2021-11-21 - Orange Blossom County, Audience of One

The house on Oak Avenue is a craftsman's affair from the first half of the twentieth century -- well cared for by Gray Harbor standards, and clearly intended for a family, possibly several generations. An odd choice, really, for two young bachelors but maybe that is the point -- to have lots of space for various projects, and to have lots of couch space for other people. Heaven knows that's how Ravn ended up sleeping for his first week or two in Gray Harbor: On Aidan Kinney's couch.

It's a work in progress on the inside. It probably always will be, because while Ravn may not be gifted with any particular creative talents -- so he claims, anyhow -- Aidan is. There is evidence of Art everywhere. Interesting colour combinations. Second hand furniture from a dozen styles and design periods. And somehow, it all works, because Aidan is also gifted with a curious talent for making things just -- work.

Literally, too. Nothing breaks again once he's repaired it.

The large, open kitchen is a definite asset, with its vast seating area under a beautiful, colourful painting that happens to be a Kailey Holt piece. And the best part about it is that it has a large table, chairs, and a refridgerator full of good imported beer because let's be honest here, Ravn may not splurge on himself a lot but he's outright non-compromising when it comes to whiskey and beer.

Itzhak's contribution is sandwiches, but not just any sandwiches. These are piled high with roast beef on hard sour rye, accompanied by horseradish and mustard--but not cheese or mayonnaise. He never loses a chance to pay the Jewish deli.

He's also brought two instrument cases, violin and mandolin. Only a master of the moving Song could carry all this stuff at once while maintaining the structural integrity of any one stuff, let alone the whole.

"Hey, this place is great!" he's telling Ravn, looking around.

There’s a light knock at the door as one Perdita Leontes stands outside in the chill air, waiting to be let in. Her hair has been laboriously restraightened... though it has a bit more wavy than normal in her high ponytail.

Dressed in a pair of black jeggings and an oversized black jumper over a red camisole, a men’s leather coat is draped over one shoulder, and a tote bag held carefully over the other as she waits patiently.

Oh, look, stock the beer with good fridge and half the town pops in. Ravn grins as he opens the door for Itzhak and agrees, "Yeah, it is -- apparently time-lapse us got a good deal or the backyard's full of buried bodies, because it's certainly better than I'd have expected to be able to pay on a teacher's salary."

And then there's another knock and he opens the door again to find Perdita outside, with his jacket. "Hey! Come on in -- you two know each other, right? And for once, none of us are badly injured, either."

It's hard to tell whether he's still wearing bandages under those black gloves. Aidan Kinney is known to be a skilled healer.

Itzhak is making himself right at home, heading into the kitchen and unloading bags. "Yo!" he calls to Perdita, then hesitates. "I know you but I forgot your name. Sorry, I'm kind of an idiot like that. I was a total dick to you though, I remember that all right. You wanna sandwich?"

“This totally isn’t fair. You get a cute suburban house with a lawn... I get a murder mansion that has dead kids and random half naked men. I’m not too mad about the second one, though.” Perdita hands Ravn the expensive leather back with a smile. “Thanks for the loan.”

“Eh, I’m half sure I deserved it. Perdita Leontes. I brought wine... and century old prohibition era whisky. And a sandwich would be amazing.”

"That whiskey probably tastes like kerosene. We should find out." Why yes, Ravn tosses the jacket on the hallway vanity and heads for the kitchen cabinet where the shotglasses live. None of them match and several sport prints from local dive bars and mini breweries that no longer exist. One is a souvenir glass from Minnesota. "I thought you rather liked your half-naked random drop-in, though."

He grins at Itzhak. "Someone pulled a Marshall on her. Popped back out of the Veil wearing very little. Just, less public."

Itzhak proceeds to rattle through cupboards until he locates plates that are as artistically mismatched and charming as everything else. To be fair, he already seems to know where everything is, despite never having been here before. "Yeah, right, Perdita, how can I forget a name like that? I'm Rosencrantz. Itzhak." He sets towering sandwiches on the plates. "Yeah, that happens," he says with wry sympathy on the popping out of the Veil naked.

“Him dropping in half naked was fine. He seems nice so far, the cat likes him, and he’s easy on the eyes. I’m worried about when it’s something bad, like a serial killer or worse, an Evangelical TV Host.”

There’s a shudder from the woman as she sets out the whisky and a bottle of red wine, the kind with a screw top that you can get from Safeway, not the really good stuff... but it’s booze and it’s slightly sweet.

