2020-08-23 - The Soul Might Be Like This

Eventually closing time is upon them, and the strip club has to turn them out. August stays the whole time, buoyed by alcohol and joyful euphoria. This isn't somewhere he'd actually ever imagined being in his life, and now that he is, he feels like he can barely stop from bursting into tears over how good it feels.

He begrudges no one the need to dip out in the face how overwhelming the party can be. That's fine; they showed up, even if for a second, maybe even enjoyed themselves a little bit. The later is all he wanted, and if not being here is easier, that's fine by him. It's a bachelor party, not a moral obligation.

So now here he is, coming back to the hotel room, muzzy headed and tired, suit jacket and tie over his shoulder. He looks hilariously disreputable in this thing half-undone and rumpled, and gets more than a few looks, all of which he pointedly ignores.

Seems like a while ago, Ruiz and Joseph slipped off together. Itzhak stayed; it's the party he's throwing, after all. (He vanished for a little while with Ruiz himself, though, and came back grinning like a fox.) As August wanders towards the hotel room, though, he's jogging after him, eating up the distance on long legs. He flings an arm around August's shoulders and bumps up against him.

"'eyyyy, Guskha!" Oh boy he's drunk, and he partook of a few of Cruz's party favors to boot.

August is mid-turn when Itzhak snags him, grins and bumps him at the hip in return. "Hey you. You sure know how to throw a party." He eyes him, laughs a little. "And how to party." He pats Itzhak on the stomach. "Time to relax in a hot bath, yeah? Or on the balcony, look at the city." There aren't a lot of things August misses about cities, but looking out at the lights is one of them, along with access to better spices and cooking equipment without paying a fortune.

He gets out his keycard for he hotel room so they can go up in the elevator. Two couples have the questionable luck to be riding up with them: two women, a little older, giving August and Itzhak amused, knowing looks, and a young man and woman, who are trying not to stare in horror.

Itzhak's bare stomach, showing off the abs that while not on Easton Marshall's level, ain't half bad. "Fuck yes, both those things sound amazing." Yeah he took a sliver of molly, not enough to be rolling on the floor enraptured by the texture, but quite enough to think a hot bath is the most orgasmic thing to happen to him ever.

He hangs on August as they ride up, like an overaffectionate Great Dane trying to be a lapdog. The nice older lesbians get a wink from him, and he blatantly flirts with the male half of the het couple: "How you doin', good looking? Hey, you got some Hebrew in you? ...do you want some?"

He really is insufferable when he's like this.

"Then a bath we shall have," August declares. He doesn't mind a huge lap dog of a best man; it feels like the only appropriate ending to the night, really.

The young woman blinks, startled into a nervous laugh. Her boyfriend? husband? whatever he is, he's blushing. "Ah, no, I'm not--we're not--but, uh, thanks," he stammers. To his credit, he doesn't lean away from Itzhak, just gives him a wide-eyed rictus grin of, Leaving the hotel room was a mistake.

August is of a mind to make some kind of horribly off color joke right about now ('oh, she can watch, if that's an issue'), but the kid is trying his best to not be a dick, and it earns him some sympathy. Drunk queer dude in the elevator, please send help, his lady's brittle smile declares. August has been insufferable at people while drunk and high himself, and the only good thing he can say about it is he doesn't remember it much.

One of the lesbians, the taller of the two (this isn't saying much, Itzhak towers over her), guffaws. She's curvy, with smooth, golden skin and a heart-shaped face, and wearing a cute little number, a pencil skirt of black leather with black, rose vine leggings, a red sweater top, and a leather Moto jacket with rose embroidery to match. "Oh you crass, drunk little jerk, leave this poor man be." She's laughing while she says it, to make it clear she's trying to steer Itzhak off of anything he'll regret in the morning as well as save this couple with the worst luck.

The other woman, possibly this one's wife, as they both have rings on their ring fingers--is whipcord thin, and in simpler clothing that borders on androgynous. Her makeup and elegantly braided, coppery hair shot through with white and gray give her a more feminine cast, but one could easily imagine her with short hair in a sharp suit and assume she was a man. She chuckles, low and under her breath, eyes Itzhak's shirt. "Bachelor party?" she guesses. (It's not much of a guess, given the shirts, but it might distract Itzhak.)

