Ariadne, Avi, Brent, Ilad
As the de facto head of his small household, Ilad must take the seat at the head of the table and place a cushion on it. It is hard to have a head of the table when your table is round, and Ilad does not own extraneous cushions. Therefore, he has taken a darkly grey pillowcased pillow from his bedroom and placed it on his white-and-blond mismatched chair, this sufficient to do the business.
Other signs of improvisation mark the Tal-Shachars' seder, besides is unorthodox date -- scheduling religion around life rather than the other way around. The candles glow warm and flickering, not on the table itself where there is simply no room for them, but on the kitchen counter. There are spare kipot for guests, a sort of random assortment in satin and cotton in mostly blue and white. Ilad's is blue, pinned neatly to his hair, and the same he has worn since his bar mitzvah. It does not match his suit, which is black, and he has not bothered to wear a tie; his white, collared shirt is open at the throat.
The service is also ... not orthodox. For one thing, it goes pretty quickly. Ilad skips whole sections of the Haggadah devoted to talmudic interpretation, with offhanded asides about a lot of old men with very long beards. He performs chunks of the seder in Hebrew, sung in a full-throated voice to long-remembered tunes that he more or less forces Avraham into duetting with him. Family is embarrassing, isn't it, Avi? The parts not in Hebrew are all spoken English, matched to the little beaten-up and winestained booklets that have been passed around to everyone at the table, except that Ilad adds refreshing parenthetical asides.
The wine is not traditional kosher wine, either. It is better. Two bottles stand together before the old, old bronze-blackened seder plate. After a little under an hour of this, two full glasses of the red have already been poured and demolished, and Ilad has unceremoniously launched himself to his feet to fetch the food from the kitchen. "--Since today I am my father /and/ my mother, apparently."
Brent has been an...unexpectedly difficult presence. Perhaps not so much difficult as having difficulty keeping himself chipper. A certain pained somberness has clung to his heels since his arrival, despite his best efforts to ward it off. The service has helped. Dressed in suit and tie, kipor selected from those offered to him, he finds focus and art in the weight of tradition, the unfamiliar form of worship. It helps. He watches Ilad rise, a little unsure as instinct fights again his knowledge of ignorance. "Can I help?" he asks, asking permission more than the usual offer of assistance.
Family /is/ embarassing. Who knows what Avi would have been like if everything was completely orthodox, but he seems uncomfortable enough as it is, with the small eccentrities to soothe him. He does waver into enjoying it, however, when he stops thinking about it. It happens somewhere in the singing, and then he catches himself at it and goes embarassed again. He spends a lot of time watching Ariadne for her reaction, smiling hopefully at her, watchful for signs of boredom. Also wine helps.
Ariadne, on the other hand, is easy-going and free with bright smiles and understated enthusiasm, interest bright in her brown eyes. A few glances toward Brent's sullenness mark notice, but she says nothing on the matter at present. She cleans up nicely, her curls caught back in a barrette and then left to hand loose down her back, off-set by a white blouse over a black knee-length skirt that might be rather boring if it weren't for the ivory embroidery that dances up the row of buttons and along the neckline and across the hem of her skirt to match. Her attention is largely for Avi, who recieves varied amused and encouraging smiles according to events. When Ilad stirs, she turns her head to him, wondering, "And now we eat?"
"Now we definitely eat," Ilad confirms. His shiny shoes slide a little as he scuffs across the kitchen, checking the contents of his pot beneath its lid with a skeptical eye. His gas burner, temperamental, spits into higher life as he hoists his ladel to start spooning soup into yellow bowls. "You may help if you like. My first course is all dead birds. So I made a separate dish of matzo balls for you and you can eat that without any broth." He slants a narrow look at Brent as he admonishes, "They might need salt."
Helpful Brent is helpful. He stretches up to his feet, pulling his tie slightly looser as he follows Ilad the long, long way into the faraway kitchen. "I can carry food that I can't eat," he reminds Ilad with the slightest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You certainly don't need to go out of your way to work around me." He holds hands out for bowls. He is a good carrier.