“I was wearing plenty, just... most of the fabric was placed awkwardly for this climate, and not nearly thick enough. It was great when I was in Cozumel with Hernando.”

"I really should have struck up a chat with Hernando, just to find out if his brains matched the rest that you're so fond of," Ravn muses. "Not sure Hernando actually speaks English, though."

He glances at Itzhak and hitches a shoulder in that 'it's Gray Harbor, what can do you do' way. "Perdy and I keep falling into the same dreams lately. Hurt my hands in one, too -- a crazy one where cows tried to convince us to eat them so they could go to heaven. It was worse for the two other girls though -- their dates turned out to be cows, too. I get the feeling lately that the Veil is -- fucking with us, a lot. Something changed with the storm -- it's trying to work out the new rules too. But hey, if it means trips to sunny islands where I get to watch Perdita pick up the local boys, it could be worse."

Itzhak looks back and forth between Ravn and Perdita, eyebrows quirking. A lot of information is coming at him and he needs to absorb it. Hernando, check, whoever that is. Cows, check. Dreams, check. Picking up boys, check and double check. He shoves plates at the other two and picks up his own. "Somethin's different," he agrees, "but none a that is actually weirder so far."

“He did speak English, and the brains did match. He was saving up to go to school and become a doctor.” Dita responds, with just a hint of defensiveness. The real Hernando was a lovely memory, it seems. Who knew Perdita had real human feelings aside from wounded pride and grumpiness?

“I didn’t have a lot of experience with it prior, so... I don’t know how weird is too weird, versus what’s just regular old fuckery.”

"Well," Ravn says and makes grabby hands for the kerosene-with-a-moonshine label. "The dreams I used to have were more violent. More -- aimed directly at making us suffer. Then it shifted to sniffing out things that were more personally triggering. And now it seems mostly just -- like it's trying one thing at a time to see what makes us tick. Me in a dress and high heels, playing damsel in distress? I'm sure some men would absolutely freak at getting cast as the blushing virgin princess in the tower. The please eat us cows. Vacations on St Michel de Gargamel but the head waiter starts to look like the walking embodiment of a slasher smile when we start talking about things that aren't what we're afraid of?"

He shrugs and pours, and to a trained eye it's not hard to see his hands are still giving him a spot of trouble. "But it's fun. I mean, it's awful, but it's also fun." He glances at Itzhak. "You should see Perdita as Robin Hood. It's a hell of a lot more fun than those everything is trying to toss kids into a wood chipper at the haunted lumber mill kind of dreams we used to have. I know the dolorphages are just experimenting to find out what makes us tick but at least we can enjoy the ride and the communal cringe."

Itzhak can't help but grin just a little at Perdita accidentally having a feeling. He looks at her, curious, watching her reaction. Then he chomps sammich. Dude needs fuel for all that 'being tall and loud'. "Mmf." Swallow. "It was always kinda half wood chippers and dybbuk serial killers and half giant monsters made from Gilligan's Island. So if it's on the Gillamonster scale lately, hell, why complain. ... You had to wear a dress?" That makes him grin at Ravn. "You always said you was jealous of me wearing one."

"Coz-oo-mel. Cozumel. San Miguel de Cozumel. " Perdita corrects, eyebrows raising beneath the perfect fringe. She can't decide if he's trolling or just clueless, "Gargamel is a villain in a children's cartoon, I think."

"Oh, he looked fabulous. Though the shift was a little thin. Awfully cold in that tower, wasn't it?" she asks archly, finally taking a bite of her sandwich and making a little noise of happiness as she does. "Oh, this is good." and she's saying it with a mouthful, so... yes. She never talks with her mouth full.

"I said I was jealous of you having the balls to wear a short Little Red Riding Hood costume in public," Ravn corrects Itzhak with a small grin. "It's not getting to wear a dress I was envious of, it's having the kind of courage it takes to stomp into a public affair wearing one, and a beard, and daring anyone who has an issue to come take it up with you right here and now -- that's what I'm envious of."

A glance to Perdita. A wince. "The chastity belt was bloody cold. Do not recommend."

Shotglasses of basement-discovered whiskey are distributed and Ravn raises his in a gloved hand. "Here's to dreams staying on the silly end of the scale for a while yet, then. To period inaccurate costume designs and pretty boys in Maya costumes. Hell, my real life has been more frightening lately. That trip to New York, for one, the Veil has nothing that compares."

Down the hatch it goes.

And back up, into the kitchen sink. "Bloody hell," the man coughs and stares at his glass in awe. "This stuff really could strip paint."

