2020-08-18 - Torturing Cats is a Violinist's Hobby

The seagulls circle undisturbed on the air currents above the pier as the sun is rising out of the sea in a burst of colour. It's going to be one of those bright blue days where anyone with pale white skin had better seek shade and every cat will exist in a liquid form in the hottest spot they can find. The black cat that has claimed ownership of the Vagabond is no exception -- she already lies on her side on the sail boat's narrow prow, sunning herself. The person whom she has granted the privilege of keeping her with sandwiches and tuna sits on the deck, cradling a cup of instant coffee; and because the day will indeed be hot and clear, and he is indeed possessed of pale Scandinavian skin, he's exchanged the usual turtleneck for a thin black t-shirt with no print. There is yawning and a certain contentedness with life.

There's probably also some bloke somewhere with a camera and a telephoto lens hoping to find out what sort of person might inhabit the other bunk of the boat belonging to a certain Swedish celebrity chef, but so far Ravn is unaware of this, and hence, indifferent. Around him, the pier is coming to life as yachters and boaters engage in their own little morning rituals, some of them preparing to cast off for the day or to sail on to their next destination.

It's a little early for Itzhak. Actually, it's stupidly early for him, but no problem, he just hadn't slept after karaoke. He might have dozed a little, but not much, say the dark circles around his eyes. Bearing with him his fiddle case, a cardboard tray with a couple of large cups wedged in, and a bag from Espresso Yourself, he comes swaggering along the dock like he owns the damn place. He pauses by Surprise to peer at her, but there's no sign of Joe Cavanaugh, so he comes on. "Yo!" he calls to Ravn.

Ravn looks up from whatever reverie his morning sleepy mind had wandered off to and a grin spreads over his face. "Hey there! Hop on board! I assure you, she's no spring chicken but she's not about to sink." The Dane looks content with his current situation to a point where one is almost tempted to toss him overboard just because no one should be allowed to be that happy with life.

In the prow, a feline head twitches an ear. Black cat is wary of people but black cat is also aware that new person carries something in a bag which indicates a medium to high statistical probability of there existing something worth stealing.

Itzhak does exactly that, springing neatly on deck. "Aww, hey, I didn't know you had a cat. I'da brought something for her too." There speaks a guy who's a sucker for an animal. He didn't even slosh the coffee, and he sets the tray down. "I dunno how you like it, so brought it over black. I figure, you like black everything else, even the cat."

"I think the cat technically has me," Ravn says with a grin. "I gave her a sandwich the other day and she wandered aboard and hasn't really left since. She won't let me touch her -- she's a genuine feral. And hell yes -- coffee needs to be like a preacher's soul, black and full of beans." He backs up a moment. "Er. I guess that makes more sense in Danish. Our word for prayer is the same as the word for beans." Someone's still got a fuzzy head from waking up.

Itzhak snorts, laughing. "In English that means someone real lively." He's got a definite air of this being a very, very, very late night for him, instead of an early morning. "Sure about that?" he asks, about the cat being a true feral, as he hands over Ravn's coffee. "Maybe she's just been kicked or hit or something, don't trust bein' in range." Ravn also gets a croissant breakfast sandwich, and Itzhak's got one too. He sits down crosslegged on the deck, tears off a flake or two of bread smeared with egg, and, leaning wayyyyy over at the very end of his kinda excessively long arm, he sets it down. Then he pulls back, making like he's not interested in a skinny black shape over there.

"Well, she is going to have to learn letting me touch her if she's staying because she is definitely getting spayed before I suddenly have eight cats," Ravn agrees and makes grabby hands for croissants. "But wherever she came from, she's certainly decided to move in, and I'm really all right with that. She's a cute little thing and I don't mind the company at all. Did you go to karaoke night? You look like you haven't slept yet."

Sneak, sneak. It's a little known scientific fact that some cats are in fact teleporters. Somehow, the bits of egg and croissant were there and now they're over there, and the cat is working on her next amazing trick in which she will make them disappear entirely.