"Hungry?" Avi asks Ariadne. Her enthusiasm makes him grin. He watches Brent get up, and stays sitting himself, since they don't really need that many people in the kitchen all at once. He readjusts his chair, which ends with it a bit closer to Ariadne's. Coincidentally.
"Little bit," Ariadne admits with a sideways glance at Avi that comes with a slow-grown smile. "That was interesting. You guys do this every year?"
"I'm afraid there's a bit more after dinner, even," Ilad says, handing off two bowls to Brent. The bowls are small and yellow, full of soup: chicken, matzo balls, carrot shreds. "Don't be silly," he adds to Brent, with the shadow of a smile on his lips. "When one invites a man to dinner, one is certainly obligated to feed him." He picks up two more bowls -- Brent's just has matzo balls in it, but he makes up for this by having put /extra/ matzo balls in it -- and also moves back toward the table to serve. "On the kibbutz, Pesach was huge. Avi does not remember, but it was a giant communal feast. I expect Mother and Father will go to somebody's house. But out here in the world this will do."
Brent serves the bowls he has requisitioned to serve and then takes his seat again, settling his legs carefully under the small table so as to not jostle anyone. He listens to Ilad's comments with interest, reaching for his spoon to start carefully slicing off pieces of matzo ball. "When's the last you saw them?" he asks with sudden curiosity.
Avi's smile goes a bit lopsided as talk of golden does he doesn't remember, but he doesn't comment. "It's not like I don't remember it was different at home, but this is--" He looks over at Ariadne again. "It has its own pluses." He straightens as food arrives, a young male's appetite of his own. At the question about home, his head goes down over his bowl, and he lets his brother answer.
Ariadne is amused at that, and an arch lift of her brow over the broad curve of her smile tells Avi so. "You know," she tells Ilad, turning to fix her attention on him, "I only understand every third word you say, tonight, but you make it sound lovely."
"A few years," Ilad says, as he sets himself down over his own bowl. "There is more food coming, too," he adds, not at all an obvious redirection, with a vague wave of his spoon before he starts eating broth and chicken and carrot. He saves matzo balls for last. "It helps that it is mostly sung," he says, "not just a lot of talk in a tongue you do not know. Like a small private opera about casting off the bonds of slavery."
"A long time" is Brent's only comment on that, though there is the hint of a frown there. "She's right," he says, glancing at Ariadne briefly. "It's a lovely service." The tiniest of smiles perks up at Ilad's choice of descriptor. (He also eats.)
"A long way to go," Avi says hurriedly, in case Brent's frownishness should mean he'll circle back around to the topic later. He huffs a laugh at the talk of private operas. "Speaking of a long time, it's been a long time since I've had to /sing/." He digs in to his own food.
"You should do it more often," Ariadne teases, glancing briefly back at Ari before she lowers her head to try out a matzo ball.
"The old tunes never leave, at any rate," Ilad answers Avi with a low humor warming his voice as he spoons up more of his soup. "It would take divine intervention to bring our mother back to America, I think."
"Back?" Brent questions curiosly, slicing off another piece of matzo ball.
"Really?" Avi flicks a sideways glance at Ariadne, oh-so transparent in his sudden interest in singing now. He doesn't seem to realize that's what he's being, though. Again, he lets Ilad lead on answering questions.
"Of course," Ariadne answers seriously. "I expect a serenade every time I see you." She lets the teasing fade with a brief smile, attention turned instead toward Ilad, with interest.
"Oh, she /is/ American," Ilad says, dark eyebrows lifting as he carves his matzo balls up with his spoon. "California girl. Berkley. This is why our English is so good, hm?" He cocks an eyebrow across the table at Avi, smile slight as he eats up a bite of soup.
"Oh." Brent's eyebrows also lift, mildly surprised. He offers a quick glance between Avi and Ariadne that is the tiniest bit amused by their back-and-forth, before his gaze slides back to Ilad. "Left and didn't look back, I take it?"