"Ehhh, semantics!" Itzhak waves a hand in grand dismissal. "... some guys are into the chastity thing, yannow." He's giving Ravn so much shit right now. His eyebrows go pleased at Perdita's reaction to the classic Jewish roast beef on rye, and he looks downright smug.

Then, what, is he going to let Ravn do shots of dubious whiskey all by his onesie? What kind of a friend would he be? So he echoes the toast with, "L'chaim," and knocks his back too. Well, he keeps it down but turns an alarming shade of tomato. "Oy vey izt mir that's nasty!"

There's a dubious reaction to Ravn pouring her a shot of whisky... she wasn't planning to drink it, but... why not. It was only found in a basement near a dead kid, right?

"Siyas!" she raises the shot glass, downs it... and then begins coughing as her eyes water. She starts fanning herself, laughing and coughing at the same time, "Cháx! Te feril ame o Bari Devláika!" is gasped out before she goes to turn and lean against the wall, cushioning her head on her forearm.

"That... may have been a mistake. I have swallowed some foul things in my life but oh my god that's bad. Can you still see?" she asks, trying to contain her laughter.

"Who said that," Ravn murmurs, still choking -- part on laughter, part on the absolutely foul whiskey.

And him, one of the few absolutely snobbish habits he's maintained from a past life -- is that of being a whiskey snob. His taste buds are likely getting together as you read this, to form a mob with torches and pitchforks. Here's to hoping they only burn the bottle and not the entire Bauer Building.

He coughs and shakes his head. "Christ on rollerskates, with pink pom poms and a tutu. I have never in my life tasted anything that god-awful. Perdita, I am now certain I know what killed that unfortunate kid."

"Oh we gotta make Roen try that. And de la Vega. And Cavanaugh, he's such a masochist he'll probably like it." What better to do with paint thinner historical whiskey than inflict it on your nearest and dearest? Itzhak's eyes are watering as he dashes at them. He's still brilliant red. "Fuck me. Get out some a dat good shit, Abildgaard, you owe us."

"Why do you hate them?" Perdita manages, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with one sleeve, ever so delicately. That is some damn impressive eyeliner to not run or even color the tears on her cheeks, right now. "Devláika. Two shots of that and I'm naked on a table dancing, or in the hospital getting my stomach pumped." she's blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision. "I... have to imagine that tasted better when it was bottled... if not... why do we still drink alcohol in the US?"

"Hell, now I almost want to pass you a second shot," Ravn murmurs with a sideways glance at Perdita because one of those options sounded like an excellent photo opportunity for some blackmail later on, and while he may be retired, his grifter's instinct isn't.

He puts the bottle down and corks it carefully lest any of its contents escape. Then he nods his agreement with Itzhak. "Truly, this deserves some kind of medal or reward, and since I have none of the former. . ." He lets that thought trail off while fishing another bottle out of the cabinet. This one's a twelve year Glenfiddich -- his usual go-to brand, much to Leon Gyre's consternation because what self respecting dive bar owner wants to have to order Scottish whiskey?

The one who has one single customer who's willing to pay for it, that's who.

He distributes shot glasses and then raises his. "Here's to Perdita dancing on the kitchen table but without requiring her stomach pumped after. And to Itzil in a short red skirt. And hell, to me in a Victorian corset."

"I'll drink to that. If you're lucky you'll get to see me in a short red skirt sometime." Smirk. Itzhak is still flushed, though. He sips the Scotch and sighs happily. "That's better." Gesturing at Perdita with the shot glass, he raises his eyebrows at her and Ravn. "Yannow it's nice to see Abildgaard hanging out with a beautiful woman and not even being weird about it. You know he plays violin?"

Doom is coming for you, Ravn.

"Ravn isn't allowed to want me naked on a table anymore." Perdita tilts her head slightly to one side, twirling a strand of hair around her finger with a smile that promises a night of absolutely wicked things... and then she laughs, shaking her head, taking her drink with a much happier expression, "Okay, that... is a lot better than what I can only assume is jet fuel."

"I... feel like it might have come up once, but that was a while ago. I do love a good violinist... and thank you for the compliment." she adds, before taking another bite of delicious sandwich, again with the sounds of enjoyment.

Ravn manages to not choke on his whiskey (which would also be a shame, given it's really good whiskey). He blinks and looks at Itzhak, clearly surprised at being called out like that. Then he can't help a soft laugh. "I'm not the one who performs at Sitka with my violin, though. Don't let this New York asshole convince you he's not every bit the showman, because believe me, he is. So, where's my sandwich?"