Itzhak hands over the croissant, smiling but not looking at the mysterious teleporting away of the morsel. "Yeah I went to karaoke. Was fun. Except for some guy gettin' in my face saying I wasn't a real American." Itzhak's mouth twists. "And then he wouldn't step outside with me. Gettin' me hard but not letting me come, you know what I'm saying?" He slurps the hot coffee. "Didn't sleep too much," where too much is obviously at all, "shit's stressin' me the hell out, gives me insomnia."

Ravn laughs at the analogy; somehow he can easily picture the New Yorker all spoiling for a fight and then being denied, er, release. "Somebody told me earlier in all earnest that you're a Russian spy. You're in good company though -- Joe Cavanaugh is too. You devious devils, you, sneaking in and stealing all of Gray Harbor's military secrets like that. What have you spirited away today, the Espresso Yourself recipe for macchiatos?"

Then he sobers a little and shoots the other man a sympathetic look. "Well, I can't blame you for that. I have this feeling by now that 'stressed the hell out' is kind of the Grey Harbor normal. And you did find a dead body -- I mean, there are people who spend months in therapy over something like that."

"At least Cavanaugh lived in Russia!" Itzhak complains, his tone a finely honed kvetch. "He went to space with Russians and everything, what do I got? Does this schnozz look Russian to you?" He points at said magnificent appendage, scowling. "Russian Jewish maybe! Oy gevalt, the mishegoss!" You can tell when Itzhak's having a moment; all the Yiddish comes flying out. He shrugs, irritably, chomps into the croissant. "To be real honest with you, that poor dead bastard is the least of my worries. Sure it was gross. Seen grosser. Alexander checked up on me, by the way. He thinks the same thing." And maybe, given Itzhak's stress insomnia, both Ravn and Alexander are onto something, but you won't catch him admitting it.

"Well, the poor dead bastard has already done his worst," Ravn agrees. "I've been kind of digging into books and connections because what keeps me staring at the ceiling at night is the guy who put him there. I mean, it's silly because none of this is any more of my responsibility than I choose to make it, but I do feel that as someone who actually used to do myths and legends for a living, I should be trying to find out what he's trying to communicate -- so that he'll stop, or better, the police will stop him."

He shakes his head and takes another bite out of his croissant with obvious delight. "I'll be sure to share anything I find with the authorities. Let's not ruin a beautiful morning talking about that. Tell me about the guy you nearly punched in the face instead. It's happening to a lot of people, isn't it? This whole fucked-up idea that we're somebody we're not? I'm a Swedish celebrity chef, apparently. I have signed six different pairs of boobs in sharpie now."

Listening quietly, with that musician's sense of listening, Itzhak lets Ravn talk out what he's thinking. Ending with boob signing. That makes Itzhak sputter into his coffee and need to laugh into the back of his hand, going red. "Some guys got all the luck, huh?"

Ravn winces although from the sparkle in his grey eyes, he does see the humour of the situation. "I absolutely hate it. I can't stand having people get all up and personal like that unless I've invited them to. I know, I know. Everyone keeps suggesting I should be thrilled but I'm really not. One of those girls wasn't a day over fifteen, I'm sure of it. Last thing I need is for some over-eager camera artist to hand in a photo of me supposedly committing statutory rape if I want to keep my tourist visa, you know? Bennie actually asked me to leave my paparazzi at home when I go to work."

He sips his coffee and adds, "It's not just us though. Vic was being stalked by some people who clearly thought she'd done something terrible although they didn't have the guts to come on down and tell her to her face. Think it's just more of Grey Harbor's insanity?"

Snickering, Itzhak confesses, "Actually I'd hate it too. So frikkin' embarrassing, right? Not to mention when this all wears off, there's gonna be signed boobs. Hope you been signing some random scribble on 'em." NOW he tells him. Itzhak raises his eyebrows at the idea of camera stalkers, then. He sniffs, taps out a beat on his knee: one-two-three-one-two-three.

From somewhere just a little further up the docks, there's a yelp of dismay and a very long, very expensive camera lens hitting the ground. CRACK. Someone swears virulently.

