2019-12-08 - Sleepover

'I'll make Jewish chicken soup,' Itzhak had said, when Easton asked him to spend the night. 'But I gotta take the couch, because I don't trust either of us.' So here he is, knocking on the door of 400, with a couple of hefty reusable grocery bags (the kind that are reinforced and woven of thick nylon) in one hand, a duffel bag in the other, and his violin case slung over his back.

They agreed: no sex. That's how it's gonna be. Itzhak is pretty goddamn determined about that, despite his clumsy, abortive attempt to seduce Easton in a jealous rage.

There's a knock at the door.

Easton slowly raises his head up off the couch, looking around and taking in the sight of his momentarily unfamiliar apartment. Who the hell is knocking on his door? He is dressed in a pair of running pants, his shirt has been discarded somewhere else. He slowly gets up off the couch and walks towards the door. He opens it and looks at Itzhak, who is standing there, holding grocery bags as if he's not sure who or what he is.

"Rosencrantz?"

It is immediately apparent two things. First, Easton has just woken up from a nap and is a mess, his hair going in all directions. Second, he has utterly forgotten about their plans for the evening.

Itzhak stands there and eyes Easton (from a great height) and has many thoughts flickering behind his gray-green-brown hazel eyes. "Hey, you remembered my name. That's a start. Lemme in." He just comes on in, shoving his way past Easton if he has to. Easton probably weighs as much as he does if not more, but when has that ever stopped him from shoving?

"Yup!" Easton grins, apparently not very embarrassed by the fact that he was obviously caught short here. He moves to let Itzhak in and gives him a small shoulder bump, quite short of Itzhak's actual shoulder as he passed in. So while Easton might look a bit of a mess and smell like an unpleasant mix of beer and stale sweat, the apartment is nearly spotless. Even his shirt, that he obviously doffed for his nap is not strewn on the floor, no it's folded neatly and sitting on a large cardboard box that is currently serving as a coffee table replacement.

"Can I get you a beer?" Easton heads to the kitchen and grabs at least one for himself and heads towards the bedroom, "Let me grab a quick shower and then I'll be out to be of no help whatsoever."

Itzhak drops his duffel somewhereish, unslings his violin case on a couch or chair or whatever is off the floor. He follows Easton into the kitchen and sets the grocery bags on the counter. "Yeah, gimme a beer," he says, absently, as he starts unloading. A big raw chicken, whole, a ton of veggies, egg noodles, matzoh, a tub of cottage cheese, a brick of cream cheese. Jewish food is high calorie, apparently. "Get showered, you smell like a locker room."

Easton looks over the grocery bags as he wanders through the kitchen, his tattoos and scars on full display as he grabs a beer for each of them out of the fridge. The fridge that is quintessentially bachelor with beer, condiments and meal prepped meals in plastic containers and nothing else. The kitchen itself is very fancy, with the latest in appliances but looks very unused.

Easton's tattoos consist of a pineapple on his side, a stack of flying money on his right hip where his abs form a V into his waistband. And on his back? It's a Zombie Bear coming out of a portal. The scars are obviously more random but there are many over his entire back and torso.

He hands Itzhak the beer and takes his to the bathroom to have in the shower.

"I smell amazing." He sniffs himself and winces but doesn't correct himself.

The shower is quick and soon enough Easton is walking back out, this time in jeans, pulling a soft gray tee shirt over his head as he walks back into the main living area. The beer now empty is dropped in the recycling bin, which is likewise full of empties. And he is on to another one, pulling it from the fridge and leaning over to see what Itzhak is doing.

Itzhak isn't looking at Easton's bare torso, with a certain determination of Not Looking. Scars and tattoos and bare, built-like-a-fireplug torso are going unadmired when he takes the beer. "Thanks, pal." He takes a healthy swig, then sets to work.

When Easton returns not too long later, Itzhak has hunted up a cutting board and a knife. Turns out one of the things he brought was a big stockpot (he doesn't trust Easton to have one) and he's chopping up a huge pile of carrots and celery and turnips and a couple things that look like thick white carrots and a big handful of fresh parsley. All of which is getting tossed into the pot as he goes. He glances over at Easton, safely wearing a shirt now.

"So, nu?" he says, eyebrows hoisting.

Easton is familiar with cooking as like a science experiment he watched one time. He has no idea what it actually entails really, even though he occasionally hangs out in the kitchen with cooks at the bar, it's still a great mystery to him. The stockpot is a good call, because Easton has very meager cookware.