Distract, distract, distract. Always the first choice of the cornered grifter (or rat).

Ego can't entirely be suppressed though. "I'm not completely inept around women, damn it. Just around women who act like... well, you know what I mean."

"Compliment schompliment, that's an objective fact and you know it." Itzhak watches Perdita's hair twirling with every evidence of enjoyment. Pretty girl showing off, sure he'll look.

Then he rolls his eyes at Ravn and shoves the plate down the counter at him. "It's been there the whole time, yutz. Eat, I'm required by Jewish law to tell you ya too skinny. Then we can play something for the lady. Since you're not completely inept." Is that the sound of an arm being twisted?

"I'd love to hear a song. It's been a while since I've heard live music. Báte used to play the violin sometimes when his hands weren't giving him trouble." Dita's smile softens a little at Ravn, "Women who act interested in you?"

"It's still a compliment! Women should be told we're beautiful, and often. By men. With diamonds." Perdita's smile is just a little wicked as she drapes herself in one of the chairs, crossing her legs and looking at the two men with amusement.

"Nah, I tend to not even notice that," Ravn murmurs with surprising honesty -- except it's not really that surprising, given both people present have at times ribbed him for exactly that brand of Abildgaard obliviousness. "More, women who act like -- how to put it. You, Isi Cameron, couple of others -- you're women, yes, but largely you're people who just happen to be of the female configuration. Some women act as if they are women first, and nothing else matters. Maybe I'm not interested in my -- " air quotes " -- sexual market value. Hell, that ADA is a perfect example -- convinced I was eager to hit on her, because apparently, every other man is."

He shrugs. It's a tricky subject. Violins actually feel safer and that says a lot. "I suppose we could play. Though I have to warn you -- and no shit there, Itzhak -- I'm not up to usual standards, mostly on basis of my hands being covered in bandaids still."

"Aaahh, no diamonds here. I couldn't afford you." Itzhak flashes half a crooked smile at Perdita. "Just a poor kid from the Lower East Side. I known a lot of hustlers, but not so many on your level."

He lets the rest of the whiskey slide down his throat, head tipped back and huge schnozz pointed at the ceiling. Then he sucks a drop that escaped off his thumb. "Fuckin' good." He gives Ravn a dubious side eye, after that little speech. "Men act like that too. It ain't a women thing. It's an asshole thing. And the ADA is a real asshole. Who is so thirsty for de la Vega, it's hilarious and I'm gonna scratch her eyes out if she tries anything."

Proclamation made, he goes to flip the latches on the cherry red violin case he's brought. "Oh, ya hands are all busted up," he mutters, "okay, no Paganini then. We'll do something simple."

"She kept looking at my cleavage." Dita notes of the ADA. "You're still not all healed up from that? I thought you... healed quick or something." Perdita gestures vaguely with a bit of concern juuuust peeking out from behind the flippant mask. She does care.

"It's my impression that half the town is thirsty for de la Vega. Maybe a third. I... make it a policy not to hook up with cops." except... didn't she give that deputy her number?

"Simple is good, Ravn needs to warm up his fingers, after all."

"Sure they do," Ravn murmurs with some amusement. "But men don't act like that at me. Not that I blame women in turn for tiring of it when they do."

Then he pulls his gloves off, revealing multiple bandaids on his hands and forearms still. "Aidan's a miracle worker but even he can't patch this up like snapping his fingers. Really do not recommend going through glass tables. And the bloody ER worker I spoke to first had the audacity to ask me if I self-harmed and listened to punk music, too."

He does wear black after all. And she was at least sixty and clearly stuck in 1985.

"I remember Itzhak telling me that you haven't made it in Gray Harbor until you've slept with either him or de la Vega, or both," the Dane adds with an amused look at his friend. "It's not half wrong either -- they both certainly get a lot of attention. It's fun to watch sometimes. Bennett, though -- I think she just gets off on being offended, and on offending people. Haven't forgotten her whole stunt with getting me photographed as her date."

Then he saunters off towards his room for a moment because his violin doesn't live in a kitchen cupboard like a bottle of whiskey.

Itzhak snorts. "Yeah I had that policy too, then Javier de la Vega gave me the eye and look at me now." He's turning red again--surely he isn't blushing? No, he's totally blushing.

He is paying close attention to when Ravn takes his gloves off, even as he lifts a stunning violin from his case. His eyebrows pop up and his gray eyes get wide when he gets a load of all those bandages.