Ravn somehow manages to keep a perfectly straight face. He simply murmurs an "Oh my" in the very best of George Takei style upon learning several new American expressions, some of them of a remarkably racist nature. Then he notes, "At least two of those boob owners were going to see a tattoo artist about making it more permanent... So I guess that at some point in the future, at least two women are going to be asking themselves why they have the name and web address of some obscure Danish blogger tattooed on their tits. I should feel horrible about that, but I don't -- not after having those tits shoved in my face."

On the prow, the cat glances at in the direction of the swearing too -- in the wary fashion of somebody who survived for some time on tipping over garbage cans with the raccoons and hence are acutely aware that after swearing comes thrown objects. As none such actually materialise, however, the cat curls up, content to watch the two people persons in case they happen to drop more croissant goodness.

Itzhak murmurs, between sips, cool as a freakin' cucumber, "Think a lotta paps around here are gonna start havin' little accidents." In his accent and general tough-guy, inked-up, prison-tatts demeanor, it sounds like a vicious Goodfellas-style threat. But it's just about stalkers losing their expensive equipment. Then, shattering the illusion utterly, he groans and covers his eyes. "Oy vey. Well it's not like this shit is making people do stuff they don't normally do. It's just telling 'em lies. At least, so far. I wouldn't," he adds, more seriously, taking his hand down to look at Ravn, "call it just Gray Harbor bullshit. Some pretty awful shit has gone down because of some townwide thing like this. I'll tell you sometime, but not now. Why ruin a beautiful morning, right?" echoing back what Ravn had said.

"Everything here is awful," Ravn murmurs and stretches his legs, letting the morning sun bless his pale face, echoing thoughts that he reflected a great deal on while painting the boat that the two men are indeed sitting on. "But this place -- everyone looks out for one another because one another's all we've got. And that is not awful at all. Tell me some day it's raining and foggy and miserable and we're hiding indoors, wrapped up in blankets, waiting for the world to drown." Somebody grew up in an archipelago where proper sunny days are rare.

He glances up towards the treeline on the shore again and grins. "But do teach me how you did that, though. I think that might come in bloody handy this week."

"Roen says we got about six weeks of sun left. You got yaself a date." Itzhak, mischief in his expression, glances up at Ravn. "Promise I won't even hit on you." Something in his face softens. "It ain't awful. Not at all. Just...just wish it didn't have to be like this. But I met my guy because of this town, because of the awful shit that was going down. So," he shrugs a lean inked shoulder, drains the rest of his coffee. "That's life, right?" And when Ravn asks him to teach him, Itzhak grins at him, all trouble. "Alexander said you're like me. What we call a mover. What can you do already?"

"I steal things," Ravn volunteers without a trace of embarrassment. "Been making my way along by tricks like the three cups and a nut game. It's hard enough as is, but it doesn't get any easier when no matter what cup you lift, the nut is actually in my pocket -- at least until I lift all three to prove that it's obviously in that other cup and always was. I'm not a thief -- I don't nick wallets, that sort of thing. But I move small things. Taught myself as a kid to open window latches so I could get out of my room. Kind of kept developing it from there. Of course compared to some of the things people here in Grey Harbor do it's nothing but -- hey, two weeks ago I thought this sort of thing was pretty much me and Uri Geller, and they did prove him a fraud in the end."

He tosses the other man a crooked grin and the cat the last bit of the croissant. "So does that mean I have to hit on you?" His voice is the kind of confident of a man who's completely aware and content in the knowledge that there's no actual attempts at feeling each other out romantically there, which means it's entirely legit to joke away about it.

"I was impressed by you lifting the guy's wallet," Itzhak says. "I used to be a pretty solid pickpocket too, back in the day. Not long, though, feh, too much risk, too little reward." He considers, stretching them legs out on front of himself, crossed at the booted ankle. "Bet you can feel the thin spots. Bet you never lost your car keys in your life. Can you make light? How heavy can you lift?"

Then he, abruptly, turns beet red as Ravn teases him about hitting on him. He makes a wordless sound of disgruntlement through his nose and rolls his eyes. "Somehow I don't think I'm your type!" But it's fairly good-natured, if complainy. Really, what won't Itzhak complain about?

