2020-01-20 - Make Some Noise

The door opens and Dante is probably as casual as Itzhak has ever seen him. Which is less shocking when one realizes they haven't actually crossed each others' paths that many times. He's wearing black slacks and a wine-red button-up with black contrast stitching. The sleeves are rolled neatly up to his elbows. He's also wearing a pair of stylish (naturally) tortoiseshell wayfarer glasses. "Good evening. Come right in. Can I offer you a drink?"

Itzhak on the other hand is actually casual, wearing a hoodie with a beautiful illustration of his favorite Overwatch character (Reinhardt, standing on a ruined cityscape with rocket hammer in hand) and snug jeans worn to the texture of suede, washed nearly white. He's got a cherry-red, glossy violin case slung over his shoulder, and he hoists his eyebrows at Dante's 'casual'. He comes right in. "Hey, how's by ya. Sure, a drink would be great. Whatever you're having." The baby grand draws his eye and he goes right over to it. "Hey, it's electronic!"

"It is indeed. Considerably lighter and more economical, but produces a pretty nice sound. Though I'm no expert, considering I've got a pitiful amount of hours on a genuine piano." Dante crosses to the kitchen where there's red wine in a carafe. He pours a pair of glasses and hands one to Itzhak after he's got a free hand. "And the acoustics aren't half bad either." Since it's evening, there's not a lot to take in when it comes to the view.

"Sure looks great." Itzhak's messing with the piano, turning it on, tapping keys. "I don't know much about piano myself, but it never seemed that hard. Not after violin." Plink plink plink. He unslings his violin, accepts the glass of wine with a nod. "Thanks. So, hey, you and Cruz are a thing, yeah?" Right to the point!

Dante is a pretty together and refined man. Or at least, he tries to be. He very nearly spit-takes the wine at Itzhak's sudden comment, but he manages to stop it. He coughs a little. He swallowed more wine than intended. "Ah, yes, I suppose? For various definitions of 'thing.'"

Itzhak is startled into laughing at Dante's near disaster. He goes red himself, almost as red as the wine. "Sorry. I got terrible timing, it's the worst for a musician. He mentioned you got him and another guy too."

"Quite all right. Even if I had spilled, I am wearing a red shirt," Dante grins and smooths a hand down his front. Now it's his turn to turn a little red. "I suppose so. Which is unusual for me, if I'm being honest. I've wondered if there's something about this town and its...oddities that makes it hard for people to settle on a single partner. I thought I was just living the life of a divorcee', but I've noticed that it seems...a bit common in this town."

"Me, I've always been like this. Greedy asshole that I am." Itzhak grins back, quick and lopsided. He sips the wine and tinks at the keys, studying the keyboard, gray-green-brown hazel eyes flicking back and forth. Then he tinks at them, experimentally, big hand and long fingers stretching easily. Tink tink tink...ta-ta-ta-ta tink tink tink... he's picking out 'Heart and Soul', the song the movie Big made famous. Not quickly, or perfectly, but he's working it out a little in his head. "You're divorced?" he says, tone absent.

"I went through a period like that in my twenties. Didn't we all, if we could get away with it?" Dante sips from the wine, then sets it aside. "But then I thought I wanted to settle down. A five-year relationship, three of those married to a lovely woman who may have actually had some deep-seated homophobia that she pretended not to." He starts the rocking motion to Itzhak's melody, his fingers likewise long and strong, and at home on the keys. "I'm not saying we didn't have our problems before that, but things really started to fall apart when I confessed that I've got a thing for men as well."

Itzhak grins more openly as Dante begins playing along. He plays slow, though, picking a tempo he can almost maintain. But...oooh, that makes him wince. "Were you fucking other guys? 'Cuz if not, she got no right to hassle you over it. Just because you're married to a woman don't make you not queer."

"I was not. Until she started continuously accusing me of flirting and acting very insecure whenever I was even friendly to an attractive man. And then..." Dante's fingers dance over the keys. He hits an off-note and stops playing, "I thought, well, if I'm to be punished for something, might as well commit the crime, mhmm? Not the most mature reaction, but we had the same argument a dozen times before I did anything." He recounts the story like it's cut and dried, but it's obvious that the whole thing still weighs on him. He reclaims his wine.

Itzhak snorts a wry laugh. He runs out of notes he knows, starts over again. He may not be a pianist, but he's a pretty damn good musician, and pianos are music theory laid out in black and white. "Yeah, well. Dick move, but you don't need me to tell you that. Dick move on her part, too. You doin' better now?" ...Why is he asking this? Does he actually care or is he just nosy?