"Jesus Harriet Christ! Abildgaard!" His long callused fingers flex as if he's about to grab for him. But he has a lot of practice by now at not grabbing at people with touch issues and that's as far as it goes. Scowling, Itzhak takes his violin and begins tuning, apparently by ear. "Gets his arm half chopped off, then he puts his hands through a glass table, YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO FUCK UP YOUR HANDS ANYMORE!" He cranes back to yell down the hall.

Grumbling, he plucks each string of his violin, testing. The instrument is gorgeous, inlaid with pomegranate branches and a big star of David on its back.

Perdita says, "I don't recommend riding suicidal cows who want to be eaten to go to The Good Place." Perdita counters. Because that's how Ravn got hurt. While Perdita was flirting with a cow-man.

"You do look like you'd experiment with LSD and like I shouldn't leave you alone near scrap metal." Dita tells Ravn with a smirk.

"Mine's pretty... steady. I apparently did the horny angry tango with one while I wasn't quite myself, but..." she shakes her head, smiling. "Now firemen? That's another matter entirely.""

It does not take Ravn long to reappear with a violin case of his own. It's a simple black one, and from the looks of it, it's kept him company on the road for several years; the black velvet is faded a little here, scratched a bit there -- wear and tear, the kind you get from too many airports, bus terminals, and hostels. The instrument inside is nothing to look at compared to Itzhak's beautiful work of art either; though anyone with an actual knowledge in the field won't struggle to tell that it is an instrument of quality -- just like anything else about Ravn and his belongings, understated.

"I seriously gave thought to giving up beef for a while," he agrees with a shudder and a glance at his own hand. "Turns out I have no talent whatsoever as a bull fighter. Fuck you, Dennis O'Leary, and your line about putting the cow on the table, we'll eat what we want and ride the rest home."

He too tunes by ear. Carefully, because neuropathy and glass lacerations are a bitch in combination. "Besides, when it must be, I prefer cocaine. But on the whole, I am not much fond of mind altering substances."

Alcohol clearly isn't one of those.

"Oh, firemen, hell yeah let's hear it for the FDNY. Marines, Navy? I can't even tell you how many Marines I banged. Especially the big ones who come over all tough and then they just wanna get railed all night, not that I'm complaining."

Itzhak is just letting his mouth run while he tightens and rosins his bow. He sets the violin to his shoulder with a flip of his sinewy wrist and plays through a scale with liquid ease. Then he lowers it again, looking at Perdita and Ravn. "Sounds like youse guys been busy. Robin Hood and cows and all, huh?"

"I tried vegan donuts. That's as far as I got with it." Perdita mutters, before finishing off her sandwich while the two men prep their instruments.

"I drink, in moderation, that's about as far as it goes for me. Seen too many girls get hooked to something and end up in bad situations."

"Aerial silk acrobats. Twins. That was a fun night..." Dita's gaze turns a little distant as she remembers, quite happily, just a bit of her lower lip caught between her teeth. "Mmph."

"That... wasn't with Ravn, though."

"No, I'm fairly certain I'd remember that," Ravn murmurs, amused.

He tests his instrument's timbre. "For my peers, alcohol is the acceptable choice, and cocaine is the almost acceptable choice except not when anyone in uniform is present or at least not when anyone with a camera is. There's a whole load of polite euphemisms for saying that Gerda can't join us for tennis this week, she's in rehab again."

The Dane shrugs. "We were talking about it yesterday, I think. How the Veil feels like it's trying on a lot of weird shit lately, to see what makes us tick. Something changed during the storm -- and it's just as busy working out the new rules as we are. And sure enough, Perdy and I keep bumping into one another on the Other Side, but it could be worse. I mean, I was mermaid spotting with Bennett once, and not only did she not see a thing, she grumbled all the way about the captain not taking his shirt off."

Itzhak shoots Perdita a glance that can only be described as jealous. "Why don't I ever get those kinds?" He shakes his head. "Bennet don't got the Song. Which don't really mean nothing except she don't know what she don't know."

"Well, was the captain cute? If he was cute that was a valid complaint... I've never seen mermaids, either. I'd like to. From a safe distance." Perdita tells Ravn, stretching languidly in the seat.

"I mean, if you're ever in Ibiza during the summer, I can probably find their number somewhere, on one of my old accounts..." Dita gestures vaguely to indicate the ethereal world where all hot twins' phone numbers apparently go.

"Eh, he must have been, at least a lot of people were making eyes at him." Ravn shrugs; ask him if a guy is cute, might as well ask him about nuclear physics. Sometimes things go boom. Because. "The mermaids were rather freakishly not cute, though. Are you into sun tanned, muscular blond men with blue eyes and why am I even asking, look, he's got a boat on the Marina, go see him when the weather gets better."

