2020-02-16 - The Restorative Properties of Sugar and Song

7 Oak Avenue is easy to pick out. The dull olive green is as muted and modest as most of the other large houses in this rather nice part of town, but the porch posts have all been painted rainbow shade, yellow in the center extending up to magenta and down to indigo unevenly enough to assure somebody eyeballed it. There's also the same red Kia with all its kitschy touristy bumper stickers from across half the US that had been outside the Control Pad the day Itzhak came by for his reading, probably belonging to a former redhead.

Now blonde, as evidenced when Sparrow answers the door to invite him in. It's warm inside and almost too quiet for a place this size, for how many lights were on in various rooms, visible from outside. There's music playing at the back of the house, where most of the lights on the first floor seem to be, but it's almost too soft to be made out from up here. Sparrow's in black and white tonight, possibly playing up the muted hue of her hair, her hoodie white white grey patches on the elbows and sides, kinda resembling Baymax from Big Hero 6. It's paired with simple black leggings, bare feet and a smile, an uncharacteristically uncertain, "Hey."

When Sparrow opens the door, she opens it on a wreck of a Jewish fiddler. He's rocking a pair of major shiners, his curly black hair (getting longish, getting kinda manelike) kind of swept back and only a little wrestled into submission. An impossibly soft, black merino wool sweater doesn't come high up his neck enough to hide a spectacular bite mark. His jeans are so well-washed and beaten in that they're almost white and as soft as suede. (Apparently he likes soft things.) And his shoes are Converse, black with rainbow laces and rainbow soles. He's also got an instrument case slung over his shoulder by the strap. "Hey," he says, voice gravelly, not returning the smile. "How's ya."

Sparrow peeks out behind Itzhak before she closes the door. Who knows what she's looking for, but she locks it just in case. Her housemates surely have keys if they're not already hiding up in their rooms or something. She takes a moment to answer the question, brow all scrunched with worry as she looks him over. "Definitely concerned," doesn't provide a lot of information about her own personal state just yet. "Wondering if I need to give you some numbers you might be able to call to get help." Like for domestic abuse victims, at a guess, even if she doesn't explicitly say that. "Or if you need more than just cookies and quilts." That comes with a little wiggle of her fingers in what she might assume is a universal signal for magic. Or, well, glimmer. Whatever.

Itzhak frowns at Sparrow like he doesn't know what she means, as he comes in, his gay-ass Converse silent on the floor. To be fair, he doesn't know. "Numbers? Numbers for what?" But he shakes his head. "Cookies and quilts, s'what I'm here for. And I was promised a pillow fort. I can't stay too long, and if I get a call I gotta go, okay?"

It would probably be safer and more polite to just leave well enough alone and provide a pillowy escape without any questions, but what kind of friend would she be if she just ignored the obvious evidence of something that is very not right going on. She drops, "Domestic abuse hotlines," quietly but clearly before leading him back toward the better lit half of the house and the sound of sad bops. "You can stay as long as you'd like. Take off whenever you gotta." The couch has been piled with pillows around the back and sides and draped with a quilt or two to turn it into more of a cave than a proper fort, all open front to allow easy access to the cookies--chocolate chip cookie cups with vanilla panna cotta, snickerdoodles, peanut butter with chocolate chunks--and the television, currently of. "You want some cocoa with your cookies? Whiskey? Both?"

Itzhak blinks. "...Oh." He has to think about that one, as he follows Sparrow along. "Both. Please," he adds. The sight of the pillow fort slash blanket cave finally gets a smile out of him. He unslings the instrument case--which is probably a mandolin, not a violin--sets it by the couch, and pries off his sneakers. Which reveals that he's wearing socks with Boba Fett on them. Then he just gets on in there. Like a snake when it spots a nice dark safe hole, he squirms all the way to the back, then flumps into the pillows, long legs curled up and arms wrapped around as much pillow as he can get. He makes a funny wavery nasal sigh-groan of pure relief.