Avi looks worried for a moment before he riffs on the teasing thread. "I'll have to learn a few new songs, then." He eats a few bites, before-- "Guess it's in my blood, huh?" It's offhand, probably purposely timed to make it hard to attach to either Ilad's or Brent's words.
"What, really?" Ariadne asks of Ilad, her eyes widening in brief surprise. "I didn't know that. Why'd she leave?"
"Oh, she /looked/ back, mostly to scream in horror, or so I understand." Ilad snorts, rising from his chair. He pauses a moment, glancing at Avi with one hand resting on the back of his chair and a faintly troubled look crossing his expression. He chases it off, collecting his mostly empty bowl and moving for the kitchen as he says, "She left for religion, a pilgrimage, to Jerusalem and the Kotel. And found our father, and the kibbutzim. -- When I was a boy she used Reagan as profanity," he adds, grin flashing quick and sharp over his shoulder. "I thought it was some obscure English bodily function, it was years before I knew the truth."
Brent can't help the sudden, sharp grin that forms at Ilad's last bit of story. "It wasn't a word allowed in my house," he says with a hint of wry commiseration.
Avi avoids any brotherly looks with his head down. "With the years between us, we had--very different childhood experiences, I sometimes think," is his only comment. With his bowl empty, he checks Ariadne's. If it is too, he can be gallant and take it for her!
Ariadne looks amused as only the young who don't actually remember anything of history can. She nudges at Avi's foot briefly under the table, just in case he's somehow forgotten her presence, and then wonders, "She's very religious, then?" Before asking curiously, "How many years /are/ between you?" Her bowl, it is not yet empty!
"It is true," Ilad agrees. He opens his oven and pulls out two trays in succession. He sort of half-assedly uses one potholder to protect his hand, although if you're watching closely, he does not pay attention to when the cloth touches the hot metal and when it is his skin. Leaving the roast chicken and the oven omelette both set out on the stove, he turns to the microwave to pull the kugel pan out that he put in there to keep warm. "Seven years apart or so. Avi was only a baby when the kibbutz collapsed and we moved to Haifa." He pauses, hitching a shoulder in a shrug as he looks thoughtful. "She is not religious," he says, "but -- spiritual. Interested in community. History. The daughter of a survivor, you know."
"An important distinction," Brent notes with the whisper of a smile. "Religious and spiritual."
Avi frowns deeply. Religious versus spiritual huh? Footsie is /vastly/ more interesting. He nudges Ariadne's foot back, and then reaches to maybe hold the hand she's not using for her spoon if she'll let him. Below the table, of course, as if either his brother or Brent couldn't tell he was doing it by the orientation of his body.
Ariadne glances at Avi briefly as she lowers her spoon after a last bite. She gives his hand a squeeze beneath the table, then withdrawls to tuck it away in her lap. "What about you?" she asks. The glance of her gaze implicates both brothers in the question.
"More spiritual than religious," Ilad says with a certain dry humor in his voice. "We are Jews, but doctrine -- Well. I like bacon." He starts pulling plates down from the cupboard in which they live. He is certainly oblivious to any feet play that may be going on, since he is in the kitchen. "Ariadne ... white meat, or dark?"
Brent is not oblivious to handholding, at least, but he is kind enough not to look or mention it. "I hear it's very good," he says on the subject of bacon. (Can you imagine never having eaten bacon? God, Brent.)
"I try not to think about it," Avi says, addressing the answer to Ariadne directly, rather than the conversation in general. It seems to be for her he's being honest, as he seems uncomfortable about the whole thing. Brent's comment makes him laugh. "Haven't you even tried it once?"
"Why?" Ariadne wonders with a sideways glance at her date and little noticable interest in bacon, although she does offer up, "White, please!" in response to Ilad.
The chicken's skin crackles crisply under the knife as Ilad sets to work carving. Ariadne gets the first plate, apparently, because she is the lady present. Even though her soup bowl has not yet been absconded with, Ilad shortly thereafter brings her over a plate with neat reast slices and a large slice of potato kugel. "We did not even really keep kosher in Israel," he says, the ghosts of home as ever a quiet wist through its syllables. "But for Pesach, we will be good. Except that I used plenty of butter roasting this bird, so not /that/ good."