Which one is he talking to? Either? Both.

"I've been to Ibiza," he adds, randomly. "It has a bit of a reputation in Europe -- place young people in their twenties go, to do all the drugs, and get all the laid. Came through on my trip down through Europe -- visited a lot of the islands, really, since I figured that the more seabed Benedikte had to walk across, the better."

Itzhak laughs, blushing again. "Maybe. I already got Cavanaugh, though, for my quotient of beefy blond blue eyed guys who own boats."

He is busy, isn't he?

Violin on his shoulder, he noodles through a bright little run, not anything in particular, just idly playing as if fidgeting. It's a good sound, sweet and resonant. He glances at Ravn, at the mention of his dead fiancee, and his eyes are hooded. "Figured she'd chase you, huh?"

"... Good to know. I could stand to have a sun tanned blond man on a boat this summer." Perdita grins at Ravn, then glances sidelong at Itzhak, eyebrows raising, ever so slightly. No wonder she can't find a steady man, they're all dating each other!

Ravn in turn mirrors Itzhak's little scales perfectly, without thinking much about it; they've played together for a long time and know each other's style inside out -- his hands are quite capable of following without him paying attention. "Well, my offer stands, to you both. If other blond men with boats aren't available, you can always come out on mine. Just, there may be more beer and fishing and less satin sheet gymnastics than you were hoping for, but beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

He chuckles at Perdita's look. "I told you people call this place Gay Harbor. I told you that for the longest time it was a running joke that I was the one single, straight man in town. Jokes don't come out of nowhere!" The grin, though, it's a mile wide. He hasn't got a lot of pity for the girl who still manages to bag firemen and police officers and heaven only knows what else on a regular basis.

Itzhak waves his bow around in a defensive 'yeah yeah', at the look Perdita gives him. "I'm not dating him or anything, just. You know. We're both dating de la Vega and sometimes threesomes happen." Bright red. "Look, are we gonna play or what?" he grouses at Ravn, in his own version of the grifter distraction. "Request something, willya?" that's at Perdita again.

"You weren't kidding." Perdita tells Ravn with a slightly rueful smile. She's not mad about living in a year round Pride parade, though.

"Sometimes threesomes happen, sometimes you wake up nestled in each others arms, gazing lovingly at each other as your shared lover looks on approvingly, sometimes there's whispered nothi-Oh. Um... The only violin songs I can think of off the top of my head are Romani!" putting her on the spot has made her a little uncomfortable, now, just a little, but she laughs. "Either of you know Gyelem, Gyelem? I haven't heard that one in years."

The Romani anthem. Someone's feeling nostalgic or homesick, one.

"If you can hum it we can play it," Ravn says with the confidence of someone who is more than capable of doing exactly that. And with a slightly wry smile he adds, "I'm classically trained. If it wasn't written by a German or an Italian, I had to learn it on my own."

He skips commenting on waking up habits. Possibly because for him, the idea of waking up in someone else's arms would likely involve a lot of discomfort, disentangling and disappearing to the bathroom to wait for the pain to stop. He appreciates the sentiment; and shares it to the extent that at least he can be a little wistful about it.

Itzhak wrinkles that impressive honker at Perdita. But Romani fiddle makes his eyebrows tip up, interested. "I don't know it. Hum it a little, Abildgaard's right, we can play just about any damn thing." He poises his bow above his strings, waiting alertly.

Humming doesn't quite do the song justice, so Perdita... vocalizes, instead. Without words, just the notes of the song, her eyes closed, letting her voice do the work of the instrumentals so that the two experienced violinists can translate it to a more appropriate form and bring it to life. Her voice isn't formally trained, but pleasant to the ear, and she can at least carry a tune.

Ravn cants his head to listen; and then the penny drops. He knows this tune -- played on a cheap transistor radio or a car radio while men hum along and occasionally murmur a word or two in a language the Dane doesn't speak. Or whistled by those same men as they erect the shoddy facades of shooting tents and lottery booths and merry-go-rounds. Whistled, sometimes, while money changes hands out back, under the table, out of sight. It's the tune that Florin used to whistle, and Daniel, and Alexandru.

He taps his bow to the strings and calls it up from memory, closing his eyes and thinking of other times and places, letting himself be transported to dark nights spent around and in a ring of cheap autocampers and tents, a communal fire, and coffee that tastes like it contains at least one well worn workman's boot.