Ravn decides to trim back on that kind of joke; he knows very well what it feels like to be made fun of, and it tends to feel better when you're laughing too. Instead, he cants his head and thinks. "You know, you're right. I haven't. Never misplaced my keys or my wallet or the remote control. I never really tried lifting something heavy -- that day in the church when Røn was stabbed, I tried to swipe the knife. It didn't work very well because for one, I wasn't looking at it and second, Lyric was already holding on to it and she's a hell of a lot stronger than I am. But that's probably the biggest thing I've tried to steal."

Thinking carefully he adds, "I used to picture a kind of force field. Jedi style. When my father thought I needed a bit of paternal discipline, I'd put it up and it'd hurt less. I don't think I've ever made anything glow, though."

Itzhak, having gone and made shit awkward, scuffs through his curly black hair in a tell that he's trying to get a grip. (His hair is really pretty long, he needs a haircut.) "Uh, yeah. Yeah," he clears his throat, shifting his weight. "Mine turned on in the middle of a riot. Suddenly nobody could touch me." Perhaps worryingly, he tugs the scooped neck of his tank top aside, to show Ravn another tattoo. This one is striking black, in graceful swoops layered over each other. "S'why I got this when I got out. Means 'unbreakable,' in Hebrew." He lets his shirt go. "Sorry to hear that about ya old man. He oughtn'ta done that to you." Awkward. So awkward.

"I grew up in a very conservative household," Ravn murmurs in an attempt to dismiss the awkward feeling. "From what I've seen over here, my parents would have been happy as clams in some Georgia white man's town with a country club and a church charity. I like 'unbreakable'. If I ever get some ink, probably be something like that -- a word or a symbol with a special meaning. Though I suppose I should get it in runes with my heritage, except, well, people'd probably think I was a neo-Nazi if I did. Nazis bloody well ruined Nordic symbolism, you know?"

Itzhak's lips twitch, prelude to a scowl. He wants to argue, that much is clear, wants to growl at Ravn's parents who aren't even here and maybe aren't even alive.

He stands up instead, makes a little beckoning gesture to Ravn. "So show me whatcha got. C'mon. Pick my pocket." First the man dragoons him into playing violin on the beach, now he wants him to pick his pocket!

Ravn puts his cup down and gets to his feet, raising his eyebrows. "In what way? I can do it without the -- shine thing too."

"With. I wanna see what you can do. You must have a pretty fine level of control, right? So blow my mind." Itzhak's grinning in that lopsided way that means something outrageous is about to happen, probably perpetrated by himself.

"It is easier when the mark doesn't know what I'm doing," Ravn notes with a crooked grin. "I usually set up some kind of distraction. But sure."

The Dane holds up his hand, palm up, fingers splayed out. He mentally reaches out; people keep different things in their pockets but almost everyone has a wallet or something along those lines. A wallet which wanders, quite on its own, to his palm now, giving the proverbial finger to the laws of physics. Because it always wanted to be right there, and it will be there if it has to literally crawl out of the other man's pocket on its own and fly there. You can't argue with reality when reality clearly is of the opinion that the other man's wallet or any similar wallet-shaped object is in his hand. Take that, reality.

He could probably have been subtler about it if he wanted to; certainly could have if Itzhak had been distracted by something else, the way a good conman will make sure that his mark is.

The sensation of affecting Itzhak with the ability to move is...well, it's quite a thing. He is strong, immensely strong, seething with power. He could resist Ravn without difficulty, but instead, he lets him through, yields to him. It's a sensation like flying a prop plane through layers of thunderstorms. Itzhak, for his part, isn't really watching his wallet slip out of his back pocket so much as, staring into nothing, feeling it, his power investigating Ravn's like a shark coming up to see if something is good to eat. "Ahhh," he murmurs, "ya like de la Vega. You can only do the one thing, huh? But you kinda got a boost because of it."

Ravn offers the wallet back to the other man. "I've never done anything else. The things people talk about -- reading minds, healing, what have you -- never done them, never met anyone outside of Gray Harbor who could. Not counting a certain breed of women on Facebook who sell telepathy sessions with a picture of your dead dog. I don't think I'm very good at this compared to people here -- I can feel how much you could squish me like a bug if you wanted to. That you let me do that for sure."