Sparrow's gone for a couple of minutes. Not far, but not quite in view from the cave either. She can be heard in the kitchen, pulling cups from the cabinet, pouring mixing, searching for something, cleaning up. The music cuts off just a few seconds before she comes back into view holding a pair of mismatched mugs almost certainly picked up at a thrift shop, one declaring World's Best Nurse and the other advertising an auto shop in Iowa. The contents are a rich dark cocoa spiked with a spiced whiskey... and then topped with enough marshmallows to obscure the surface. She hands the latter mug over as she sinks in beside Itzhak and tells him, "I like the socks. Person who built this with me just sang Fett's Vette at karaoke on Friday. Not sure where he's gotten off to."

Itzhak gratefully accepts, sitting up just enough that he can take the mug and drink without slopping it. Which he does, with another appreciative sigh. "Damn, girl, you know how to live," he mumbles through the floating cumulonimbus of marshmallow. He glances down at his socks, mouth quirked in some low-key wry amusement. "Thanks. I almost didn't recognize you as a blonde, you know? Took me a second. Who's the guy? Boyfriend a yours?"

"My brother gets the credit for the cocoa," Sparrow notes. "His recipe. Though he never puts enough marshmallows on." She slumps comfortably sideways, facing Itzhak as she holds her mug between both hands and slurps up a marshmallow or two. She'll get to the cocoa itself eventually. "Kinda the point," she says on not being recognized. "Not to hide or anything. Not really. Just to shake things up. Buck whatever everyone else thinks they know about me, ya know? But, uh. Bax. Grant? Pink-haired hottie from pride night? Been BFFs since, like, fifth grade."

"Shit, I don't know hardly nothin' about you, other than you give good Tarot and you're okay with some mechanic coming over and moping in ya pillow fort." Itzhak, of course, knows a couple more things than that about Sparrow, but he's being dramatic. "You don't gotta convince me of anything different. Yeah, Bax, I know him, good kid. He came over for Hanukkah and told the. Best. Judah Maccabee story I ever heard." His New York accent pronounces 'heard' as 'hoid.' "Creative as hell, that guy. Easy on the eyes, too."

Sparrow's smile goes a little odd at that initial observation, just as genuine but muted, marked with a dip of her gaze toward her drink. The praise for Bax brings her bright eyes back up, widens her smile once more as she nods whole-hearted agreement. That's the Bax she knows. "He's fantastic. All the light in the world. But it's been a rough couple of weeks for him." It sounds like she might wanna just start in on that, but it's not right to go talking about other people's business, so she stops, leaving it at that as she sips at her cocoa. "Was talking with a friend... yesterday? Yesterday." It might not have been yesterday. "About how I keep doing that. Falling in with people I don't really know. Who don't know me. How I don't really know how to not just go all in. I either like someone or I don't. We either get on or we don't. It doesn't need to be more complicated than that, right?" Her usual confidence isn't quite there, rendering that question a little too earnest, like she might be looking for agreement. Or an argument to the contrary.

Itzhak notices Sparrow's dimming, but doesn't understand it. He can't interpret such things, so he's just kind of eyeing her curiously. Her too-earnest question makes his eyebrows tip up, quizzical. "It don't need to be more complicated," he says, quieter. "But pretty often, it is. People are complicated. You're complicated. That ain't a bad thing. I like complicated."

The left corner of Sparrow's mouth quirks upward first, her smile going crooked as her dark brows pitch up toward her pale hair. "I like easy," is punctuated by a little jut of her tongue to emphasize the contrariness. Before she concedes, "And complicated," with a little roll of her eyes. "I mostly just like people. And marshmallows." She could probably leave it at that, but after a second of consideration, she adds, "And music for the right mood and banging on my drums. And getting an itch out of my head and onto canvas. And escaping to anywhere for a little while every now and then. Maybe with good company. And escaping to nowhere with the help of some good psychedelics. Also better with good company. Mm, and cookies and Mario Kart and cheesy movies and random visits from cute musicians I don't know enough about either. Especially when it looks like the world's kicked the shit out of 'em and maybe I can help."