"So." He looks at Itzhak and says, "Heads up, Cap's girlfriend doesn't think they're as exactly broken up as he does? I don't know what that means for you but when she broke in here last night to fuck with me..." He stops and clarifies, 'Not fuck me, but mess with me" He continues having gotten that straightened out, "She mentioned that. Thought I'd pass it on." He thinks for a moment more before adding, "Texted him about it, it's a little more complicated but still."

He considers saying more about where that conversation went. But he pushes that thought out of his head, really wanting to not think about it. He doesn't want to be the one thinking about it.

Itzhak looks over sharply, scowling. "What?" Knife poised over a carrot, he stares at Easton. "She what? Run that by me again. She broke into your place to tell you she's not broken up with de la Vega? What the fuck do you call her moving out and taking all her stuff and if she's talking to him I ain't heard of it?"

"I don't know what I call it. But I've also fucked over everyone I've ever dated, so maybe don't ask me?" He slowly reaches out to take the knife and says, "I can at least chop these while you do something else." Knifework is something he can at least do.

"She didn't break in because of him. She broke in 'cause she's Bennie's partner. And was a little tipsy." Like he's one to judge. "But let me tell you, it didn't exactly do wonders for makin' me feel like less of an ass for jumping his bones." He takes a long chug of his beer.

Itzhak hands over the knife, half his upper lip curled dubiously. "Well, he sure counts 'em as broken up, and anything else ain't any of my business." He rummages around for another knife, which might be asking a lot. It takes him a minute. "Jesus, does nobody in this town feed themselves?" he mutters, before finally locating a filleting knife that probably came as part of a bonus package with the apartment. "Look, you oughta feel like an ass about that for your reasons and not for anybody else's. You already fucked up your relationship, why go picking up other people's bullshit too?"

Hah, coming from him that's rich.

"That's fair. I ain't tellin' ya how to feel. Just I woulda appreciated the heads up." He chops the carrots and then waits for further instructions. He smirks and says, "I have a very good meal prep service that keeps me on my macros." Which is to say it's dull as dirt and barely counts as eating actual food so much as ingesting a balance of nutrients that isn't revolting.

"And if it weren't Sutton, I probably wouldn't care as much. But Itz?"

He pauses and considers saying the next part. Would he want to know? Is it his place? Maybe this beer will help him decide what to say.

"Pretty sure he still loves her. And I ain't sayin that to be an asshole to you or whatever you and he are doing. I promise."

Itzhak breaks off celery stalks, washing the dirt from them and putting them in front of Easton to chop. "Heads up on what?" he says, honestly kinda baffled. Sometimes he isn't too fast on the interpersonal uptake. His expression softens some, eyebrows doing something complicated, then. "'Course he still loves her," he says, quieter. "He loves her a whole hell of a lot. And I guess she left him because of me, or partly because of me anyway, so that don't feel great."

Easton's eyebrows raise, in surprise and worry as Itzhak doesn't react to what he just said. But then does at least seem to realize that Ruiz is still in love with Sutton and Easton breathes an actual sigh of relief as he gets to chopping the celery. He shrugs and says, "I gotta feelin' it wasn't just cause of you."

"Okay, enough about that shithead."

Easton takes a sip of beer and forcefully changed the subject.

"Where did you learn to cook? Are all the nice Jewish boys trained in the culinary arts?"

Itzhak glances over, while scrubbing the turnip and then the parsnip. He looks at the surprise and worry on Easton's face, and his hands slow.

"Uh. There's somethin' maybe you oughta know about me," he ventures, his own eyebrows lifting in echo. "I'm autistic. If you're tryin' to get at something, I'm not gonna understand. So, just tell me, huh? Tell me what you're makin' that face about, because I don't know. Then we can stop talking about the schmuck."

"Oh. That cause the freakout at the Murray house?" It's something Easton has thought about but never wanted to pry about before. He shakes his head and says, "It's nothing. I don't understand open relationships so I don't know what she meant." He shrugs and says, "Then again I apparently don't understand relationships period so I'm not the guy to help. This is face an idiot makes when he doesn't know what he's talking about."

He finishes up his chopping and sets the knife down, picking up his beer again.

"Yeah. That's why. Shit was too crazy. I lost it." Itzhak makes an awful face. He shucks the chicken of its wrapping, pulls out the giblets. "Okay. Maybe I can help explain it if you tell me. But, yannow. We can just go on and talk about cooking or whatevah instead." Concentrating, he eases the knife's blade into the chicken, beginning to part it out. Quarters, wings, breasts, back.

