2020-02-01 - Winter Bronic

There's been a fair amount of snow over the last couple of days - nothing like the blizzard of a couple of months ago, but still enough to give the Park a beautiful, clean blanket of glittering white snow. Alexander, after some thought, has invited Itzhak to come out and enjoy the winter day with him - the weather is, at least briefly, sunny and even the wind is a little less cutting. Which, of course, means they're not the only people in the Park; kids and families mill about, playing in the snow. Alexander also has a picnic basket over his arm, and a duffle bag over his other shoulder. He's suggested they meet at a particular memorial to the Addingtons - a small pedestal that looks like a cone-shaped hump in the snow, at this point. The carousel is a better landmark, but Alexander seems to be avoiding there.

He's dressed all bundled up in an ugly sweater, green army jacket, and thermal pants.

Itzhak shows up, striding along the sanded sidewalk. He too is bundled up, wearing his big woolen peacoat, thick soft knit cap crammed down over his curls, and heavy, tough cold-weather pants. He knows how to cope with this weather. When he sets out to cross the park to the memorial, the first sign that he's spotted Alexander is a ripple of violin glissando in Alexander's mental ear, thrilled to see him. And yet as he's walking towards him, he's complaining. "Don't this frikkin' town know how to cope with snow? This is ridiculous. Roads hardly plowed at all!"

"There's no point in shoveling it if more is just going to fall," Alexander says, his expression breaking into a smile as the lanky mechanic approaches. "Besides, it wouldn't be nearly as entertaining if people could drive properly. How are you?" he asks, looking the other man over, thoughtfully. "I haven't seen you in a bit. Thanks for coming out in the freeze. I brought food. Don't worry. I didn't cook it. You're safe."

Itzhak can't help but smile back, in that crooked lopsided way, pulling up in front of Alexander. "Yeah, we got a 24/7 slow motion demolition derby." He laughs, crow's-feet crinkling, that Alexander didn't cook and therefore they are safe from his misdeeds. "Aww. You're adorable, you know that?" His gloved hand comes out of his pocket to wobble midair, in answer to how he's doing. "Ehhhhh. You?"

"I'm not adorable," Alexander says, although there's humor lurking in his eyes. "I'm okay. Come on." He starts to walk, apparently trusting Itzhak to keep up with him. He leads them to a little hill top space, where the duffle bag is opened, and two sleeping bags are removed, rolled out and unzipped, then stretched out to form a 'blanket' on top of the snow. Winter-friendly picnic blanket, here we come. "Would you like to take a scientist or two over to the other side? Last time, they exploded themselves, so it's guaranteed to be entertaining." That came out of nowhere, perhaps, but he studies the other man with dark eyes, curiously.

"Sorry not sorry, this is adorable." Itzhak follows along, watches Alexander do all this with an air of great amusement. He grabs an edge of the sleeping bags to tug them out straight and square. "This's practically romantic, but I'm seein' somebody." A wicked glint in his hazel eyes, he grins fondly at Alexander. "Sure I'd like to. What'd they do to explode themselves? Anything fun?" He settles carefully on the flannel-side-up sleeping bag. The scarf he's wearing has a violin image knit into the end that's lying free over his chest.

"Is it?" Alexander's head cocks to one side. "Hm. I didn't realize." A pause. "That it's romantic. Not that you're seeing someone. I know that." He moves to fold himself into a half-lotus on the 'blanket, and puts the basket next to him, opening it up. "They were trying to make an object that could nullify a room. It exploded, instead. But they do believe that it's a promising sign." His voice is dry, as he reaches in and pulls out four sandwiches from a local deli, and lays them out on the blanket. Each one is different, and he brings out little bottles of condiments. "I didn't know what you like best. And you should contact Yule Duchannes." He uses his phone to text him the number. "He's the medical examiner. We knew each other as kids. Sort of."

"I may not know much, but I know a snow picnic is romantic." Itzhak stretches his looong damn legs out in front of him, boots off the edge of the blanket, and sets to tugging his gloves off. "A thing that could nullify a room? Like Hya Addison can?" He glances over, eyebrows up. "No kiddin'. And it exploded? Oh I bet they loved that. Engineers always love makin' shit explode." He consults his phone, saves Yule's contact. "Yule, I feel like I met that guy, but shit, I can't remember. I'll talk to him. Ya got roast beef?"