Itzhak keeps up a pretty good game face until the nice lesbian calls him out and then he cracks up, laughing into August's shoulder. "I had him going though! I had him going!" Yeah he knows he's a certain breed of straight guy's worst nightmare--or favorite jerk-off fantasy, you know, whichever. "Don't mind me," he tells the ladies, all three of them, "this guy's gettin' married and it ain't to me and my heart's broken." The lesbians are looking fantastic, and he eyes them with the kind of careless, tossed-off interest that a queer guy can get away with, when all parties know he's not looking to pursue. "Youse two look amazing, damn! Don't they look amazing, Guskha?"

This elevator ride really could not be any longer for five out of six people in here.

More nervous laughter from the couple who are trapped in social limbo with no idea how to behave in the face of unexpected propositions from a very drunk and high bisexual. (Well, the woman is loosening up some, having begun to realize this is something the be-sparkled BEST MAN is going to wake up and remember and maybe regret; her guy, less so, as the target of Itzhak's affections.) "Congratulations," the woman says, proving she's the more adaptable of the two. Her guy murmurs an agreement. They're starting at August now, a safe target. He's even in a suit that's...well, it's not normal but it's not fishnets and thigh high boots and a crop top, so they'll count their blessings.

August dips his head to the woman. "Why thank you." He pats Itzhak's back, makes a cute, pouty little moue. "Sorry big guy, just the way I am. One at a time."

The two lesbians give Itzhak sympathetic looks; the one in the leather jacket and skirt might even grok the specific implied scenario of 'have to watch monogamous person you wouldn't otherwise mind being with get married' by the way her eyes soften. "Well thank you," she says, "you look fabulous too. I bet it was a night to remember." She glances at August. "Congratulations."

Her wife adds, "Congrats, I hope the wedding's just as good."

"Thank you both." August is glad he's not so drunk or high he can be gracious in the face of random strangers congratulating him on pending nuptials. Normally that might be harder, but alcohol smooths things over.

*Ding*

To the relief of at least one person in this elevator, August and Itzhak are getting out first. "This is us, handsome." He pats Itzhak's belly to get him moving, guides him to the door. "Ladies, gentleman, it was a pleasure."

Itzhak swans out agreeably enough, half-turning to blow a kiss to his admiring fans. It's a good thing usually he's too anxious to act like this. How would Gray Harbor survive? Also, if any of these people meet him again, he might melt from mortification. For now, he's convinced he's the top diva in this elevator.

Once August gets him safely bundled into the hotel room without further hideously embarrassing interactions, he slips to the window wall and sets palms against it, sighing from the sensations tactile and visual. Standing there framed by the glitter of city lights, the faint glow of Mt. Rainier far off, he looks not much like his everyday self. He looks like some lanky creature out of a glossy magazine, in some improbable environment. "What a fuckin' night," he murmurs, smiling stupidly. "Hope it's been good for you too."

August will, in turn, take the occasional opportunity to remind Itzhak of this elevator ride. Remember those two gorgeous ladies and that pour straight couple you propositioned for a threesome after my stag party? That's the whole point of all this; to forget yourself in the moment, be embarrassed into a puddle of shame later.

He guides Itzhak to the window, goes to shrug off the jacket and tie, pull his shirt free and open it, toss off his socks and dress shoes. He fetches some water for the two of them, cold and fresh in whiskey tumblers for amusement, offers one up when he takes a seat. "It's been amazing, and we owe that all to you." He has a long drink of water, savors how good it feels against the heat brought on by the alcohol and wild time. No drugs for him, he wanted to make sure he was highly aware of himself at all times, and he doesn't always do so well with anything other than weed.

Another sip of water, followed by a laugh. "But oh shit are we all gonna feel this in the morning."

"Do me and Naishka know how to throw a party or what?" Someone else who hadn't indulged. Itzhak strokes the cool glass of the window like he wants to convince it to cut class and sneak under the bleachers with him for an hour. He peels himself away to take the water and drink it steadily until the ice clinks in the empty tumbler. Dashing drops from his mouth, he sets the glass down and stretches luxuriously. "Fuck yeah we'll feel it tomorrow, that's half the fun. First ya get banged up against a wall, then you limp for three days, that's the deal. But if you get in that bath right now I bet you can pre-soak some of it off."

August watches Itzhak attempt to seduce the window, a deeply amused smile on his face. "You do indeed know how to throw a party. I'm looking forward to whatever you cook up next time." What next time? Well, nevermind that. August is sure there'll be one; many, if they're lucky.