Itzhak just sits there with his long narrow back shoved into pillows, long lean legs folded up, cradling the hot cocoa in one big hand. Listening. Listening intently, like a musician listens. One finger taps the rim of the mug in time with Sparrow's words. "I like a lotta those things too," he says, one corner of his own expressive mouth curling up. "'Cept I can't draw." Sparrow calls him cute and he laughs softly, inevitably blushing. "I ain't the only cute musician in this pillow fort, missy." Then the eyebrows go up again, tilting towards the middle like a forward- and backslash leaning against each other. Gives him a curious and yearning look, wistful maybe. "Yeah, well. This helps a lot, honest. Helps a hell of a lot." He leans forward then, jeans gently creaking, eyes on Sparrow. "Look. Full disclosure, okay? Yeah, de la Vega did this to me." He flicks his fingers at his face, down his body. "He ain't himself. Something's wrong with him. Don't spread it around, but him? Javier? He ain't at the wheel. It's like with Gohl. Except worse. He wouldn't do this to me--no," he interrupts himself, "he would, but because I like it. Yeah?" His clear gray hazels search Sparrow's eyes for a moment. "I like it rough and I love fighting him. That's the only reason he'd do it. But something else is walkin' around in his body right now."

Sparrow's smile brightens with a smidge of pride at that blush, knowing her words hit their mark. The compliment which follows helps keep it there, looking a little bit more like her usual self for a couple of seconds. Then he leans in with that look and her own softens. She draws the mug down toward her lap as her right hand parts, reaching toward Itzhak tentatively, aiming to brush cocoa-warmed digits gingerly along his cheek and jaw, should he permit. The name Gohl doesn't register any recognition in her expression, but neither is there curiosity; she might not know the details, but she can catch the meaning well enough from context and really doesn't want to know more right now. "There's a difference in the way you wear it when you want it," doesn't refer to him specifically, but to her own experience. No judgment to go with her concern. Maybe a bit of relief to know this isn't typical, that she hadn't grossly misjudged Javier. "I don't know if there's anything I can do to help him, but I can clean you up a bit, I think. If you want. So you're not wearing that story out in the world for everyone to worry about and wonder after."

Itzhak's cheek and jaw are bristly; he always seems to rock something that's not quite a beard, and not quite stubble, somewhere in between. His whiskers are just long enough to be softer than stubble, but no more. There's too much heat under Sparrow's fingers; his jaw is bruised. But he doesn't wince. He presses her hand to his face, in fact, his great big palm flattened over hers as he looks earnestly at her, eyebrows serious. "I am crazy about him," he tells her, quietly intense, "and I wouldn't be, if he was that kind of guy. He can be rough, he can be a real asshole--so can I. I'd never in a million years hit someone I was dating if they weren't into it. Neither would he." Those damn long fingers, marked with blue ink ('STAY DOWN') wind around Sparrow's palm. Then he sighs again, looking resigned. "Yeah, okay. That's a good point, about the story. You up for it?"

Sparrow's fingers curl and press along his jaw when that contact is so directly welcomed despite the bruising, a subtle tug closer that's reflected in her own tilt forward when his hand captures hers. It looks, for a moment, like she might just spill in against all the beautiful wreck across from her and wrap him up... if not for the weight of her mug still in her lap that stops her short. "I know," answers that first assurance, their affection for each other obvious. It's the last one, the assurance that Javier really isn't this kinda guy, paired with the promise that Itzhak wouldn't like him so much if he were, that she needed to hear to put her own worries to rest. Eyes on his, she nods with a firm, quiet, "Good." A whole lot more certain than the breath of laughter and uneven shrug which follows for his question. Rather than express her inexperience, she just... focuses, letting those warm fingers transmit her intention, glimmering bright and obvious as she works her, well... magic, trying to fix up the worst of it, all the obvious signs which might raise alarm bells in on-lookers.

The heat in Itzhak's face now isn't bruising, but a flush--he feels the rush of that healing all the way down. Sparrow's glimmer can sense the contusions heal, broken blood vessels resealing, lingering blood fading into healthy tissue. A hairline fracture or two on his ribs knits together. He wasn't injured seriously in any one way, he was just beat up.

Itzhak closes his eyes with a long drawn-in gasp of pleasure and relief. He lets it out on a rough, heartfelt sigh. "That's...ah, that's good."

Sparrow squeezes the hand holding hers, thumb tucked up against knuckles... and giggles. It's an airy sort of laughter, the kind that bubbles up unbidden, an emotional release to go with the outpouring of glimmer, the wonder of watching the visual transformation while just knowing all that's going on below. This might be a bit new for her. To this degree, at least. "Perfect," she declares contentedly. "Now. Next time I see you all bruised and broken? I want a shit-eating grin to go with it, alright?"