Alexander reaches out for the roast beef, and tosses it over to Itzhak. Catch! He seems confident that the physical-adept guy will manage, one way or the other. "Yeah. Just like that. It didn't quite work, as mentioned, and they were attacked by the Shadows. Yule ended up in the hospital. But he's persistent. I think you'll like him." He smiles. "So. Tell me about you. How are things? More than 'ehn'." He makes the rocking motion with his own hand, before reaching out to grab a salmon sandwich for his own.

Itzhak catches the sandwich neatly, and if it's his Song or just him being good at catching things, well, who knows. "Thanks, pal. Ouch, hospital, huh?" He grimaces sympathetically, while unwrapping the sandwich and hunting down a bottle of mustard. "Ehhhhh," he says, again, and chuckles a little, ruefully. "I mean, some things, pretty good. Got my girls, de la Vega and me are official, don't even ask me how that happened. How could anything be better? Some things..." he tips his head, ticks his tongue. "I dunno what the hell I'm gonna do about my garage. 'Raze it to the ground' sounds pretty good."

"You can't raze it to the ground," Alexander says, with a frown. "We'll have to figure out a way to make it work. How is Lemondrop? I imagine she was unsettled by all of it." He's thinking as he unwraps the sandwich. "We can probably go hitting estate and bankruptcy sales, if you want. We might be able to find some tools there for a decent price. You'd be surprised what's sold there." He takes a bite, then smiles. Sudden playfulness in his voice. "Tamed the wild cop, huh? Wouldn't have figured that. But I'm glad."

Itzhak grumbles wordlessly into sammich. Then, after he swallows, "Ya sure? I could swing a wrecking ball." But he sighs, grumpily allowing as maybe Alexander has a point. "Just, everything's messed up. Everything." The depression and anxiety his non-Euclidian garage causes him is clear as day to Alexander, roiling up jagged fractal constructs. "Lemka's okay. Her terrarium got cracked, had to repair that first thing. It's weird angles too but she don't care. All she cares about is she gets enough heat and things to climb on and places to hide. She was hiding, I had to get a bunch of oil off her and then get antibiotics for her, but she's doing good."

At Alexander's smile, though, and that statement about taming the wild Ruiz, Itzhak blushes sudden and rosy. "Feh," he mutters, but he's smiling. "Like I said. No idea how that happened."

"Because you're a good person, and people find it easy to fall for you," Alexander says, promptly. "And your mind is beautiful." He takes another bite of his sandwich, moving on from the observations without a pause. "Make a list," he suggests. "Of the stuff that you absolutely need to get back to taking at least a few clients. Let us know what that is. We'll get the worst of it out of the way, and then build back up from there. Remember they feed on despair and anger and all of that. Hope and purpose may be the right way to spit in their eye."

Itzhak blushes hotter. "Sandushka!" he complains, then, "Alexander, sorry." Itzhak never apologizes, but he apologizes about accidentally calling Alexander his Yiddish pet name for him. "Hmph. You do that on purpose, ya jerk." Joik. Trying to cool down, he spends a while finishing the sandwich. "I got a list," he says, sucking a smear of mustard from the pad of one finger. "But oy vey izt mir what a list it is." He pulls out his phone from his coat pocket again and shows Alexander the list. It starts with 'Tool chests' and goes to each tool in those chests and then 'Workbenches' and everything to do with those and then 'Lifts' and ...you get the idea.

While scrolling through it, he half-smiles, reluctantly, thinly. "Yeah. They really knew how to get to me on this one though. Despair and anger for days I got."

Alexander shakes his head. "It's fine. I know you mean it kindly." He smiles, then. "Does it mean something? It doesn't sound like my name at all." He takes another bite, then makes a noise, reaches back into the basket. "Almost forgot," he mentions, mumbling around the food. Two bottles of beer are brought out, one offered to Itzhak. Exchanged for the list, even. Which he looks at as he chews. "Mmh. Okay. But what's important? Don't say 'all of it'. What's the absolute necessity to get you started again? The lifts?"

"It's the last part. Alek-SAND-er. Then we put some extra syllables on that, because reasons, I guess. 'Ushka' is one of 'em. So, Sandushka. My folks call me Itzil." That's pronounced itz-EEL. "You could call me that if you wanted." Itzhak offers with all the fake casualness he can scrape up, while accepting the beer in trade for his phone. "Thanks. You know the way to my heart is through my stomach." He bends the top off his with his thumb, in what is definitely a subtle display of power, and swigs. "Mmmf. Tools, most important. Lifts are nice, but unless I gotta drop an engine or something drastic, they can wait. I can't do shit without a set of wrenches."