As it happens, the Dane is a rather good violinist, at least when he forgets that he keeps telling people that he isn't.

Itzhak goes "huh!" under his breath. He doesn't recognize the song, except, he does. In many ways he knows this song and others like it, melancholy and sweet and wild. The violin music beloved of Jews from Morocco to Russia is like this.

He strokes his bow across his strings and joins in, following Ravn through the dips and peaks, winding sinuously around the main theme. No, he doesn't know the exact song, but he knows many like it and he knows how music is put together and the rest of it comes from his soul. He sways in place, eyebrows matching his up- and downbows. Music fills the room like water, Ravn leading the melody and Itzhak improvising harmony.

Sitting in rapt silence, Perdita's eyes are closed, her expression... soft. A rare glimpse at the girl behind the mask, the longing for a family she's cut herself off from rather than face further rejection.

A few silent tears fall, but she smiles through the tears, treasuring the performance as the gift it is. The tears aren't immediately wiped away.

Still, by the last few verses, she's recovered enough to raise her voice in song, almost reverently, the final lines a prayer for the continued health of her people, emotion making her voice a little thick.

"A Romalen, A chavalen,

Opre Rroma, si bakht akana!
Aven mansa sa lumnyake Roma
O kalo mui thai e kale yakha
Kamav len sar e kale drakha

A Romalen, A chavalen!"

The national anthem of Denmark -- either one -- never stirred that kind of emotion in Ravn. But, he reflects, nor has his people faced centuries of oppression and forced migration; it's an injury to the soul that he has no basis for grasping or sharing. The best he can do is sympathise -- and that, at least, he can do by calling forth the melancholic, yet untamed melody to the best of his ability. And while he himself will insist otherwise, that is actually a considerable amount of ability.

When the last note dies, at last, he smiles -- a little flustered because he's never really sorted out how to deal with strong emotion beyond pretending it doesn't exist -- and happy to be able to touch heart strings after all. And perhaps just a little nostalgic for the part of his life that he's left behind now, becoming a responsible adult with a fixed address and a cat.

"You have a nice voice," he murmurs, because he feels like he should say something.

Itzhak lets the last note shiver away, putting some vibrato on it for maximum emotions. "Amen," he mutters, as a coda to the prayer (he doesn't know that, either, not consciously; something of the reader Song lets him know). Opening his eyes, he sees Ravn being awkward and Dita emotional.

He smiles too, crooked and a little awkward himself. "Not too shabby, right?" He raises his eyebrows at Ravn: you survived after all.

"Thank you. You did my ancestors proud." Dita says softly, giving Ravn and Itzhak a rare, truly genuine smile. "Both of you."

And then awareness slowly begins to dawn that she's... emotional. Ew. She dabs at her eyes with the edge of her sleeves again, clearing her throat.

"I blame the basement whisky. And if either of you tell anyone you saw me cry, I will stab you with my eyeliner." she does, however, applaud the two men for their performance, because a good performance deserves applause. "But... thank you."

"Wouldn't know an emotion if it crawled up and stabbed me in the shin with a fork," Ravn agrees, wiping the awkward from his face and schooling it into its usual pleasant, non-committal facade before throwing Itzhak a significant Look. "Emotions are your area."

Yeah, he got that silent message. There will be Words about it. Sometime. Or probably never because Ravn lives by the firm conviction that if you ignore Emotions long enough, most of them eventually give up and go away.

"I think I need another proper whiskey, though." He walks over to the table to pour -- all three glasses -- before raising one of them. "To not getting stabbed with eyeliner."

Itzhak bows, bending from the waist and tucking his violin to his chest, as formal as if he stood on stage at Carnegie Hall. The effect is spoiled when he straightens up, complaining, "Aww shit, don't cry, you're gonna make me cry and nobody wants that."

He takes the third shot, hoists it wordlessly and sips. Halfway through he swallows too fast and glares at Ravn. "Your no-goodnik cousin thought I was movin' weight!"

Ravn mentioned coke habits and apparently it took Itzhak this long to catch up.

"More whiskey, less tears." Dita agrees with a smile that's only a little tremulous, raising her glass, before taking a drink of the whiskey and looking relieved that it's not lighter fluid mixed with rubbing alcohol and permanent marker. Itzhak gets a significant look.

"You mean you don't sell coke? I honestly thought that shop was just to smuggle goods into town." Perdita teases, with a head tilt to take any actual accusation out.