Itzhak takes his wallet back, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah, I let you do it, but you never know. This stuff is slippery, weird. It changes. Stuff I can usually do without a problem, sometimes I just can't make it happen. That you could get the drop on me? It ain't unheard of, not at all. So don't count yaself out." The wallet gets stuffed back into his pocket. Standing there in the morning sun, having just asked Ravn to perform a feat that Ravn had thought was unique to him alone, what's really messed up is that he seems to take it in stride. Like it's a normal thing to ask, and a normal thing to do.

Normal is relative in Gray Harbor, Ravn reflects as he sits back down. He's not particularly bothered by the other man's request for a demonstration of his little pick-pocketing trick; Itzhak has not been the first to ask and odds are, he won't be the last either. Vic unsettled him on his first demonstration here, knowing exactly where the sugar packet was (hint: it was not under any of the cups). Since then, he's come to the gradual realisation that indeed, normal is relative. The people who give him that feeling of awareness and presence are the people to whom this is par for the course. And he is indeed an amateur compared to most of them -- something which doesn't particularly bother him either because it's just the way it is. Maybe his strength will grow from the more constant exposure to the weirdness here, and maybe it won't. He's prouder of his ability to pick pockets without doing the magic thing because that was something he taught himself, rather than just figuring out the rules of some innate power.

"Usually, I'd make sure to have some kind of distraction," the Dane repeats and reaches for the last few mouthfuls of coffee. "It's obviously easier to be subtle when the mark doesn't realise that they're a mark. I usually do things -- not people. Like, move that nut from one cup to another, or swipe a key. I did steal someone's coffee on the subway once or twice when I was out of travel money but apart from that -- I'm a hustler to some extent, sure, but I'm not a criminal."

The black furball that is Kitty Pryde, named for a cartoon character as some kind of bad pun, looks at him as he speaks. Too much talking, too little tuna, its yellow-green gaze says.

"Sometime you gotta do it to me for reals. Distract me, sneak up on me, whatever you gotta do. When I least expect it! I want you to show me my own damn driver's license before I know what happened." Itzhak flashes both eyebrows and a grin. He doesn't know it, but he's already given Ravn an excellent hint for how to accomplish that: he's easy to fluster under the right circumstances. "Eh, there's nothin' wrong with being a criminal, you do what you gotta do. So whaddaya want to play?" Crouching, he unlatches his violin case.

"Most people probably would be uncomfortable with the idea of somebody rifling through their pockets," Ravn points out with a small, crooked grin. "I can see how here, though, that sort of thing just gets filed away under Useful Skill We Probably Will Need Someday."

He shakes his head. Gray Harbor. Where, indeed, any kind of questionable talent is a potential asset. "I could start distracting you by telling you all about those bloody cuneiform glyphs and the Babylonian kingdom of the dead," he murmurs. "However -- I haven't actually found anything that tells us when and where the killer will strike again. So, beautiful morning, seagulls and coffee, savour the moment. How about -- something folksy? Most people here on the pier probably aren't music experts but just in the off case one is... Unless you want to play solo? I'm perfectly happy to watch you play. You'll get an audience pretty much by default." He glances around at the other boats at pier, the Surprise included, and remembers Cavanaugh's intense praise for the other man's skill, smiling.

Itzhak flushes a little, but this one's more minor, reddening across just his cheekbones and the bridge of his huge nose. "Yeah, well, I'm giving you permission," he says mockingly, like, DUH. Snatching up his violin, he tests the tuning, then tightens his bow and rosins up. "Happy to play somethin' for ya, then you can play for me."

Settling his fiddle under his chin, he bounces the bow off the strings a couple times, thinking. Then he swings right into a lively Cajun-inflected tune, swaying along, eyebrows quirking with his bowing and tapping one big boot to the rhythm. As Ravn already knows, he handles a violin very, very well, with the kind of instinctive flow that only comes after decades of practice. But folk music he plays differently from classical, in some hard-to-define way. He's more himself, boogying along, having a grand time.