"No," Alexander says flatly in response to the offer to call him by the nickname. He doesn't seem to mean it as a rejection, and adds, "I like your name. Itzhak." He pronounces it correctly, but lingers over it a little, like he's tasting it in his mouth. "It's a good name. I don't need to change it." Another smile, as he hands the list back and opens his own bottle the hard way. "Okay. So, wrenches. What else is immediately essential?" Staring at Itzhak with that particularly reptilian look he gets when he's thinking carefully about something.

Itzhak turns red again as Alexander savors his name. Admittedly it's a pretty savory name, the equivalent of biting into a salted lemon wedge. "My folks thought it was a good name too," he jokes, anyway, and goes after the second sandwich. Where does he put it all? "Some of the supplies are still good. Oil, lubricant, stuff like that. Everything soft or liquidy? Like hoses and gaskets. Air filters, anything with right angles, got ferkakt. That I'll need to replace, especially with spring coming up, people will wanna come in for tune ups and flushes. Uhhh...." he trails off, his own look going distant. "Even my dollies are messed up, need to replace those." Then he rolls his eyes, up at the sharp blue sky. "Nobody's lettin' me sit around and mope about it, you know? Everybody's bein' so helpful." Which comes out as a Yiddish-style complaint. Ugh, why does Itzhak have to have FRIENDS who want to HELP him?

"I'm glad they did," Alexander says, without any hint he picked up the joke in there. He pulls out his phone and makes some notes about the needs of the garage. His lips quirk upwards. "I think that's what friends are supposed to do, Itzhak." Again, it's entirely serious, although this time there's humor in the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and the gleam there. "But I'll see what I can scrounge up. At least basic tools should be possible to find. Are you good for a while, on funds? Rent, all of that?" Is it rude to ask about someone's financials? Yes. Does that stop Alexander? No.

"Yeah, rent'n all's okay." It's rude, but Itzhak doesn't care. This is Alexander who's asking him. "I won a pretty nice chunk of change when I was gone, you know? My team won, once I got everybody to shut up and let me build my engine. I just..." Itzhak makes a face, staring at the sandwich. "This kinda day to day slog of being a mechanic ain't what I really wanna be doing."

"What do you want to be doing?" The question is immediate, and Alexander's head tilts to one side, his attention sudden and fixed, even as he polishes off his sandwich and reaches for his beer. Even as he takes a swig from the bottle, his eyes don't leave Itzhak. "Assuming all issues were sorted out."

Itzhak tips his head and his eyebrows, hands around the sandwich. "I wouldn't mind buildin' racing engines. Did that for de Santos, did you know? Back in NYC. It's fun as hell. Even doing custom work I'd be into. Love to be in a band making money. I can't ever get a job in an orchestra, they don't hire ex-cons, especially not ones who look like me." He spreads one hand, 'DOWN' on the knuckles. "But I was in a band for a while in NYC and that was amazing. Hell, I dunno, none of it is possible anyway."

Alexander listens to all of this, quiet and solemn. Until Itzhak gets to that last sentence. Then he takes a drink, thinks about it, puts the bottle down in the snow, then turns and scoops up a nice double handful of white snow, packs it into a nice little sphere. It's not hard to tell what he's planning to do, and heck, it's not like he's going to be able to do it unless Itzhak lets him, so he sees no trouble with telegraphing the toss of the cold, wet, lightly packed snow right into the mechanic's face. "Don't be stupid. It doesn't suit you."

Itzhak watches Alexander form the snowball, eyebrows up interrogatively in a silent 'whatcha doin'. He doesn't realize Alexander intends it for his face until it's thrown, and he jerks back in surprise, swatting the snowball aside and exploding it in a poof of fluffy white. "Augh! Alexander! ...what? It is," he insists, grumbling. "There ain't exactly a lot of that kinda work around here."

"There's not a lot of it," Alexander agrees. "But that doesn't mean none. And you're good at things. If you want to be in a band, why not put together a band? With people who either accept who and what you are, or can fuck right off. Put together a classical group, if you want. There's not a lot for a full orchestra, but there are events that would love a quartet, and it's not like there's so much competition that they can be picky about a few tattoos. And it's fucking Washington. Half the population has ink." He picks up another handful of snow and flings it in Itzhak's direction. "Do what you love."

"Jesus Christ, Clayton!" Itzhak swats at MORE incoming snow, getting irritated. "I don't wanna do chamber, I wanna fiddle. Folk music's where it's at. There's a lot in Seattle, here there ain't shit. There's a lot of everything in Seattle. I...guess I could go there sometimes." Grudgingly, like Alexander might not be totally in the wrong that Itzhak could do things.