Easton nods and says, "Yea well, can't say I blame you. Shit was crazy. And you did just fine in the midst of it." He notices the face but doesn't comment on it. He exhales through his nose and says, "Yea, no. I feel like I'm too deep in other people's business, which I realize is what I get for dippin' my dick in someone else's cereal but still..."

He swallows the rest of the beer and places that one in the trash too.

"So, let me try this again. What's the most fucked up Dream you've gotten caught up in here?"

He's determined to change the subject, or at least try.

"Good fucked up or bad fucked up?" Itzhak says promptly, glad to get away from the topic of Ruiz and Sutton and, well, him. Yeah. Let's not. "Seen some fucked up shit that wasn't in a Dream, too. Like Murray Fuckin' House." He piles the chicken into the stockpot with all the vegetables and hauls it under the sink to fill it with cold water.

"Why not both."

Easton now done chopping just leans against the island and tries to stay out of the way of the rest of the actual cooking. He says, "I once got attacked by zombie easter bunnies and a little girl with grenades for easter eggs." He remembers a little too late into that story that Bennie also got sucked into that Dream. He was trying to so hard to avoid the Dream that brought him together and just toss off a witty wacky Dream. Maybe another beer will help? He goes to get another one from the fridge.

Itzhak isn't about to suggest to Easton that not all the beer in the world can fix his problems. He's not here for that. He's here to cook and hang out and do a buddy a solid. "Bad fucked up..." then he pauses again, slowing to a standstill. "Yannow, maybe let's stick to good fucked up. I had one on Halloween that was pretty good fucked up. Dia de los Muertos, I dunno if you can call that a Dream, but it was also good fucked up."

"Yea" Easton quickly agrees to sticking to the good side. He thinks back over most of his awful Dreams and how much they involved Bennie. Some because she was there, some because that's a very effective way to screw with him. His eyebrows raise mid sip as Itzhak brings up Dia de los Muertos. "Really? I woulda thought that would end up in the bad pile.." He had very low expectations for Halloween in Gray Harbor not being terrible, but it passed fairly uneventfully for him thankfully.

"Good. Definitely good. Saw my pop." One corner of Itzhak's mouth tucks back, not quite a smile. He wrestles the stockpot on the burner and flips the heat to high. "Everybody danced. Some because we couldn't help it. De Santos played his trumpet for the first time in, Christ, years. I played too, first time since the funeral. Just...couldn't bring myself to play for a long time after that. Kept thinking about how I wrecked my violin, and how you just don't do that, you know?"

Easton smiles a sweet, sad smile when Itzhak brings up seeing his father, but his eyes are scrunched in pain. The one Dream he really wanted to have. The one he needed. He knows it's possible, Geoff met Tom in a dream, fought beside him, touched him. He forces himself to smile though, this is Itzhaks' Dream and it was a good one from the sound of it. But then he brings up the funeral and Easton closes his eyes and ruefully assures him, "I know." He shakes his head and mutters, "Fucking Gohl." And there's more beer to try and wash those thoughts away.

Itzhak can't interpret the forced smile, but he can tell that it's forced. He just keeps stepping on landmines with Easton, it seems to him. "Fucking Gohl," he agrees.

He forgot to put in the chopped parsley, so he does that, then rinses his hands and picks up his beer. "May he lie in the ground and bake bagels he can't ever eat," he pronounces, a solemn curse, to which he drinks.

The smile is hard to interpret in general, but it fades soon enough at the talk of Gohl. His jaw sets and he blows out a snort of annoyed laugher at the curse. He likewise drinks to the curse and says, "I'd rather he get fucked for all eternity by angry badgers but sure, that."

He makes his way out of the kitchen to the other side of the island to take a seat and get off his leg. Cradling his beer in both hands he shakes his head and asks, "Did you know Roen from before here? Or you two meet in Gray Harbor?" He again tries to change the subject, wanting to get himself out of his own head on certain topics. It's hardly surprising that Itzhak keeps stepping on proverbial landmines, he's a proverbial war zone of issues.

"Met 'im here." Itzhak is tacking into the conversational wind. He rattles around the kitchen to find a regular-sized, non-bathtub-scale pot, fills that with water, gets it on the heat. "I know it seems like I know him forever, but nope. I moved here in May. God." That makes him pause and shake his head. "Ain't even been close to a year. I thought New York moved fast. Got nothin' on this place."