Itzhak stretches, careful of the mug of spiked cocoa. Rolling his shoulders back first, then his head, then arching his spine and wincing as something in his lower back pops. When he relaxes again it's with a boneless grace that makes obvious how stiffly he was holding himself before. He drapes himself over the pillows with a deep and happy sigh. "Oy, that's better. Thank you." Then he laughs low, and smirks at Sparrow. "You got yaself a deal, vorobeytshikeleh. You wanna hug?"

Sparrow giggles again when he spills into the pillows, her smile bright and easy and absent whatever worries and burdens have been keeping it gloomy lately. Brows arch at that impressive--and entirely unfamiliar--word, but she doesn't question. She simply tilts toward the nearby table to drop off her cocoa and pluck up a snickerdoodle. Then she leans right in against Itzhak in ready acceptance of the invitation drawn right into proper snuggling. She holds the cookie up in offer, a delivery service now that she's got him partially pinned. "Kinda want all the hugs right now." For the moment? She seems content to leave it at that.

"Sparrow. It means sparrow," Itzhak explains, and laughs again as Sparrow leans right in. "It's a big word for a little bird, I know." One dang long arm winds around her shoulders, hugging her tight for a moment, then relaxing, but not letting go. Apparently he's okay to hang out like this too. That merino sweater is impossibly soft, like chinchilla fur, and he's solid under it despite his lanky frame. Thin but muscular, like a greyhound. He takes the snickerdoodle, mug held in his last three fingers (damn big hands the guy's got), takes a bite--then goes 'mmmf' and promptly eats the rest of it. "Fuck that's good."

"I'm a big word kinda bird," Sparrow declares quietly, decidedly approving of that assortment of syllables she will almost certainly never be able to replicate. She relaxes right into the snuggling once relieved of the snickerdoodle, fingers burying in the soft sweater along his ribs and holding just a little more firmly than is strictly necessary. "Always good food in the Jones house," she tells him, finally elaborating on an earlier point. "My brother's studying to be a chef. Works at the patisserie. Feeds everybody as a matter of habit." Setting her chin on his chest, she peeks up and asks, "Would you rather watch something or talk? What kinda hiding away do you need now?"

"Oh yeah? Works for Chef? He's gotta be top tier then. Guy wouldn't tolerate anything less." Itzhak sips whiskeyed cocoa, careful not to drip on himself or Sparrow, now. "This is nice," he says, almost admits, really, like things being nice is somehow a challenge. "I brought my mandolin. I'd kinda like to play for you, or even I could play and you could sing. You got a prettier voice than me. But if you're not into that, hell I wouldn't say no to Mario Kart."

"It is," Sparrow agrees, a little thread of gratitude in her voice, nevermind that she was the one offering to help him. The preference for music has her eyes going wide, and she's pretty quick to pull up a bit at that offer. She only delays long enough to duck in and press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek, the same one she'd touched earlier, before straightening up to let the mandoleer move again. "Sounds like you're asking me to serenade you," she teases. Brows arched unevenly, she asks, "You got something in mind?" The Rainbow Road can wait.

Itzhak grins, pleased with Sparrow's response--and blushes when she pecks his cheek. He rubs the spot selfconsciously, saying, "Hell, I ain't picky. Anything you want. If I don't know it I'll improvise." He leans out to snag his mandolin case, and a panna cotta cup. The cookie cup goes in his mouth, the mandolin case in his lap so he can unlatch it and get his instrument out.

Sparrow sinks back onto her butt, legs folding as her gaze wanders to nowhere in particular, thoughts turning inward while she runs through the vast catalog of songs she knows, filtering by songs she can sing that might qualify by some stretch as a serenade and which might be manageable on mandolin. Her eyes widen when a thought occurs, focus setting very directly back on Itzhak as some little piece of overheard conversation from ages ago clicks into place. "You like punk. How about Patti Smith?" With a little spill of laughter, she adds, "Not that Wing or... My Madrigal qualify. Maybe Because the Night or. Heh. Pumping? Ooh! Or something by PJ Harvey?"