The Dane leans back against the railing -- yes, it's cramped, it's a sail boat, don't expect a sofa to sit five people and a dance floor -- and listens with half-closed eyes. Half-closed because he wants to shut out the outside world and enjoy the music -- but also half open because he wants to watch the sheer pleasure of playing in the other man. It's a kind of pleasure that he understands and recognises; not sexual, not wish fulfillment, not materialistic -- the feeling of music pouring through one's blood and bones is another form of ecstasy, and Ravn appreciates anyone who is capable of stepping into that zone. He's even admired some of the dubstep dee jays he's encountered along his travels because while he can't stand that noise, the expression on their faces had that same light.

Unsurprisingly, a few heads pop up on the nearby boats. Some, no doubt, to grimace at loud music in the morning. A few call out to whoever else is on their boat in that 'look, honey, someone's playing' fashion of admiration that's not unlike the attention somebody might give a busker on the subway, or a pretty dog in the park. A pleasant experience, nothing you remember every day for the rest of your life, but hey, that was a nice surprise. Most of the yachters just throw a few curious looks because a violinist is an unusual boat adornment, and then get on with whatever they were doing. Ravn's fears seem entirely unwarranted.

It's a little sexual for Itzhak, to be fair. Inwardly-turned, though. Something he's doing because he fucking loves it, which infuses his playing with a rockstar flair. He plays violin like Angus Young plays guitar, utterly into it, grooving hard. Wrapping up on a funny little riff (da-dun-dun-da-dun, DUN-DUN!), he whips his bow into the air and laughs in sheer delight. "Aw hell yeah, that's my jam! Your turn."

The audience he's gained, he glances at, grinning, unconcerned. Yeah he's obviously well accustomed to people gathering round while he plays.

Ravn looks -- not quite thrilled -- but damnit, sometimes life grabs you by the scruff of the neck and throws you into the deep end and he's done this before often enough on subways and in bus stations and mumble mumble mumble insert all the Danish expletives here.

He nips under deck a moment, returning with his own violin. It can't have been long since he last played because he only spends a second or three checking that it has not decided to help him out by going out of tune; alas, she's a treacherous instrument who wants to sing. He calls out a few tentative notes and definitely does not try to somehow position himself out of sight behind the mast (going to need to lose some weight to pull that one off, Ravn). Then -- think of it as a bus stop, all these people are gone in the morning -- he launches into the reel of Bad Moon Rising because some tunes are all time audience favourites, and those are the ones he associates with bus stops.

Itzhak gives a little whoop. "YEAH!" And then he launches right into singing along. "I see a bad moon a-rising - I see trouble on the way - I see earthquakes and lightnin' - I see bad times today!"

Oh, it turns out he can sing, too. He's no classically-trained singer, his voice doesn't have the purity. Rather it's a rough, characterful rock'n'roll voice, with intensity and power for days. And right on key. He doesn't bother holding back or being polite about belting out CCR at too damn early in the morning on the docks (or like, noticing that Ravn is having trouble with that very thing). Nope, he lets 'er rip, singing to make his voice roll across the water, stamping in time, snapping in syncopation, and having himself a one-man dance party. Hell yeah, brother!

Ravn's eyes glitter grey with amusement and more than a bit of relief that Itzhak is still managing to draw all the attention; this doesn't just suit him fine -- it takes fine to the level of oh thank god and anything else that moves in the higher atmosphere. Eventually, he launches himself across the Atlantic and into The Rovin' Dies Hard, largely out of habit because there is a specific grouping of bluegrass and Irish slash Scottish folk reels that everyone remembers bits and pieces of, and people who walk past you on the subway want to go on humming that thing they heard, that thing they associate with some other good time, do you remember when...

Itzhak isn't about to sit that one out; he snatches up his fiddle, strumming it mandolin-style, and takes up the vocals with enthusiasm. In his own New York Yiddish accent, and his bluegrass twangy fingerpicking strumming style, suddenly it's like a song out of the Irish punk bands of Boston. Right here, right now, on Vagabond's deck, he picks up the tune and runs with it like a stallion with the bit in his teeth.