"Well, if you don't want to join an orchestra, then there's no problem that there's not one in Gray Harbor to join, and you don't have to worry about whether they would or wouldn't accept you," Alexander points out, bland in the face of Itzhak's rising irritation. "And yes, you could go to Seattle. It's not that far of a drive. But you could also look at stuff around here. Not just Gray Harbor, but Elma and Hoaquim. Those places don't get much, you know." He reaches for the beer again. "When I was in a band, way back when, we played mostly around there. But we were terrible. You're not terrible."

Itzhak makes a sound, pure gravelly aggravation, and glares at Alexander. "That ain't--I don't--oh fuck you anyway." He bites into the sandwich like a cat savaging a favorite toy. Chompf. Swallowing, he mutters, "I ain't my own man, Alexander. You know that."

There's a flicker of hurt at the glare and the fuck you, and Alexander's eyes drop as he replays the conversation. "I'm sorry," he says, suddenly contrite. "I didn't mean to hurt you." But he just can't resist an argument, and at the mutter, he says, "And I know that. But I also know that you've got some room in your obligations for, uh, extra-curriculars. You don't have to just be that. In fact, you shouldn't be. You need other things."

Itzhak sighs, and rubs his eyes with the back of one hand. "Look, I...c'mere." But instead of reaching for a hug, he beckons Alexander, long fingers curling, and taps his forehead. "'Words are the source of misunderstandings,'" he murmurs.

Alexander doesn't hesitate; he rarely does, when offered the touch of another person's mind - he reaches out for Itzhak, his stars and darkness unfurling without hesitation. There's something odd with them, with his whole mindscape, although it's hard to pinpoint. A subtle background wrongness. <<Words aren't the source of misunderstandings,>> he says, his mental voice as always more confidant and, now, a little amused, <<differing perceptions are the source of misunderstandings. Words are just the easiest way to convey those perceptions.>>

Violin music twines into the darkness, and Itzhak sighs again, happy this time. He loves doing this, and particularly with Alexander; all those sharp, glittering, merciless stars and their too-close examinations. His pleasure pulses through the link, the violin singing sweet. But... <<What's wrong?>> he sends, trepidation entering his music. <<What happened?>>

Alexander's head cocks to one side. <<Wrong? Nothing-->> There's a pause. It's hard to say what Alexander sees of himself in his mind - it's almost certainly not the stars that others see. But then he shrugs. <<I don't know. I've just felt...itchy, for a while. A week or two. Maybe you're picking up on that? Probably coming down with something. Or the damned books infected me.>> More understandable emotions there; exasperation, gnawing curiosity, and a keen grief pushed down and away, along with a dark pulse of guilt. He considers Itzhak. <<But you were about to say something about misunderstandings?>>

Protectiveness surges up from Itzhak, spiky fractals facing outwards like pikes. <<...yeah, okay.>> He doesn't sound convinced, but he also isn't going to press it. <<I was gonna say,>> and the music grows warmer, and then he's not saying it at all with formed words, but just presenting Alexander with what he feels. Pleasure, quite a lot of it, in Alexander's company, even though he's poking him about doing what he loves. Concern, for Alexander, and that urge to protect him, even from Itzhak himself.

Alexander's mental landscape warms under that flood of emotion, a subtle aurora of oranges and reds and deep purples stretching from star to star, giving volume to the void between them. His own response is wordless - pleasure, yes, and concern, equal amounts of it, but also exasperation - a belief that Itzhak is selling himself short. A pulsing anger, too; the (badly) hidden desire to hunt down those who have hurt the mechanic, or who keep him tied, and simply remove them from the world. But his voice is more neutral. <<I just think you should chase the things you want. You deserve to be happy, Itzhak.>>

Itzhak is always a little confused when people accuse him of selling himself short. But, but. is always his reaction, do you KNOW me? How can anybody look at him, knowing what he is (ex-con, felon, too hasty with his temper and his fists, no education to speak of, and actual literal criminal) and think he's selling himself short? That he deserves to be happy?

Exasperating.

He senses Alexander's grief, and although he doesn't know what it's for, his inner violin plays a few lines of Ave Maria for it, lingering, yearning, like he'd played it for Gohl's funeral. They'd all given up so much, and they continue to be required to give and give and give.

The urge Alexander has to, well, remove the people plaguing Itzhak, though? He loves that. Alexander feels like that about him? Delicious. Way too wonderful, actually--there's something a little weird here, a little too eager to claim these dark emotions for himself. Some resonance, grasping-greedy. He doesn't seem to know it's there. He's just basking in those murderous feelings.