"Never," Brent replies to Avi, some of his own interest perking at Ariadne's question, though he isn't mean enough to add anything further to what she has already asked. "I've never eaten any meat." He finishes up the last of his matzo balls and sets his spoon down.
Avi looks around for a distraction. Does he have to answer? Finally he waits until it seems like his brother is farthest away in the kitchen and maaaaaybe can't hear before speaking to Ariadne. "I'm not really--sure about anything. What job to take is one thing to be not sure about, but that's kind of...huge, to not be sure about." He gives her a lopsided smile. "And what about you?"
Ariadne is not so unobservant, or so cruel, that she does not catch Avi's worried glances and watchful eye on his brother, or that she would push the question when she does. There is, however, a deeply curious light in her eyes as she fixes a thoughtful look on his smile. After a moment's pause, she bends her head to work off a slice of chicken. "My dad's Greek Orthodox," she supplies without hesitation. "My mom's... not." She takes a bite, then gives Brent a smile. "I like her church better."
Brent gets the next plate. It is a somewhat ridiculously large slice of oven omelette -- swiss cheese and spinach and mushrooms and eggs -- and also a slice of kugel. Possibly Ilad thinks that if there is no meat in your food, you need /twice as much of it/. That would also explain the matzo balls. Ilad emerges again from the kitchen to set it in front of him. The only words he has for his brother are mild question: "Avi, white or dark?"
Brent returns Ariadne's smile. "Plenty of naked dancing in the moonlight," he agrees, the joke coming automatic to his lips. His expression gets a little tight once the words are out, and he seems relieved to have the focus of new food. He offers a quick word of thanks to Ilad and picks up his fork to start making his way through this /excess of food/.
"Dark, thanks." Avi's shoulders settle from some of their tension when Ilad doesn't offer any comment on his religious or spiritual status. Brent's joke gets his attention. "What?" he asks, on a laugh, and looks at Ariadne, like now he's hopefully imagining her doing just that.
Ariadne rolls her eyes and shoots Brent a Look. It's a look that says she can imagine Avi's imagination just at present, and oh, how grateful she is to Brent for having stirred that up. "Our church is fairly accepting," she offers by simple way of explanation.
"No nude seders, Avi." Ilad carves thigh and leg off the chicken and plants them on Avi's plate. He gives him a thin sliver of omelette, too. And a large slice of kugel. He then sets up his own plate, pretty much exactly matched to Avi's, and brings both of them out to reclaim his place at the 'head' of the table even as he sets food in front of his brother.
"Very," Brent agrees, gamely pushing past his momentary hiccup of conversational warmth. He starts with the kugel, it being the less recognizable thing on his plate.
"Awww!" Avi protests. "Thanks," he murmurs to the plate, and then digs into that, too. "I'm sure they'd be really popular."
"Okay," says Ariadne, steadfastly providing conversation where conversation has failed. "So tell me about the food. What was the soup we had?"
"That was matzo ball soup. It is our mother's recipe. I am at best an indifferent cook, but I can manage a few things decently." Chuckle low in his throat as he knifes meat off his chicken thigh, Ilad adds, "I do exactly the same thing, except with noodles, whenever somebody is sick. No noodles til the holiday is over, though. Nobody get sick."
"But what if someone /does/?" Brent asks, very seriously. This might be a major problem, Ilad.
Avi goes back to his food, letting the conversation continue without him. He does another adjustment of his chair, ending so if his knees are at a normal width apart, one bumps into Ariadne's, and settles there, happy to eat and be near her.
"It's good!" Ariadne assures. She glances toward Avi, her smile warm, and then settles into food.