Dante is wondering that very thing. He watches Itzhak for a moment, eyebrows lifted. "Not that I mind, but...why this sudden interest in my love life?" He slides a hand into the pocket of his trousers and sips from the glass. He watches the fingers across the keys appreciatively.

Itzhak hitches one shoulder, not meeting Dante's eyes. He doesn't seem to make eye contact much, so this probably isn't avoidance--OR IS IT. "It's stupid. I like you. I like Cruz, God knows why. Want you to be okay with each other." So Cris told him something. On the second go-round through 'Heart and Soul', he plays it a little faster, smoother.

Dante clears his throat, and not for the first time. He's quiet a moment, nothing but the sound of Itzhak's fingers on the keys. The acoustics in the room really are quite good. The lack of clutter helps. And the instrument itself does produce a fairly genuine sound. The keys even have a pleasant weight to them. "What...did he tell you?"

"Said he fucked up with you. Well, he's a moron, that ain't no surprise." Itzhak rolls his eyes. "Said he's managed to work it out, so, yeah." He picks his hand up off the keys so he can make an elaborate Jewish gesture, turning his hand palm-up and rippling a shrug down his arm. Finally he glances over at Dante. "I ain't tryin' to horn in on him. Or you." But...there's something, deep down in those hazel eyes. He looks away, takes a gulp of wine, then sets it down so he can crouch and unlatch his violin case.

"It's...exceedingly complicated," says Dante, pursing his lips. He rolls his wrist, the red liquid sloshing around. "Honestly, I'm trying not to intellectualize it too much, because, well, let's just say that..." he takes a deep breath, shakes his head. "I suppose I crave a little danger. Ill-advised liaisons. I'm usually prone to measured response. My natural impulse is towards being in-control." Hence the suits, the exceedingly neat apartment. "But it all gets rather stifling sometimes. Being good. Being sure of oneself." His tone is far more halting than his usual confident, purposefully charming manner. "And this place, with all its darkness..." he trails off and looks from the dark window back to Itzhak. "Well. I am a horror writer. It's been my job to gaze into the abyss. I just never realized how real and deep that abyss was."

Itzhak listens quietly, getting out his violin and violin stuff. It takes a few minutes, and keeps his hands busy while he listens to Dante's beautiful accent and compelling words with a musician's ear. Tightening his bow, rubbing the clear amber rosin along the horsehair, tuning the violin's strings.

"Cruz is a dangerous guy," he says, but gently. "So no wonder you're into him. Same for this town." Himself? He's a dangerous guy too. But he doesn't say that. Dante probably doesn't need him to, what with that prison ink on his knuckles and the way he can walk like he's crossing a yard.

"I met him in the Firefly one of my first nights in town. He spilled a drink on me, blamed it on me, and then followed me to the bathroom. He..." Dante clears his throat. "...he was looking for a fight. But that's not what happened. In a bigger place, that would have been that." But Gray Harbor has a way of forcing people back into one another's orbit. Dante steps a little closer to watch the ritual of the bow. He does so with interest, both as a fellow musician, and as a writer who likes to soak up details and ferret them away. You never know when one might be needed. "I feel like I'm the small town boy who finds himself twisted up with worldly types who really understand how the world works. Never mind I grew up mostly in bloody London."

Itzhak, without saying anything, leans back a little and lets Dante watch what he's doing. He smirks at the story of Cris luring Dante into a fight...or not a fight, in that case. While Dante talks, he hands him the chunk of rosin to investigate. It has a U shape worn away in it from years of rubbing. The dust from it is a little sticky, makes the horsehair of the bow powdery. The tuning he does mostly by ear, carefully turning pegs until he's satisfied with the way the violin resonates under each string. Then he plucks them in pairs. E and A, A and D, D and G. He huffs not quite a laugh when Dante says he feels like a small town boy. "Place is full of rough characters, that's for sure. It's the thinness. It draws us here, and it tends to like people who been through a lot of shit. That's what I think, at least."

"Or people who go looking for the darkness, in my case." Dante takes the rosin and turns it over, exploring the texture of it. "I'm a babe in the woods, in a lot of ways. Even with Elias, who to my slight embarrasment, I've got ten years on. He's an old soul, and he's always known about this town and its secrets. So with both of them, I've got...a fair bit of learning to do. Both might be a mistake - they might not be. But I find myself not caring. Letting go of my desire for control."

Itzhak hitches his eyebrows in a Yiddish shrug. "De la Vega's ten years older than me, and one of my girlfriends is ten years younger than me. Whaddaya gonna do." Then he smiles when Dante says he wants to let go of control. And it's a smile that's a little private and a little wicked and a lot thoughtful. He's still fussing over his violin when it happens. "Yeah. Know that feeling."