<<Chased you, didn't I?>> he murmurs, trying to distract Alexander with a joke, a shimmer of wicked humor in the kythe.

Alexander, picking up on some of those urges and blithely unaware (or at least unacknowledging) of his own hypocrisy in that regard, just reflects a mirror to show Itzhak as Alexander sees him: caring, protective, skilled in music and mechanics and his abilities, brave (not fearless, but brave), and self-sacrificing. Even those lonely lines get reflected back as a sort of 'see, you feel like this about someone you don't even know'.

The only thing Alexander shies away from is that eagerness to embrace the darker side of his friend; it's not something he's ready to deal with, for himself or anyone else, perhaps. But if it's not exactly a distraction, the murmur brings a smile and brightness back to the connection. <<A little bit. But I'm glad you caught those who could really help you be happy. And I'm glad we're friends.>>

Oh it's tough for Itzhak to see himself like that; his attention flinches away some, unable to stand the light of how Alexander sees him. Of how other people see him too--Isabella didn't call him a pansexual lighthouse for nothing. His own darkness swallows up a lot of that reflected light. But he makes himself sit there and take it, and maybe, just maybe, even enjoy it a tiny bit.

Isolde. Rebecca. Javier. The names of his lovers are written in silvery notes, a triple-melody composition singing in his soul. Itzhak, staring at the too-blue winter sky, bites his lip.

<<You know what Izeleh told me?>> He spins a memory: Isolde straddling his lap (but they're both fully clothed, you're welcome Alexander), talking to him earnestly, lovingly. Have you considered you're not broken? Perhaps you're just unfinished, and the people who love you are your missing parts.

Itzhak's entire psyche rings with those words. <<You're one of those parts,>> his violin murmurs. <<Because we're friends.>>

Alexander doesn't press any further; he just smiles, and gathers up another clump of snow in his hands. <<I'm glad,>> he responds, and he is glad - almost bashful with it, hearing the other man call him a friend, when there's been so much of his life that has been completely without friends. An edge of fear, afraid to embrace that word or emotion too closely, but not willing to push it away, either. <<Just remember that, when I have cause to irritate the shit out of you.>>

Itzhak laughs out loud. On some level he's conscious he looks like an idiot, sitting silently and doing nothing and then suddenly laughing out of nowhere--but does he care? Does he really care?

Nah. Life is strange, and brutal, and more than sometimes bloody, and Alexander is one of the things that makes those worth bearing.

<<You kiddin'? I love it when you irritate me.>> He grins one of those rare brilliant grins at Alexander. There's a flicker of urge to touch him, but Itzhak swerves away from that with the ease of long practice. Alexander doesn't like to be touched. Itzhak won't make him do it. Instead, he says, voice a little rough, "Thanks for takin' me out, boychik. I'm havin' a great time."

<<You're very strange, Itzhak Rosencrantz.>> But Alexander laughs, too, and if he notes the urge to touch, he doesn't comment on it, although there's a faint flicker of appreciation. His skin feels too tight and too strange right now. It's one of the reasons he suggested a picnic in the snow and cold, as if chilling himself might stop the rising feeling. He shifts back to vocals, although the link remains between them, light and comforting. "I'm glad you're having fun. I am, too. The winters aren't usually good here, but there's something beautiful in the snow, I think." He shapes the snow into another ball, and grins. Then hurls it right at Itzhak's nose.

Itzhak's on to Alexander's ways now! Even so he very nearly doesn't manage to duck, too absorbed in the sensations of the kythe, in just watching Alexander do things. His crush on the man has settled, become something abiding and real. (Javier has had a lot to do with that, honestly, filling the places in Itzhak that needed a man.) But that doesn't mean he doesn't still find him attractive, because he sure does.

The point being, he goes "GAH" and frantically tries to swipe the snowball away and gets it splattered on his coat for his pains. "You're askin' for it, Clayton!" But he's back to being playful. And in fact he scoops up a handful of snow too, and lobs it at Alexander.

Alexander grins, that rare expression that takes several years off his face. "Look. It's not my fault they never taught you how to duck in New York City. I would have thought that was univer--augh!" He leans to the side quickly, but not quickly enough, and gets a snowball to the ear for his pains. "Treachery!" He's laughing, though, and shivering as he reaches up to scrape all the snow out of his ear and hair. "Okay, fine. Maybe they taught you something on the East Coast. A little." It's light and teasing.

"Yeah, that'll show ya!" Itzhak crows, laughing. "Show you to mess with a New Yorker." He gathers up trash to deposit, like a conscientious guy. "Thanks," he says, again, a little shyly. "I gotta head back, but...thanks."