"No noodles," Ilad says seriously. "And that is kugel. It's like a pudding, except made with potatoes. That is Father's recipe, except with a little less garlic, because I am reasonably certain that Father would shower in it if given the opportunity. Uhm, and I think you probably know what a chicken is." He clears his throat, and sets to devouring his own dinner. The meal proceeds with amiable cheer -- generally speaking -- and Ilad in evidently a fairly expansive mood, in so far as he continues to tell stories, about Pesachs past, even ones that Avi can't remember because he was too small. Anyway, embarrassing family stories aside, eventually the dishes are cleared away, and the show must go on.
Ilad skips blithely through the birkat after the meal, singing a foreshortened version at great speed. The service goes through two more glasses of wine, and welcomes an invisible prophet in through the apartment door (which Ilad makes Avi do). It ends on a note that, for the Tal-Shachars, seems bittersweet: the final refrain, Next year in Jerusalem.
Brent settles back into the rhythm of observing as he watches the final minutes of the service with an interest that is keen as much in the distraction of focus as it is sincere curiosity. By the time it ends, his smile is softly appreciative of what he has been invited to be apart of. He glances at Ariadne and Avi, and it is perhaps some desire to give them an excuse to have eyes looking elsewhere that inspires him to ask Ilad, "Can I help you with the dishes?"
Avi performs the task with a bit more expansiveness himself, after the food and the wine. For time with Ariadne (and without family stories), he is grateful, a flicker of a smile offered to Brent, and then widening for the girl herself. "Want to go get some fresh air or something?" he offers, getting up.
"Yeah," Ariadne answers readily, her smile lifted to match Avi's as she holds out both hands to him, requesting help up from her seat. She leaves one twined with his as they go to explore the porch, her head tilted close to ask questions and make varying remarks on the service just passed.
"The dishwasher will be doing most of the work, I assure you," Ilad says with the desert a dry note in his voice. Still, he heads into the kitchen to begin wrapping up leavings to tuck into the refrigerator so that he can live on them for the rest of the week. When the front door closes behind his brother and his brother's guests, he breathes out a low laugh with a slow shake of his head.
"They are handy like that." Brent glances at Ariadne and Avi as they make their way out to the porch, then follows Ilad to the kitchen. Perhaps he can put things /into/ the dishwasher? "I think your brother likes my friend," he says somberly, two more glasses of wine having helped to ease the shadow of pain a little deeper.
"Mm," Ilad hums agreement, "it is possible." He puts the last of the kugel in the refrigerator, and then wraps the whole omelette pan in plastic to follow suit with it, glancing back at Brent with coffee-dark eyes aglint with humor. Less dishes to wash right now!
Brent busies himself with rinsing plates and setting them in the dishwasher. In between bends, his eyes on the plate in the sink, he tells Ilad in a quietly sincere voice, "Thank you. For inviting me."
"Thank you," Ilad returns mildly, and not without a continuation of that same note of humor, "for coming." Chicken goes into ziplock bag. Ziplock bag goes into fridge. The distance between them is narrow as he closes the refrigerator door; he picks up the disposable roasting pan and crunches it up in his hands, leaning beside Brent to open the cupboard beneath the sink and throw it away in the trash. "It is a little strange, asking goyim into the house for a religious ceremony. I hope neither of you felt bothered."
Brent shifts his legs to make sure he's out of the way when Ilad reaches for the cupboard under the sink. There is a certain coiled stillness to his body for a brief moment, movement stifled in muscles, but then he looks back down to his dish in the sink. "No. I mean, I didn't, and it looked like Ari didn't, either. I kind've love seeing how other people worship. And with Judaism, it's so -- well. Ancient." The word is something of a quiet compliment.
"Avi and I do not--" Ilad flashes a brief grin as he straightens, shaking his head. "/Do/, very much. But." His eyebrows arch, and he glances past Brent at the dishwasher and the abrupt lack of work there is for him to do in the cleanup process. "I am glad that you enjoyed it, then. Thank you for your help."
Brent just looks over with the quick ghost of a smile and nods. "Of course." At some point his jacket was surely removed; his sleeves are rolled up so as to not get in the way of dish rinsing. He sets another into the dishwasher.