"Being the young one, I can do. Did do, ah," Dante smiles, cheeks pinkening a little. He lifts a shoulder. "I suppose I feel a bit of a weight of responsibility being the other way 'round?" And then, "One of your girlfriends? Oh my," the shark-smile that he's known for makes an appearance, which chases away the effect of the pinkened cheeks. "All at once, or one at a time?" he drawls.

"Yeah, well, age don't always mean experience." Then Dante teases Itz about his girlfriends plural and Itzhak promptly blushes again, red as a tomato. He makes a face at him, standing up--tall bastard, but not quiiiiite as tall as Dante. "At a time! I'm seeing two girls. And de la Vega." None of that statement cools his blush.

"What's your Valentine's Day going to be like?" asks Dante, the smile not leaving, brows lifted. He watches him stand. "That's the police chief, yes? I don't believe we've met. If so, only in passing." Then, a headtilt. "I understand why you've got so many in your orbit. You're quite fascinating."

Itzhak narrows his eyes at Dante, but whew, that blush! It's raving. "Captain. Police captain. Come on, what's that supposed to mean? Fascinating, feh!"

"Sorry, my English is showing." As if Dante's English is never NOT on full display. He keeps grinning in the face of the blush. "You've got tattoos and you're a mechanic. And I can tell you've seen some things in your life. But you've got a poet's heart, and a poet's heart that has endured in the face of all you've seen. And that combination is compelling."

Itzhak actually sets his violin and bow down so he can bury his bright red face in his hands. "Daaaante, ya killin' me here!" he complains, muffled. "Oy gevalt, heart of a poet? Ya ridiculous." He scrubs his face and drops his hands, full-on glaring at Dante now. "You're the writer! If anyone in this room is a poet it's you."

Dante laughs. It's a warm and bright sound, and his eyes are dancing. "You're getting angry at me for a compliment? See, that...?" he wags a finger at Itzhak. "...is very endearing. And I don't mean a literal, Shall I compare thee to a summer's day poet. But in the broader, Classical definition of the word." Flex that Oxford education, D.

Itzhak rubs his forehead. "I can't win," he mutters, but he doesn't seem actually angry. Just cranky. Aggravated, even. "I don't go no education, no idea what that means. So tell me already." He stares expectantly into Dante's left shoulder.

"I think you do know what it means. It means you're looking and thinking of the world in ways that look for its beauty. It means..." Dante moves his head to try and look him in the eye, "That you let yourself be vulnerable even though the world has hurt you. Which takes more strength than people give it credit for. It's easy to be hard when you've seen hard things. It's much more difficult to stay soft." He's quiet a moment, then exhales a bit of laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm...something of an observer of human nature. Sort of a required skill in my business."

Itzhak's eyes meet Dante's. Clear gray hazels, streaked with strong lines of green and brown. Only for a second, before he squints and glances away. But he's listening, his body language attentive. Dante is telling him something about himself. He wants to hear every word.

And he does. He hears Dante out alllll the way to the end. Then he swallows, and his hazel eyes flick over again to meet his gaze. "...I dunno how you got all that from car karaoke," he says, and shakes his head on a wry chuff of a half-laugh.

"Mhmm, some of my evidence came from tonight. And I've had the pleasure to meet one or two people like you in the past. I could be off-base, but I don't think I am. Call it nosy writer's intuition?" Dante cocks his head and grins. "Honestly I could use turning that observant eye on myself every now and again, but we're always the worst at seeing ourselves, hmm?"

"You're not the only one told me I'm soft," Itzhak murmurs. Still embarrassed, still blushing--but isn't that color in his face proof of what Dante says? Hardened men aren't usually blushers. He rubs his traitorous cheek, narccing him out. "I don't see it. But they do. Guess you do too." And that, he's not irritated about. No. That's brought out that softness in him. He liked hearing that, hearing maybe he has that about him still. "Fine, I guess I deserved that for talkin' about Cruz to you."

"I didn't say that for revenge. Well," Dante's mischevious grin returns, "...not entirely. It's quite something to see you turn red. If I just saw you pass on the street, I wouldn't have thought you'd be a blusher." He takes in a long breath and fidgets his hand in his pocket. "Mhmm, well I suppose I see something a bit soft in him, too. Somewhere under the bluster and the swagger and the self-destructiveness."

Itzhak can't help but return the grin, though fainter, and only on one side of his expressive mouth. His whole face really gets into expressing, like a stage full of actors. "Yeah. Me too. Why I like him, the yutz. De la Vega's like that too--" then he stops, eyes widening a little in alarm. "Don't you dare tell anyone I said that!"