He finishes off his own water, nods about being ridden hard and walking it off for a few days. "That is the trade off." But a bath does sound nice, so August climbs to his feet and heads towards the hilariously luxurious bathroom. There's a huge, oval soaking tub flush to the wall, with a wooden platform around it for drinks, candles, and so on, and a step leading into it. "Very fancy." His tone is heavy with approval, and he sets to drawing the bath. "Mmmm, they've even got bubbles," he says, rummaging in a small basket of shampoo, conditioner, soap (coconut goat milk), body wash (aloe coconut), bubble bath (sandalwood, almond and Argan), and salt scrub (coconut oil and 'Dead Sea' salt). "Mmmm, sandalwood ought to be nice, right?"

Itzhak, still with his clothes and boots on, sits on the edge of the tub and has to smell every single soap. "God, I wanna eat that so bad, but it's gonna really harsh my mellow if I try." He puts down the coconut goat milk bar and watches August run the water. He looks disheveled and it looks glorious on him, like a faun in Dionysus's retinue, painted on a cup. Maybe Dionysus himself, leading the train of maenads and satyrs, sultry with power, a leopard between his thighs.

"I'm real glad you're gettin' married," he says, quiet, but over the roar of the faucet. "You deserve it. If anyone deserves it, it's you."

August could, in contrast, easily be a man led astray by said train of maenads and satyrs, barefoot in his rumpled, unbuttoned dress shirt revealing the orb weaver and fig tattooes. Or perhaps he's a wizard playing with fire, because once in a while even wise people are overcome by the desire to do dumb things, and what wizard wasn't tempted to follow the sound of pan pipes at least once or twice?

He pours in the sandalwood, sets the rest of it clear of Itzhak lest he be overcome with the desire to bite a bar of soap. Ruiz will never forgive him if they wind up in the ER dealing with soap poisoning.

Watching the bubbles foam up with their dark, spicy smell, August says, "Thanks. I've..." He's quiet a second, eyes unfocused. "I have wanted, to be able to share my life with someone for a long time. I just never figured I'd find anyone, not with," he lifts a hand, trailing lavender-tinted sparks of fire. "And now it's real. It's happening." He sighs, looks at Itzhak. "Thank you, so much, for this. And, everything. Being my Best Man, and--my friend. I don't think I'd be worth her marrying if it wasn't for you."

"Yours is so pretty." Itzhak leans in, enraptured by lavender sparks. "It's because you're so pretty everywhere, inside and out. Of course your Song is pretty, too." His gray hazel eyes, pupils wide from chemicals and easily visible in his clear, light eyes, skip past the sparks to find August's face. "Wasn't for me? Roen, which one of us is it always being the reasonable one and talking my stupid ass down off every ledge? The one everyone's got on speed dial because whatever's going tits-up today, Roen can handle it? The one bein' den father to the entire mishegoss town?" He gropes for August's hand. "You give everybody so much and you don't hardly take nothin' for yourself. Don't think I didn't notice."

"Not the worst thing, having the fire look a little oxygen-heavy," August agrees. He dismisses the fire the moment Itzhak reaches for his hand. There are bad memories underneath that, and for a half-second adrenaline surges through his veins. It's fine, though, everything is fine. His control is much better than it was that day.

He grips Itzhak's hand, shakes his head. "You don't get it. Where do you think I get any of the strength to do all that?" He raises his eyebrows. "You have been there for me, in ways you maybe don't realize. All of you have. You let me take care of you. I'm sure it doesn't feel that way, but it's true."

Using his free hand he shuts off the bath water, which is now full. "I know everyone thinks I run myself ragged doing for them. And," he hitches his bad shoulder, is glad when that doesn't cause a twinge, "that's even true, to an extent. And I'll have to be more careful with it, now that I'm getting married. Either way," he holds Itzhak's hand tighter, "the thing I'm taking for myself is reassurance that you're getting through things. That you're gonna be okay." He laughs, shakes his head. "For whatever value of okay exists in that goddamned town."

The scar is still there, too, not a true scar but where the skin island grew back after August healed him: a funny blobby patch not as weathered as the rest. It's faded, of course, from when it was bright and baby-soft and new. At some point between then and now, Itzhak has even caught it on an edge in some engine and christened it (or bar mitzvahed it, maybe?) with a faint line crossing its border on one edge. Life goes on. Itzhak keeps sticking his hands into places with edges, keeps falling in love with people with edges, improvising the unlikely symphony of his life.