Ilad claps Brent on the shoulder, and then turns on his heel and goes to gather the empty wine glasses, so that he can quickly set these into the dishwasher as well. Then he removes his own jacket and slings it over his shoulder, ambling back out of the kitchen again as the last of the immediate dishy tasks are concluded.
Brent tracks down some sort of hand or dishtowel to wipe his hands with before following Ilad's path out of the kitchen. He loosens his tie a little farther, glancing at the front door briefly, then looks back to Ilad. "Don't suppose there's any more wine left?" he asks, one hand sliding into a pocket.
"On Passover," Ilad lectures with a warm humor in his accented voice as he unslings his jacket from his shoulder to throw it over the back of his chair instead, "one drinks enough to loosen the tongue and bring joy in worship and song, and no more. But," he picks up the second bottle from the table and measures its remains with his eye, "we have enough left for another glass."
Though Ilad's tease is clear, the words seem to actually shame Brent somewhat. He drags a hand along his close-shaved jaw, tempted, but then waves the offer away. "Maybe it's better not to."
Ilad sets the bottle back down and pauses with his palm pressed against its glass mouth, glance in Brent's direction carrying a quiet question with the lift of his eyebrows. "Maybe so."
There is something of stubbornness in Brent's refusal to acknowledge that quiet question. If he does not see it, it does not exist. "The abstract came in second on Sunday," he tells him instead, "and sold on Monday."
Ilad's response to this comes at a slight delay, but with an inclination of his head, gravely acknowledging. "Then my congratulations, my friend." For the hesitation of a beat, he stands there, still; and then he steps away from the table, scrubbing his hands loosely together before him and then absently flicking open the highest button beneath his collar as he moves out into the living room proper.
"I'm just going to grab myself a glass of water," Brent tells Ilad, eyes dipping for the briefest -- /briefest/ -- of moments to the newly-opened button before he turns back to the kitchen. He moves slowly, using the time to regather, and ends up scrubbing a hand fiercely over his face and back through his hair before he actually manages to pour a glass of water. It's only after then that he wanders back out to the living room, looking somewhat more collected, his smile a little easier. "Thanks," he says, self-aware of its belatedness.
In the interim, Ilad has gone through the bizarrely methodical process of opening the button of one cuff, rolling back his sleeve, and then doing the same thing on his other sleeve. "You are welcome," he says, head tipped a fraction of an inch. His dark eyes mark details of Brent's body language, as he re-emerges from the kitchen, and then slip away to study an indiscriminate point upon the wall.
Though Brent has some measure of self-control, it is of a breed entirely different than Ilad's: it is a self-control born of a willful attempt towards the opposite. Where he does not feel happy, he forces it. Where he does not feel sociable, he insists upon it. It is not deception so much as a desperate attempt to be different than he is. "Sometimes, you and Avi -- It makes me sad I never had any siblings," he says with a faint smile, sipping at his water without sitting.
"I remember being an only child," Ilad says somberly. "But -- I do not remember what it felt like. It seems to me that being a brother is -- essential, to me. Strange, perhaps." He glances back at Brent, with a long, thoughtful look, and presses his lips together, not quite a frown but some relation to it.
"Sometimes I feel like I collect little sisters without noticing," Brent says, a touch wry. "But I don't think it's quite the same." He cannot see you frowning, Ilad. Honest he can't.
"Perhaps not," Ilad says quietly. His study of his friend grows more intent for a moment. Then he glances up and away, mouth twitching up at one corner as his breath puffs past his nose.
Brent's gaze shifts to Ilad, and for a moment it looks like he might say something. Then he moves to the sofa and seats himself in a sort of controlled sprawl that almost immediately straightens to something less loose. He leans forward, settling his elbows on his knees and holding his glass between them. "Sounds like our moms would get along."
"Could be," Ilad says, noncommittal on this subject as well. He watches Brent with a narrowed gaze, from where he stands a little ways away; his back straight, he folds his hands loosely together behind him and takes a few steps across the living room to stand at an angle, before the couch. His silence carries a weight of patience with it, for all that eventually he adds, "Could be horrifying."