Easton blows out a breath and thinks about how long he's been here. "Wow. Yea, I think maybe a little longer for me, but feels like a lifetime." He picks at the label on his beer bottle that's starting to peel off. "I think the craziness helps connect people though. I mean, I don't know that you and I would be talking without sharing that craziness at the Murray house. Or ... shit, most of the people I've met here. I've either gone through some weird ass thing or actually met them in the middle of one." He takes another big gulp and says, "It's actually less lonely than I expected."

"Roen says it's like..." Itzhak cuts that statement off. Like being in a war is what he was going to say. At the last second he veers off from saying it. But now he's left himself high and dry and he doesn't know how to recover from that one. Better pick a different sentence entirely! "I met a whole lot of great people out here. That's 'a good thing', like Izeleh would say."

Finished with setting stuff to boil, he grabs his beer and comes over to lean on the counter opposite Easton, quirking his eyebrows at him. "So, nu, why's it you wanted me to come over?"

Easton tilts his head as Itzhak trails off. He fills in, "The army?" He waits for comfirmation, but at least explains, "It's got some similarities. Tight bonds get formed when people are tying to kill you." People also crack under the pressure both during and after and can never lead normal lives again, so that's not quite as comforting a thought. He asks, "Izeleh?" He has no idea who that is.

Easton smirks at the question and then looks down at his beer before answering, first clarifying "It wasn't to get in your pants. I promise." He looks at Itzhak and says, "This is.. going to sound very dumb or childish. But uhm, I just..." He is obviously uncomfortable with whatever he's trying to communicate. "I don't sleep great. Ever. Like I am up and restless and uhm.. it helps. Sometimes. To just have someone nearby?" He breaks the gaze and lets his eyes slide off to the side

"Yeah. The Army." Itzhak tips the neck of his bottle towards Easton, acknowledging. That's a step back from 'war', so, good, right? Then he smiles crookedly, dropping his eyes to the bottle. "Isolde. That's what I call her, Izeleh." His gaze flicks up again (but not to Easton's eyes, more to his hairline), and he listens intently. When Easton finally comes out with it, he huffs a breath and nods.

"Got insomnia myself. It's a bitch, ain't it? Someone else around helps me sometimes, too. I believe you," he adds. "I believe you didn't ask me over to get into my pants." Then his eyebrows do something funny.

Bennie used to be the someone else around, and now she's not. And now Easton is asking him to fill. A lot of complex emotions float to the surface of his soul.

"I game a lot when I can't sleep." There. That's safe. Right?

"Yea. Roen and I have that in common." Kind of. His eyebrows raise at the mention of Isolde, "Oh. OH." he understands a bit more about what that means or at least what he assumes that means. Itzhak has mentioned a girl or two in his life. "She's uh.. " crazy. No, like really crazy. His brow furrows slightly and he says, "She did great at Murray House. I haven't seen her much since tho." There. Positive and true. That's good.

The news that Itzhak also has insomnia makes him give a soft chuckle. "Yea?" He notices the funny look but accepts that at least he believes that he's not out to sleep with him.

"I do a bit. Mostly I get my ass kicked by tiny tweens with mouths worse than mine."

And that is saying something.

He doesn't mention the drinking or the other methods he's used to try and cope, gaming is a safe one. He stays there as well.

"Crazy?" Itzhak supplies, helpfully. "No. She ain't. Not really. No crazier than the rest of us lunatics. She's hurt. They hurt her." He taps his temple. But he's not mad. Not...that mad. "Yeah, right?" he says, jumping to the also-more-safe topic of gaming. "I never had reflexes again like I did when I was fifteen. Now we gotta be cunning. ...You got an Xbox or something? You wanna play while this stuff cooks?"

"Yea, but.." Easton wants to explain that he doesn't hold it against her or judge her for it. He nods and says, "Exactly. Like .. like someone who's been broken. Just not entirely." He tries not to get hung up on it or think about other people who've come back broken. He smiles and says, "Yup." He may not have much furniture but there is an xbox in the floating console under the massive TV in the living room. "I would love to."

Because then maybe he doesn't have to talk so much and he can stop feeling like he's going to start yelling and kicking Itzhak out and drinking everything in his cabinet.

Lucky for both of them, Itzhak is a veteran of intensely awkward situations, and he's always found food, booze, and gaming to be excellent bandaids over the gaps in social connection. So he and Easton play, sometimes together or sometimes one watching the other and kibbitzing.