"It's true to a pretty big freakin' extent," he says, shooting August a sour look because August is not being reasonable and agreeing with him. But he softens, at that last part. "Because of you. Not just you, of course, obviously, I mean. But you ...you could have taken one look at me and decided you didn't want nothin' to do with some troublemaking ex-con, that first time we met. Just like you coulda decided not to hire some crippled Spanish kid with a big mouth or the girl in town everybody knows is gonna snap and go on a murder spree. Or date the crazy conspiracy theorist either. You hold all of us together. You gotta know that."

In contrast, the scars on August's torso are the classical variety; most over two decades old, but one, a long, thin slash, is newer. Joe healed it, after the healing changed, and so it scarred as normal skin might scar. It would be easy to assume an errant tree branch of misbehaving animal might have done it, and not a zombie. Just like it would be easy to assume Itzhak suffered a bad burn at some point and the skin grew back different. Which is what happened, after a fashion.

August ducks his head and looks down into the bath. "Maybe I do. But being there for all of you--being able to be there for you, that's what holds me together. You all hold me together." He sighs, finally looks at Itzhak again. Ugh, his eyes are a little watery. Damn this bubble bath, making them like this. (Obviously that's what it is. Obviously.) "I came back from Bosnia in pieces, and the amount of work my family poured into me..." He falls quiet, shakes his head. "Maybe I didn't deserve to recover from what happened to me. I don't know that I could call myself a...good person, before that. But that didn't matter. They put my back together, and it was hard. Damned hard. I fought like...that guy, who the Fairies want to take back, and his lover won't let him?" He huffs a bitter laugh. "That was me. And I feel like, I can't call myself worthy of that, if I'm not willing to do the same, when I see it's needed, and when I could do something. Even if it's just...taking a chance on some kinds whose lives haven't been easy. Or an ex-con who's never met a problem he couldn't solve by shoving his head in a light socket." He smiles a little. "Besides, you talk like putting up with you is some Sisyphian task. You're a doll compared to me at twenty-three. Haven't seen you shred a room yet." He pats Itzhak on the cheek, gets up and slips out of his shirt. "Come on. Bath time."

Sandalwood bubble bath is the teary-eyes culprit here, obviously. Itzhak swallows, fingers tight around August's. "You came back. You came back, that fairy tale doesn't work if the guy doesn't wanna come back. All the love in the world don't work if you don't want it to work."

He knows August knows, and yet, he can't not say it. He needs August to know that he knows that, too.

He smiles a little, wavery, when August pats his cheek. "Yeah, well, let's just say I'm glad you know me now and not when I was fresh out." Then August is taking his shirt off, and Itzhak watches, a little dazedly, trying to catch up with what's going on. Then his eyebrows pop up. "I get to take a bath with you? Oh man, why didn't you say so!" And he sets to tugging the rainbow ribbon laces of his boots free, wriggling out of those very, very tight lambskin jeans. All with the total lack of self-consciousness of someone who took a nice recreational dose of ecstasy.

Not the first time the two of them have been naked around each other, of course, and probably not the last. And yet they've always worked at maintaining their particular friendship, closer than two straight men can risk outside of a combat theater, but never crossing certain lines. This time is no exception; neither of them are about to cross stated boundaries. Neither of them are about to risk hurting or disappointing their lovers, or each other. Itzhak is just absolutely getting in this bath with his treasured friend and the man who asked him to stand by his side at his wedding.

August laughs as he moves on to his suit slacks, primarily about the reaction to a bath together, though also at the idea of Itzhak fresh out. "I'm sure we'd have gotten on like a house on fire." He grins, toothy, slides off those ridiculous STRADDLE THIS boxers and his black dress socks. Like Itzhak, he's unselfconscious about it, and unfraid. He'd throw himself from a building before hurting Eleanor, and trusts Itzhak would never want to hurt him. Thus can they do this sort of thing which other men might fear; they can be open in ways other men can't. Anyways, how is this different than sharing a sauna with another man, or a hot tub?

He slides into the hip-high water, groans at how good it feels. The alcohol's kept him unaware of what all he's been up to, so his muscles and bones are happy to speak up given a chance. Once Itzhak's in the water the bath won't need much more to cover them both to their shoulders in spicy foam.

He sighs, thinks back to what Itzhak said. "You're right, though, about...needing to want it." His voice is low, maybe a little hoarse. "But," he glances down into the bubble bath, "there's wanting it, and being able to accept it. And, Christ," he shakes his head, "that was a long fucking road to walk. I am not proud of some of the shit I said and did."