Brent lifts his gaze slowly to Ilad when he comes to stand near the couch. There is something of dry humor that is not really humorous at all to the set of his mouth. "Are you just going to do this until I talk?" he asks blandly.
The flicker of some dark irony shades in a sharp flash across Ilad's features before he looks away. Shoulders drawing taut with his abrupt frown, he says, "I can stop."
Brent sighs, breath coming heavy, and sets the glass down on whatever surface is closest. Then he bends his head to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I saw Jean-Paul today." He rubs. "It didn't go well." After a moment, he adds, "I'm sorry I haven't been better company."
"I see," Ilad exhales on a long, low breath. He folds himself down to sit neatly upon his sofa, hands resting against his knees with posture still set upright and straight against the sofa's back. "I am sorry to hear that."
"Whatever." Stubbornness firms in Brent's expression as he straightens up from his lean just to settle against the back cushion of the sofa. "It's over. For real. Moving on."
Dark eyebrows lifting high over coffee-dark eyes, Ilad slants a look at Brent across the sofa.
"It just -- It's like there was some chance before." Brent lets out a sharp breath that reeks of bitterness. "Not anymore. He got /mad/ at me for that."
For no immediately discernable reason, Ilad smiles -- just a ghost, just a shadow of a ghost of the expression, as his gaze falls away again. "Dashed hope is very sour," he says softly. "I can see why you wanted more wine."
"I already need to sit for a while before I can drive home," Brent says. "Another glass and I'd be here a while longer." He turns his head towards Ilad, cheek pressing against the sofa. "Or obnoxiously falling asleep on your sofa."
"It is a comfortable sofa," Ilad assures Brent.
"I can tell," Brent assures in turn with the hint of weary-playful solemnity.
Ilad sits in silence for a moment, hands resting in his lap, his look upon Brent long and measuring. In this quiet, he hesitates.
Brent watches him in return, wondering, wanting, unsure. There is the smallest hint of a question in his gaze that it almost a request, but it remains unvoiced, and he remains settled against the sofa.
Almost imperceptibly, Ilad shakes his head, and glances away again, curling fingers in a loose fist and dragging his knuckles along the line of his jaw, across the dip of his chin. Tracing dark scruff, he murmurs a low, "Hm," sound.
Brent swallows. Looks away. His gaze settles instead of some insignificant piece of wall. "I should probably go," he says quietly.
"I have something for you," Ilad says to this, not quite looking towards him.
He lifts his head and his eyes slide back over to Ilad, brow cinched. "What?" And, perhaps because this is rude, Brent says, "Okay."
For a moment, Ilad just sits there. Then he rises, movements quick and a little sharp. His gaze flickers down, frown set into his brow, and walks away, strides long and swift as he disappears from the living room, down the hallway into his room.
Brent arrests in one move off the sofa, hesitates, and stands completely on the next. He moves slowly down the hallway, not attempting to enter Ilad's room, but watching from the hall.
The door behind him is partway open, at least, not all the way shut. At this angle it's hard to see precisely what Ilad is doing, crouched in half a kneel on the floor beside his bed. He doesn't appear to be ... you know, moving.
Well. Brent waits, then. A little uncertain.
It is awhile before Ilad moves again. But eventually, he stands. Padding lightly over the floor, he opens the door to the room and glances up at Brent. Without saying anything or actually meeting his gaze, Ilad slides a small, black-covered spiral-ring notebook into his hands, and slips past him down the hall in silence.
His fingers close around the notebook automatically, but he's left standing there for a few moments, absorbing the weight of what has been given to him. It's another minute longer before he moves to follow Ilad back down the hall. He stands where the hallway meets the living room. He searches for Ilad's gaze. "Are you -- Are you sure?" Strangely, the question is tinged with something that might be guilt. He holds the book in a careful, respectful grip.