Itzhak gets up from time to time, to check on the soup and get the kugel baking. Kugel is a sort of noodle custard, dense, creamy, sweet and comforting ("kinda like Jewish flan", as Itzhak tries to explain). Egg noodles, eggs, cheese, sugar and cinnamon, and he'd brought golden raisins but asked if Easton hates raisins or not before putting them in.

The soup scents the entire apartment with rich chicken fat and vegetable-thick bone broth. When it's almost done, Itzhak makes up the matzoh balls (which he makes roughly the side of softballs) and gets them simmering.

"I can't cook, not really, not like Roen or de la Vega," he'd said to Easton as he plunked the matzoh balls in the soup and slid on the stockpot lid, "this is just real easy stuff. Shove stuff in a pot or whatevah and put it on the stove, done."

Then, more gaming, more drinking, and a lot of eating calorie-dense Jewish food.

The awkwardness on Easton's end at least starts to dissipate as he continues to drink. Granted that means that the occasional shoulder bump or arm swat increases. It's not flirty touching, it's Easton lacking normal sense of boundaries touching, something Itzhak has probably noticed about him thus far. He's not quite Bennie level of a space invader, but he certainly is more handsy than most. By the time food is done Easton is all but salivating over the smells of it all. And for the record, he is very firmly in the pro-raisin camp, particularly when it comes to sweets.

"You can't cook?" Easton dubiously echoes at that point. Though his eye brows raise at the follow up about Ruiz. "De la Vega cooks." He considers that information for a bit and adds, "I mean Roen, sure, that makes perfect sense.. But shoving things in a pot is more than I've ever attempted."

And dinner passes with Easton occassionally telling ridiculous stories of either his time as an obnoxious frat boy or rambunctious Marine on leave. Fairly safe stories as far as those things go. Though at some point after dinner Easton decides that he can now start drinking. Yes, start. He pours himself a glass of scotch and offers Itzhak some or any of the other multitude of liquors that his kitchen is stocked with.

Itzhak has some pretty great stories of his own. Like the time he'd run from the NYPD and Ignacio de Santos picked him up and then dodged a cruiser through the streets of the Lower East Side. Or like the Cajun band he'd been in for years, fronted by a Cajun guy who Itzhak was extremely obviously stupid in love with, and their wild shows and wilder afterparties. The guy's lived a life before he came here. Both he and Easton have.

Aaaand he'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried about the sheer amount of alcohol going into Marshall.

"Man, can you put it away," he says, accepting a somewhat smaller amount of scotch after dinner. "I'm no slouch, but Jesus. You're gonna wreck your liver by the time you're thirty."

Easton laughs easily at the stories, and asks for more details. He doesn't comment on any of the obvious feelings that Itzhak had, that's none of his business. Though with the booze in his system he can't smile a knowing smile and nod as the man describes him without actually saying he was in love with him. The back and forth of these stories helps loosen the mood too.

The comment about the amount of booze he's drinking causes the smile to freeze on his face. He swallows another sip and says, "Yea, well, I'm pretty sure livers regenerate. I aim to test that." It takes a lot of flexing of his jaw to bite back other comments. It's concern, friendly concern, he forces himself to just accept it as such.

"It's late. I'm gonna try and get some sleep."

Easton brought it on himself! He's now in the category of 'People Whom Itzhak Will Bitch At About Their Health'. Enjoy, Easton, it's a privilege. A privilege that makes people want to slug Itzhak.

"Yeah, a'ight," he says, pretending to miss that Easton got pissed off at him. He tips his head back, long throat working as he swallows scotch. "You want I should play for you a little? See if that helps?" He'd brought his violin, of course. Itzhak will bring an instrument wherever he goes, if physically possible.

Itzhak is very likely to get slugged depending on where in a night of drinking Easton is when he shows that concern. But at least he'll apologize about it later?

Standing up from his place at the counter, Easton's a little unsteady on his feet. It takes him a while to figure out what 'play for you' means, despite him seeing the violin case earlier when Itzhak came in. He considers it and then nods, slowly and then with more surety. "Yea. I really liked what you played at the funeral it was.. it was beautiful." Easton finds himself struggling to describe it, perhaps not surprising considering what an emotional rollercoaster that day was.

"I made up the guest room for you too. And put the dog in my room."

And then he takes a seat on the couch, ready to listen, curious if it will help calm him. The glass of scotch is still very much in his hand though, despite any 'concerns' Itzhak presents.

"'Ave Maria.'" Itzhak gazes at nothing, thinking about the last song he played on his beloved old violin. "Thanks. I worked hard on it."