"Gotta admit, it'd be a pretty great way to move merchandise. Pull a car in that 'needs serviced' and slip anything you need to out the basement or the back door or into the weird tunnels that I have no doubt run under this city."

"If it was ever hinted at in some obscure horror or crime novel, it's true somewhere in Gray Harbor," Ravn agrees on the subject of mysterious tunnels. Was it a week ago that Clayton was talking about secret smugglers' tunnels and caves out by the coast? Of course it exists. It's all real, somewhere. And if it wasn't, it is now.

And then the meaning of 'moving weight' dawns on him. Weird-ass American phrasings. Weird-ass New Yorker phrasings. It has nothing to do with going to the gym, does it? The Dane glances at Itzhak and laughs, a little amused, a little embarrassed. "He's not my direct cousin. More like, his grandfather is the cousin of my grandfather who married his aunt's horse's groom's brother and they all fought together at Tallinn in 1219. Or something along those lines. And he absolutely, definitely thought that the only reason you were there is because you're the guy who sells me coke and probably provides for whatever weird sexual deviancy I've got going too, yes. I sort of did wonder if you were going to punch his pretty lights out."

The folklorist chuckles and adds, to Perdita, "Rosencrantz had the highly questionable fortune of meeting a Rosenkrantz. One is a New York Jewish lineage. The other isn't."

"What an asshole! I thought he wanted to suck me off in the bathroom and he was making a move." Itzhak shakes his head, mouth twisted up in belated aggravation. "Does your family usually take their drug dealers slash procurers to weddings?"

He snorts and tosses off the rest of the whiskey. "I don't sell drugs and I don't sell my ass--no offense. That said, sister, you ain't wrong. Maybe about the tunnels, I dunno about any tunnels but why the hell not, right?"

"Oh, that sounds like a lot of fun and I'm a little sad I missed it, now. The wedding, not the bathroom blow jobs. Been there, done that, didn't smear my lipstick." Perdita smirks at that last bit, taking another sip of whiskey.

"No offense taken. Though in point of fact, I only sold it once... the rest of the time they rented it by the hour... which they usually needed for all of five minutes, if that." Dita yawns and uncrosses her legs, then recrosses them. "Never got involved with drugs, though. Good way to end up dead, misgendered and deadnamed on a nightly newscast."

"You'd be surprised how many people of questionable background somehow mingle with the gentry," Ravn says with a mix of embarrassment for his people and well, that's just how it is, and it'd be impossible to say otherwise with a straight face. "We're not allowed to start crusades or exploit third world country colonies anymore, we have to tie in with the Russian mob or the drug cartels instead. Those manors don't pay for themselves, you know."

He can't help a small chuckle at Perdita's quip about only needing five minutes. "So, did your patrons only need five minutes because you are just that good, or because they were just that bad?" A smile goes with it; the Dane doesn't really expect an answer but a chance to rib a Dita is not going to pass him by without him at least making a grab for it. "I have done the occasional line of coke when I was younger but I didn't much care for the whole culture -- live life too fast, spend two months a year in rehab, I mean, Uncle Tom and Aunt Oda are on a cruise again."

"Blowing their load in five minutes with a girl like you? What a waste!" Itzhak shakes his head in mock sorrow for the chumps who just couldn't hack it.

The mention of rehab, though, and living on too much coke, makes an odd shadow pass over his eyes. He goes quiet, gray hazel eyes gazing at nothing and nobody, for a long count of five. Then he shakes it off with a visible effort. "Hey, youse guys wanna hear Orange Blossom Special? Sure you do, everybody wants to hear Orange Blossom Special!"

At Ravn's question, Perdita raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. Her tongue darts out between glossy lips, just barely, and she leans back in her seat, crossing her long legs. A slow smirk forms. "I'm just that good."

She notices Itzhak's shadow, and her expression slips from Perdita, Eater of Men, to Perdita, Concerned Friend... but she recognizes the obvious desire to switch the conversation up, because it's gone somewhere a bit... painful. "I can't think of anything I'd rather hear more."

"I'll take your word for it." Ravn winks at Perdita, Eater of Men, amused at that little display. He too catches the change of tone, though. Nodding his agreement with Perdita, Concerned Friend, the Dane raises his bow. "I'll fall in."

He knows this tune by heart; it is somewhat Itzhak's trademark, and the two men play it often -- because why not? It's a cheerful affair, good for blowing away the dark clouds and let the light shine in. What in particular did he say that made Itzhak wince? Doesn't matter. What does matter is playing Orange Blossom Special with his friend, and blowing Perdita, Audience of One, away as they do.