"'Because the Night' would be awesome." Itzhak sets his cocoa down and turns to tuning, plink plink, plonk plonk on the paired strings. "I actually dunno that much PJ Harvey, but I'll totally fake it. Let's do 'Because the Night' first, at least. Oh man, I'm so glad you wanna jam a little. It don't have to be a big deal. Uncomplicated. Right?"

Sparrow chirps a cheerful, "Right," like there's not one little thing wrong with the world right now. In this moment, there really doesn't seem to be, and man oh man is that nice. "I grew up listening to Patti Smith. You shoulda seen me, uh. January karaoke. Totally rocked Gloria. Holy fuck was it awesome." Modesty is for other girls. While Itzhak tunes, she straightens and bobs her head a bit, running through some of the lyrics and the melody in her head. "Because the Night. Ready whenever you are, cutie."

"Aw, man, I bet you rocked it." It takes a while to tune a mandolin, but Itzhak flies through it, tweaking twelve tuning pegs in turn. (Say that ten times fast.) "I did 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' the one time I managed to make it to karaoke. A'ight, ready? One. Two. One two three four--"

His big tattooed hand plucks out the first delicate notes, fingerpicking with skill. His mandolin and bluegrassy style gives the song a different vibe, no less punk, but definitely different.

Sparrow squeaks out a little laugh at the thought of that performance, eager to spill into some other thought, but he's already counting her out, and she makes no attempt to stop him, going so far as to nod her readiness... maybe a little bit before she's ready. Not that she offers any indication of unpreparedness by the time she catches her cue, coming in with an almost delicate plea of "Take me now, baby, here as I am. Pull me close, try and understand." By the time she gets to, "Desire is hunger, is the fire I breathe. Love is a banquet on which we feed," her voice has raised in volume, gained some body, some oomph. Her smile can be heard as she starts into the prechorus, "Come on now! Try and and understand... the way I feel when I'm in your hands. Take my hand, come undercover." The syllables break a bit as a bit of laughter escapes, what with the blankets literally overhead. "They can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!" Her eyes are as bright as her smile as she leans in as she breaks into the chorus, "Because the night! Belongs to lovers. Because the night! Belongs to lust. Because the night! Belongs to lovers. Because the night! Belongs to us..."

Itzhak hits those strings hard, surging into the body of the song. His hand flashes down on the strings, strumming and fingerpicking, his Boba Fett-socked foot thumping to the beat. On the chorus, he joins in, lifting his voice rough and deep. "Because the night!" then lets Sparrow's voice soar, falling back to let her take the 'belongs to' parts. He's just got a sense for these things, and that comes through loud and clear. His stage presence may leave something to be desired for some people, but the man knows his music.

And Sparrow knows this song, following through every switch of the lyrics as if she's been singing it every night for half of her life. She sways through the bridge right up until her hands clutch dramatically over her chest as she croons, "So touch me now! Touch me now! Touch me noooooooow!" The heavy hoodie might render that gesture a little less effective, but she's only got an audience of one, and is feeding off of his energy. As she sings the song to its close, one arm goes up into the air, wobbling the quilt overhead, "Because the night! Belongs to us!" When that fist comes down, she collapses sideways into the cushions, beaming so very happily at Itzhak. "You're wonderful."

Itzhak laughs in real delight as Sparrow literally raises the roof. The mandolin rings out--so touch me now! touch me noooooooow!--as he plays it hard, following Sparrow through the dips and heights of the song. Wherever she goes, he's right there under her, elevating her voice with his strings. He hits those strings and lets them fade at the end of the song, and laughs again, grinning at Sparrow. All his crow's-feet and the lines on his face show when he does. "Yeah, yeah. Wonderful, she says, when she's singin' the house down. Let's do a couple more." So they do, swapping off the vocals while Itzhak plays his mandolin hot and bright and fierce.

Sparrow's housemates might object at some point, but they've got a few songs yet before Corey comes down to remind his twin how very, very early he needs to be at work and how very many classes he has after that. Until then, she's all smiles and belting, all adoring eyes and pure delight. Happy. All the weight of the world forgotten for a little while. When it's time to pack it in, she sends Itzhak home with an assortment of cookies and a big parting hug that expresses her gratitude--and maybe concern--more articulately than she manages with words. "You need anything else at all," she tells him, skipping past all the scary context of the situation he's facing when he heads back into the night.