Then he'd crushed his violin under his boot. Itzhak grimaces, tosses down another gulp of scotch, gets up and goes to fetch his new violin. This is just a rental, not one he'd like to settle down with, raise a passel of concertos. But it's his and it's what he has.

He tunes up, quick and practiced, then, standing, thinks about what he wants to play.

"How 'bout some nice Bach," he says. "A little 'Number Two in E Major.'"

Setting his bow to the strings, he begins to play, eyes drifting half shut, eyebrows rising and dipping along with his bowstrokes. The music isn't slow, not lullaby-ish, rather sprightly and sweet. Not restful per se, but the kind of music that paints a picture of a beautiful and living world.

Easton has almost forgotten what song it was. It was less about the melody or the tune and so much more about the feelings and the emotion of letting go of Tom's ghost. And saying goodbye to Tom. He never got to attend Tom's funeral, he was still in the hospital. And so that funeral stands in his mind as when he got to say goodbye, literally to the ghost of Tom. And then Itzhak's song that was not necessarily for him just became this overwhelming thing that he got lost in. Of course that too is marred by the sacrifice of the violin, or maybe not marred, just tempered.

Easton sits down on the sofa, both hands clasping the old fashioned glass now only a quarter full of scotch. He starts off watching Itzhak play, watching the concentration and emotion but soon finds himself closing his eyes. Maybe unwittingly trying to recreate what he felt that day in the rain, dressed in his dress blues.

A slow smile creeps up his face as he the thought that he prefers Bach's cello suites comes into his mind, but then he manages to just relax into the music.

He doesn't speak or open his eyes for the rest of the song.

Itzhak plays for some time; it's a longish piece for a soloist. He winds up and down along the melody like it's a road through a summery landscape, vibrant and colorful. He fucks it up some, but he figures Easton doesn't know that and just covers up his mistakes like a pro. It's the kind of song that sweeps away the musician as well as the audience, and he's so into it as he plays.

When he lets the last notes sigh off his strings, he lowers his bow and smiles crookedly to see Easton if not sleeping, at least relaxing.

As the last note fades out Easton opens his eyes. His smile is softer, not the usual face splitting grin with deep dimples, but more of a zen smile of appreciation. He nods and says, "That was great.. I can't..imagine playing like that." He never played an instrument and Itzhak plays at such a level that it's beyond even considering being able to do for him. He eventually stands, finishes off that glass of scotch and stretches.

"I'm going to try and get some sleep. Guest bedrooms through there" He points to the door at the end of the hall.

After he places the glass in the sink, he walks over and puts a hand on Itzhak's shoulder. "And thanks. For everything. The meal, playing and just .. coming in the first place. I appreciate it."

Itzhak doesn't mind the touchiness as Easton gets drunker. Seems pretty okay with it, really. He thwaps him gently on the back, eyebrows and one corner of his mouth quirked up fondly. "Hey. Anytime."

Then he packs up his violin and heads into the guest bedroom with his bag. A while after that, he's escaped his own insomnia, curled around a pillow and sacked out.

Easton cleans up a few more things, straightening the apartment into it's usual pristine condition before he feels like he can konk out. He heads into his own bedroom and goes through the process of stripping down and taking off the prosthetic leg, hoping that just knowing Itzhak is in the other room will be enough to let him just sleep for once.

But it's not meant to be.

After an hour of tossing and turning, Easton sighs and makes a decision. He grabs his crutches from next to his bed. His crutches that he hates using, particularly around people and crutches out of his room and down the short hall. He comes into the guest room and sees Itzhak there sleeping. Quietly he closes the door and makes his way to the bed, laying the crutches silently on the floor. He scoots under the blankets, his back against Itzhak. He reaches behind him and pulls the taller Jewish man's arm over him.

Hearing what sounds like confused noises from Itzhak Easton grouchily tells him, "Shut up and go back to sleep."

And just like that, in only a few minutes Easton himself drifts off to sleep.

Itzhak, who's pretty drunk to be honest, twitches and murmurs ver iz das when Easton gets into bed with him. A man, getting in bed with him, this seems like a situation. He wakes up a little more as Easton grumps at him and crams himself into little-spoon position. Itzhak squints, three-quarters asleep, arm being pulled over the other man like a blanket. What? Who? ...Marshall. Is getting in bed with him. Demanding to be cuddled.

He sighs, giving in. Then he tucks his cheek against the top of Easton's head, his arm around his chest, and promptly drops back to sleep.