"It is just a story," Ilad says, his voice a little rough around the edges. There is tension in the set of his shoulders, in the renewed, sharp straightness of his spine. He is /avoiding/ meeting Brent's gaze. "You placed your own heart on a public wall and received an award for it, did you not? These are a few scribbles. Perhaps there are some truths inside."
"I did, but I'm -- me." The barest ghost of a smile touches Brent's lips. Despite his words, he hugs the notebook firmer to him. A few potential responses sidle across his lips. The one he eventually picks is, "Thank you. I understand -- I mean, a little--" And then, perhaps too conscious of Ilad's discomfort, he waves away the rest of the thought with a short gesture of his other hand.
"It is just a story," Ilad says again, enough like Brent, at least, to try telling lies over and over again until they become true. Defense like the barricade of his arms as he folds them over his chest, Ilad ducks his head. "I was going to give it to you -- later. Perhaps in a few weeks, on my birthday, because that is when new beginnings are best. But ... later seems to always come later every time I think of it."
"Right." Brent drops it. Clearly, as if to make sure Ilad is aware that he is Dropping It. "Later has a funny way of doing that," he agrees, smile slight. "I didn't know your birthday was coming up."
"The tenth," Ilad says vaguely. "Or ... 17 Nisan, I suppose. Which is technically tomorrow, this year," it occurs to him to add, after a quick internal mental conversion. "Or tonight, since it is after sunset. Happy birthday to me."
Brent lets out a quiet breath of unvoiced laughter. "Happy birthday to you," he agrees. "Are you -- I hope you have excessively good plans for the tenth." He looks at Ilad with raised brows that suggest he will /make these plans happen/ if they have not already been planned.
"I think I am teaching class," Ilad muses.
"That is not an acceptable way to spend your birthday," Brent insists. "Or -- at least not the /entirety/ of your birthday."
Ilad turns out a hand, palm up. His mouth twitches up at one corner.
"You should at /least/ be going out for a drink," Brent says. "Seriously. Am I going to have to drag you out to make sure you get at least one free drink?"
"Last year we had a few drinks," Ilad admits, smile tugging at his mouth with the slight shake of his head. "I imagine that /something/ will happen."
"Okay." Brent looks mildly suspicious. "As long as /somebody's/ making sure you have a real birthday."
Ilad points out, "I will be getting older either way."
"That's not the /point/," Brent says, frowning. "Birthdays are supposed to be at least a little bit special."
Ilad lifts both hands now, yielding the point.
"So long as someone puts a drink and/or cake in you," Brent concludes. "You call me if people aren't doing their jobs. Or if -- you know." He waves a hand, refusing to invite himself along to any birthday celebrations in actual words.
After a fractional hesitation, Ilad replies, "Of course." His head cants, and then he turns away, padding meandering steps over to the table to collect the seder plate and its associated religious detritus.
Brent's smile is a simple thing that rests a little easier than before. "I guess I should actually go now," he says, moving a few steps towards the coat rack. "Thanks again. For inviting me." Not for sharing the notebook: he has Dropped It.
But only verbally, right?
Only verbally.
"Careful out there," Ilad murmurs in tones of low humor as he carries his plate into the kitchen and plucks the lamb shank bone from it to ... put away somehow. I honestly have no idea what happens to the shank bone. "You might walk in on something."
"I'll avert my gaze and move quickly," Brent promises, humor warming as he grabs his coat and pulls it on. "Also, I might have to rough up your brother if he has his hands in inappropriate places." You see that? That is Brent's tough face. Grr.
"Of course you will," Ilad condescends blandly from his kitchen.
"I'm very tough," Brent claims. "Or tall. One of those two." He settles the collar of his coat and tucks the notebook underneath, because it is ttly raining outside.
It's a good thing there's an overhang over that porch because otherwise Ariadne and Avi would be wet. "One of those two," Ilad agrees, throwing away a perfectly good sprig of parsley that sat on his seder plate all night. "Good night, my friend."
"Night, Israel." Because two-word nicknames are inevitably shortened. Brent lets himself out. To go home and read Ilad's super secret story.
THE END.
Ilad isn't either, Avi. It's OK.