I've tuned up my fiddle
I've rosined my bow
I've sung of the clans
and the clear crystal fountains
I can tell you the road and the miles frae Dundee
to the back of Alaska's wild mountains
when my travelling days they are over
and the next of the rovers has come
he'll take all the songs and he'll sing them again
to the beat of a different drum
and if ever I'm asked why the Scots are beguiled
I'll lift up my glass in her health and I'll smile
and I'll tell them that fortune dealt Scotland the wildest of cards
For the rovin' dies hard!

There's applause from a few of the nearest boats. Someone is quite the performer, it's one hell of a catchy tune, and for all the two men know, Mr and Mrs Macintyre on the Isle of Skye over there have Scottish ancestry -- coming to think of it, that's probably a pretty safe bet. Ravn may be turning a quite curious shade of crimson but he nonetheless flashes a grin of approval and admiration at his fellow violinist.

"Why are you not touring with a band?" Why are you here, finding bodies in the sand and waiting for Gray Harbor to do its thing when you could be out there in the world, charming your way into everybody's hearts and ears? The Dane looks at the other man with some quite obvious confusion. "You sing too. You're far too good to be stuck here."

Itzhak lifts his hand to the applause, smiling his lopsided smile. He's flushing a little again; maybe he's not totally immune to the adoration of the crowd. His smile quiets, not quite fading, but leaving the crinkled corners of his eyes. "S'a long story," he murmurs, plucking at the strings of the violin. "Been in bands, I'm technically in one right now." He hitches his eyebrows alone in a shrug. "Look. It's fucked up, but...where else in the world am I gonna have the chance to be this? There's a million violinists better'n me, not to mention half my age." Stupid child prodigies on Youtube--how a violinist tortures himself when he's feeling down. "But if there's a mover better than me, anywhere, I ain't heard of it."

Ravn considers this. "Better a big fish in a little pond, than a small fish in the ocean? That makes sense."

He settles down again, smiling up at the other man, cutting a striking figure against the backdrop of brilliant blue sky and circling seagulls. "I guess Gray Harbor has a way of giving us what we want. For you, to be best. For me, a feeling of belonging somewhere."

"Not the whole story," Itzhak admits. "That ain't going into my boyfriend or the people here who are so goddamn important to me now. And yeah, bein' best has something to do with it, but...but it ain't all." He falls quiet, standing there tall and lanky and bearing a hell of a beak on the front of his face, noodling absently with his violin against the bright sky. "You know what tikkun olam means?"

"Doesn't ring any bells, no." Ravn shakes his head lightly and studies him. "But for the record, Itzhak, I'm not trying to pry. Just saying, I get the little fish, big fish thing. Wanting to have something one is good at is not a bad thing."

Itzhak shakes his head. "No, listen, this is important. Tikkun olam means 'fixing the world'. It's the duty of a Jewish adult. Didn't used to mean so much to me, not for a long time. I come here and," he gestures all around them, boats and dock, ocean and shore and forest. "Suddenly 'fixing the world' got real goddamn literal. I'm one of the strongest people in town. Probably the strongest mover. How can I leave? I'm needed here."

He's said too much: the look flashes across his face. "Ehh you don't wanna hear all that," he mutters, bending his head over his instrument. "Let's play somethin' else."

"Yes, I do, but not necessarily right now, and certainly not until you feel like telling me," Ravn murmurs and stands back up. "Tikkun olam. I like the sound of that. I think that's -- part of how I feel about this place. Like there's finally somewhere on the planet I can contribute, maybe make a bit of a difference to a few people."

It's all about the hope, he thinks, and his fingers continue along the chain of associations, dancing into another tune that is no less recognisable to the ear of someone with a fondness for Scottish folk.

And I thought as I stood and laid hands on your wood
That it might be a kindness to fell you
One kiss o' the axe and you're freed frae the racks
O' the sad bloody tales that men tell you
But a wee bird flew out from your branches
And sang out as never before
And the words o' the song were a thousand years long
And to learn them's a long thousand more

The Yew Tree; a beautiful, melancholy song ending on exactly that -- a note of hope, a spark of awareness that perhaps, in spite of all the screaming, bleeding, and crying men do, life is beautiful.

At the prow of the Vagabond, the black cat drapes a paw over one ear. Humans are noisy.