Itzhak wriggles into the bath like a lizard, though his legs are rather longer by proportion. "Ung--" rolling his eyes in bliss, he lets out a funny happy groan. The water is hot and soft with bath oil, fragrant with sandalwood. And the bath's an enormous thing meant for two people and three if they're extra cozy, so him and August fitting their too-tall selves both in it manages to work out. Itzhak slides down all the way to his neck, then leans his head against the slope of the tub, his expression sybaritic.

There he rests for a few minutes, lost in sensation, his legs folded so his knees poke above the surface. "Me neither," he murmurs, sighing into the piles of bubbly froth. "Me neither and it's been the hardest fucking thing in the world. Shit is hard." Deep wisdom from Mr. Best Man.

Raising his eyebrows at August, he smiles at him, one of his rare, brilliant, sweet smiles. "But look at you now."

August watches Itzhak luxuriate in the bathtub, somber contemplantion of his past giving way to a far happier distraction. "You little hedonist." He swaps a bit of bubbly foam at Itzhak. "What'll your mom say when she hears you through the wildest bachelor party this side of the Cascades."

He holds on to the happiness rather than drift back towards the past. "Yeah, look at me. Running a business instead of hiding in the damned woods, marrying a woman who got a tattoo with me..." His voice fades, and he grins. He prods Itzhak's leg with a foot. "Having a bath with my best man after the finest stag party ever." He leans his head back. "Not what I'd have figured I could hope for." he lets out a long, slow sigh then, like he's finally allowing himself to relax; it's real, this isn't a Dream, it's not a trick of Theirs. He made it here, with the help of many others, he got this far. It's real.

"She'll say she wouldn't expect anything less from her wild son!" Itzhak grins, crow's-feet crinkling. "I got a reputation to maintain here, Roen."

It's real. It's not a Dream, and August is going to get married, and Itzhak swore he was going to cry at his wedding. (A promise he'll make good on.)

"Seriously, this is the least any of us can do, for how much you give. I mean it. We all mean it." Itzhak bites his lower lip, an anxiety tell. The bathroom is full of the quiet swish of water and the scent of warm sandalwood. "I got one more thing to give you. If you want it. You don't hafta. I won't be mad. ...and I really mean I won't be mad," he adds, laughing a little, ruefully.

Laughing, August says, "And well she shouldn't." He thinks, for a moment: what would he do for Itzhak? Something similar? Something totally different? Maybe a nice concert at Benaroya, then something more wild; a series of things?

Not that he thinks Itzhak is the marrying kind. But you never know...

His eyes slit open. He surveys Itzhak from down the slope of his cheeks, slowly smiles. "Thank you," he murmurs. "It's been amazing. I'm sure the wedding will be too." Is his voice a little rough? Maybe. It's the bathwater and sandalwood, obviously.

He arches an eyebrow. "Mad? What would you want to give me that'd make me mad." He frowns, trying to guess what it might be. "You...want to soup up my car." It's a bad guess, and he knows it.

Itzhak's flushed from the heat, but he flushes more as he averts his eyes. He snorts a laugh at the idea that he wants to soup up August's car. "Uh. Well. You know. I always thought you were super hot, you know, me and most of the town. And I wouldn't ask after, because youse guys are gonna be monogamous and all--" well, that's a hint, "so, anyways, I thought if you wanted...maybe I could kiss you. Just. You know. One time."

By the end of this speech he's bright red.

August's first clue this is going to be Something is Itzhak blushing. He squints. Then comes the looking away. And then--

He blinks, stuck for a second on 'and most of the town'. "You think so? It never really seemed like it." Of course, it's worth noting that August can be off-putting if he wants to be, and often was, before a certain group of dysfunctional assholes got hold of him.

The rest of the conversation catches up with him, and he tilts his head. He's still, eyeing Itzhak, looking like he's going over this very carefully. "No," he says, sitting up. He announces it like a proclamation, though isn't quite enough of an asshole to make Itzhak stew. "I think it makes more sense if I, kiss you." He pauses for effect, then raises an eyebrow. "Since I'm the one getting married, and all."

"I know so," Itzhak says, dryly. "I been watching you avoid the issue ever since I rolled into town. Except with Ellie. She had the right key for your ignition."