Dante lifts both hands defensively. "As I said, I don't know the man. I haven't got a horse in this race. And anyway, I consider this little unplanned tete-a-tete to be confidential. I think we've both bared far more than we intended to during a jam session that we haven't actually started." Not that he seems to mind overmuch. "If I'm being honest, things with Cris and I started out as purely sexual tension. It's been a shock to both of us that it's endured."

Itzhak hmfs. "Same with me and de la Vega," he mutters, mouth quirked. "Now I'm crazy about the bastard. Go figure." He eyes Dante with amused rue. "So let's jam, already. Whaddaya want to play?" He takes up fiddle and bow, steps back to let Dante get at the piano bench, and plays a few rounds of scales, changing up his bowing on each run. If he was a little halting and uncertain at the piano, no such thing on the fiddle. It comes to life in his hands.

"I've a theory about this town," says Dante as he runs long fingers over the keys. He's no concert pianist, but he's certainly adept and reasonably confident. "...being here is a bit like...going through something heavy with hundreds of others. Going through the fire with people. It brings unusual people together. And it makes us grab for pleasure and connection anywhere we can get it and with anyone." He plunks out an aimless tune, then, "My repertoire is mostly jazz standards, with a few bits and bobs thrown in. Cole Porter's a particular favourite." He starts to play the first few notes of Anything Goes. Appropriate.

"Like war. Roen's said that, too." Itzhak then joins in, coming in on time, drawing his bow swift across the strings. He takes the vocal part, which violin does quite well, making it sing. It's not exact; he doesn't know it well, so he's doing a lot of improvising, but it turns out he's VERY good at improvising. While he does, he taps his boot to the beat, grinning, his eyebrows leaping along with the bow.

Dante smiles at the skill of the improvised violin. He lets Itzhak take the vocals and feel it out. Like a lot of jazz standards, the rhythm and the shape of it becomes apparent after the second verse. So he skips the majority of the song, only adding in his voice when it gets to one particular part, "If saying your prayers you like/If green pears you like/If old chairs you like,/If back stairs you like,/If love affairs you like/

"With young bears you like,/Why nobody will oppose!" He knows this song well, judging by the lack of sheet music, "And though I'm not a great romancer/I know that I'm bound to answer/When you propose,/Anything goes!" A flourish to end it off. His voice definitely suits the style more than singing Radiohead.

Itzhak laughs, sudden and bright, at the line about young bears. When Dante started singing he dropped back to harmony, swapping off with him seamlessly. Turns out Itzhak is good. He plays a funny little fillip at the end to match the flourish. "Is that line about bears really in there?"

"Absolutely. Cole Porter even sang the song himself once or twice. It was his ode to free love in the thirties. Though, from what I understand, it wasn't in every performance of the musical at the time. But it tends to be in revivals." Dante turns on the bench and grins at Itzhak. "You really are bloody fantastic."

Itzhak laughs again. "Nice." He waves his bow at Dante in a 'go on with your nonsense' kinda way, grinning back at him. "Ehh I ain't the world's worst fiddler. You sound great, you know that? We're gonna have all the neighbors in here demanding an encore." He taps the piano with the very tip of the bow. "Play somethin' else. Let's make some fuckin' noise."

"And yes, I realize the utter stereotypical nature of me enjoying musical theatre. I've never pretended to not be a walking cliche." Dante plays an aimless tune as he tries to think of something else. He starts to 'All of Me' in its original tempo, but then he quickly switches to stride piano and ups the tempo to something more fitting with a fiddle. Stride isn't as comfortable for him but he manages to do a decent job of it.

Itzhak hops right in, boot tapping, fingers working the neck, bow slipping precisely across the strings. He plays like a classical violinist who learned fiddling--in other words, with a weird and almost uncanny accuracy underneath an emotive and fluid style. It's all his own. He just goes ahead and plays what feels good, like a real fiddler should, improvising a swinging melody and weaving it back and forth around the piano. He knows how music fits together, that much is quite obvious, since he can anticipate Dante and show up with whatever he's doing. Itzhak's grinning to himself, eyebrows jumping, having a great time.

Dante is really not that hard to show up when it comes to musical acrobatics. He loses the rhythm of the stride once or twice, but manages to get it back after a bar or two. He laughs and shakes his head. He is a dedicated amateur with a small measure of talent - a competent pianist that's no match for Itzhak's skill. But it's a conversation, not a competition. He doesn't even try to sing this time. He's concentrating too hard. And though by the end of the song, he hasn't broken a sweat, if the song had gone on much longer he might have. "Wonderful." A little flourish at the end.