiping at her eyes in a classic gesture of 'I'm not crying just something was in my eye'.

"Are lessons over Meet a thing?" August asks, arching an eyebrow. His eyes are wet, but aside from a cursory swipe at them he makes no attempt to hide it. He doesn't need to, this family's seen him cry plenty, over things far worse than this.

Itzhak laughs, a little shaky. "Sure lessons over Meet are a thing." Usually he has a band or at least someone else on stage to receive this kind of adulation, and it's making him giddy with anxiety. He could really use a cigarette and maybe a good hard cry in the bathroom. Oh, speaking of which, that's a great excuse. "No encores, the fiddler needs a smoke so bad it's killin' him."

Setting his violin down in its case, he rolls his sleeves down, crisp black fabric hiding pomegranates and olives once more.

Eliza pouts, but not too much.

Xavier sighs, sympathetic; he might have given up smoking but he remembers the need. Perhaps to direct everyone else (or maybe because he himself knows all too well what it's like to need a moment), he says, "Let's give Itzhak a break, sweetheart. Rachel, play us that little piece you were learning this time last year. I want to hear how your technique has changed."

"Sure," she says, getting up. As she takes her seat, she whispers to Itzhak, "That was really great," all fierce excitement.

August has gotten up and moved towards the kitchen, which is also the path to the back door. He pauses there, raises an eyebrow at Itzhak in a silent question of whether or not he wants company for his 'smoke break'.

Itzhak smiles brilliant if a little watery at Rachel. "Thanks, Racheleh." Yyyyup more fond Yiddish pet names coming out. He's doomed.

He catches August's eye and gives him the subtlest of chin jerks towards the back door. Hell, he barely needs to. How long have they spent in each other's mindscapes at this point? August probably knows exactly what's going on in him. Which is why he's even offering to come outside with him in the first place.

Itzhak sweeps up his jacket, slides his arms through satin-lined sleeves on the way out with August. Once his boots hit mossy paving stones, he gets his pack and lighter from the inner pocket of the jacket, shakes out a cigarette, and lights up. His hands are trembling only some!

The back door stays cracked open, just enough for the strains of Rachel's playing to reach them. It's cool and damp out, a classic Portland evening. The backyard is small, pushed up against a hill as it is, and bordered by a heavy, rock retaining wall at the back, plain fencing to one side, and a brick wall separating their property from the house next to them on the other. A geometric pattern of red and gray stones covers most of the ground, and hanging baskets and large pots provide space for plants. There's a little bit of a garden bed along the retaining wall, currently filled with trimmed irises. A set of wrought iron and glass outdoor furniture sits out, damp with the rain that's come and gone.

August doesn't say anything until Rachel starts playing. Bartok, it sounds like. "Thanks for that." It's quiet and thoughtful; he's looking out over the back yard. "Sorry I kinda sprung it on you, though." Okay, he's probably not that sorry.

Itzhak snorts smoke. "Don't fuckin' lie to me Roen, you're not sorry." Okay, his hand is trembling a little more than he thought it'd be. Good thing he only gets the shakes after performing; he'd have a pretty sorry career as a fiddler if his hand shook like this while he was playing.

He glances sideways at August to let him know he's not mad, though. "Scheming with your own niece. For shame." He lets a teasing lilt into his tone. The cherry glows as he inhales. "...Wouldn'ta thought the kids would like it so much," he admits, quiet, scuffing the sole of his boot on the stone. "It's real old people music."

"I'm not." August cops to it with one of his scheming little smiles. He shrugs, says, "It's easier to get them interested in that stuff if you let them like other things too. Least, that's what Hannah and Zelda are always saying. They don't tell them that can't listen to certain things, and they grew up listening to everything under the sun, so they wind up liking a lot more." He sticks his hands in his pockets, leans against the door frame. "Sure, they don't like all of it, and they're not going to run out and buy an album tomorrow." Or, maybe Rachel will, but not Eliza or Gabrielle. "But you can get them to try out a song or two."

He's quiet a time, then, "I'm always glad, when I see the girls, that my sisters had kids." There's an unspoken something there he wants to worry at and doesn't. Instead, he gives Itzhak a teasing almost-smile. "Anyways, if you make the mistake of giving them your email, it's your funeral."

Itzhak raises a you-don't-fool-me eyebrow. He can tell August almost says something. But he lets him get away with it. "Glad Naomi did too. Probably not gonna have any of my own. Bein' an uncle's the best of all worlds." His weight on one leg, hand deep in his pocket, he taps off the ash. "Thanks for bringin' me," he says softly, not looking at August, but at the thin line of smoke rising from his cigarette. "It helps. A lot."

Voice low, August says, "Yeah, it is." He lets out a long, slow breath, still skirting that something, like he's edging his way around a hole. He takes to studying Itzhak. "You're welcome. It's nice, not coming to visit them stag for once. Takes off some of the pressure." He smiles, not quite wry enough to make it a joke. The smile fades from amusement to something gentler. "I'm glad it did." He starts to say more, ultimately decides not to, falls quiet. They don't have to talk about that right now. Like any serious injury, it needs time to settle, to become less agonizing, before they recount how it happened, what it might (or might not) mean. Anyways, they're here, with his family. Better to let that ease what it can, while it can.