Of course the answer's no to his proposition, and Itzhak was expecting to hear it; he does that little head tip and eyebrow hike, like, ah well, was worth a try. August keeps talking, though. Itzhak looks back at him, and--oh! The answer's yes! Itzhak's expression blooms into another of those rare sweet smiles. "Uh, okay!" he says, smile transforming to something more like a stupid grin. "Yeah, that's fair, I mean, it's your big day and all. Totally fair. Yep. I talk a lot when I'm nervous, did you ever notice that?"

"Eh," August waggles a hand, "there's only so many dorky nerds in this town, you know?" He's looking right at Itzhak when he says that, bobs his eyebrows even. "People who'll tell you all about their passions, and listen to you talk about yours. People don't make you feel like you're awkward because they're awkward too."

He shifts, leaning forward. There's a glint in his eyes. "Yeah, I noticed. But as I was just saying, I like talkers."

It's a little awkward in the tub like this. Itzhak is all leg, August is a bit broader through the chest. Not the first time August has shared a kiss without a lot of wiggle room. He reaches out to slide the fingers of one hand into Itzhak's hair; his right arm, the one now bearing a long scar on the bicep. He may need to give in and get a sleeve for that...

It's a gentle, lingering kiss, the sort that's meandering and sweet and under other circumstances (i.e. Eleanor) no doubt a prelude too much more intense things. Enough for a glimpse of what else happens without breaching any boundaries, like the strip tease at the club.

Itzhak's never had this very specific kind of focus from August before. Out of everything they've shared, not this. It makes his eyes widen in something that's part alarm and part just being blown the hell away. He wriggles so he can lean in too, make things a little easier for the creaky old man he's sharing this tub with. Water slaps gently as they both move.

The kiss is sweet and lingering (and scratchy, delightfully so) and Itzhak holds very, very still for it, and for August stroking through his curly mane. He's blushing beet red, his head tipped to the side in a way that suggests long practice with maneuvering around that schnozz of his. And when it's done, when August lets him go, he looks at him, gray eyes dazed. Those eyebrows are up. He's smiling like a big dope.

"Ellie's a lucky, lucky girl," he whispers, and dares to pet August's bearded cheek with the loosely-curled backs of his fingers.

August mmmms, low and thoughtful. Is he making sure the beard does a little extra grazing? Probably. They both taste like a wild mix of alcohol, which has an odd yet not unpleasant result.

He sits back, way too pleased with himself. On a slow smile, he says, "I'd say Ruiz is too." He stretches out under the hot water and bubbles. "Hope that was good, it has to last you the rest of my life, and I don't plan to kick off early." A thought occurs to him, and he cracks up. "Hanne said she told Eleanor about hakafot, and pointed out it was to protect me from the gazes of other women and men." He starts laughing some more, because the resulting conversation had to have been hysterical.

"I'm gonna tell him you said so," Itzhak says, recovering his aplomb with a wicked glint. Then he starts laughing, unable to help it, draping his wet arm over his eyes. And he and August talk about what the ceremony will be like, and Jewish traditions, and everything that occurs to them to talk about. And when both of them are well-soaked, Itzhak gathers up his clothes and, wearing a towel around his waist, stumbles off through the hotel to find the bed he's sharing with Ruiz.

August sends Itzhak off to his bed, then flops onto his own with a sigh. It's soft and enveloping, and after the evening he's had he feels boneless and quiet with joy. He feels around on the bedside table for his phone, almost knocks it on the floor when he finally does get hold of it. He's ignored any text not from Eleanor most of the night, so takes a moment to go through them. He chokes on a laugh when he comes to a group SMS with himself, Zelda, and Hannah.

--> are you stripping at your own bachelor party? I'm pretty sure that's not how this works
--> Gus if my daughters see a single picture of you naked I swear to GOD
--> oh my god, those boxers
--> I sent mom a picture, jsyk

He groans at that, mutters, "Thanks, Hanne."

--> The furniture Hyacinth Addington made is gorgeous btw. what did Itzhak get you?

He glances at the box next to the bed. Mmmm...yeah. No. He's not sending a picture of that. Not to them, anyways. He texts them back just before crawling under the covers.

just a little something for Eleanor and I. the party was the real gift. <--
also I can't believe you sent a picture to mom, Hanne. paybacks are a bitch, prepare yourself. <--

He takes a moment to ponder how he'll pay that back. Buying Eliza some kind of obnoxious, time consuming game, maybe. That oughta do it.

He's asleep within seconds of curling up under the comforters. In the morning, Abitha's gift of a hangover cure and wonderful breakfast will await them all.