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It's erev Shabbat, and services have wound down. Kol Tzedek doesn't have a particularly large congregation, but they're a dedicated bunch. Rabbi Cohen stepped in tonight to lead services with himself, his guitar, and a whole lot of Dan Nichols covers. Kaddish was prayed, and now the refreshments are being served at the oneg. Aaron himself brought a tray of his brisket and is presently idling and chatting with more or less everyone that's come to visit with him. He's wearing a talis over his suit jacket, and his rainbow kippah has pride of place atop his keppie. He's still wearing his guitar, not having had the chance to put it away as yet.
And lo, for there is a newcomer. A sleek androgyne dressed up in a flowy button-down printed with a mottled hot-pink-purple-blue galaxy pattern, clean skinny jeans, and sneakers, Ziv snuck in just at start of services and picked a spot near the back after dropping off a plate full of chocolate macarons for oneg. The concentric circles on their kippah stripe outward: pink, white, fuchsia, black, blue, and their tallis is plain blue and white, carefully packed away in a neatly-embroidered blue bag and set on top of their Tanakh. They spent the entire service singing along, finding their place, and doing that thing that really good singers do where they try hard not to stand out too much or overpower others.
Aaron concludes his present chat and excuses himself from his ersatz receiving line to head over to his soft case and slip his guitar off and into it. He sets it down atop the table that he used for service in lieu of a proper bima and locks up the ark with the Torah. Security isn't the greatest in this place, and it might stop a vandal. Maybe. Then he's heading on over to the food line to fetch himself a bite or two for his own self. Mostly, he's after drink. He put his pipes to work tonight. Between the singing and the sermon, any way. Ziv is offered that neutral-pleasant deferential smile rabbis practice for aiming at new faces. Don't want to scare them back into the cold, after all. "New to town?" The question supposes someone with their own tallis and bag probably isn't one returning to faith or new to it, either.
They spend perhaps a little bit longer fussing with their tallis than is exactly necessary for them to put it away; possibly reorienting themself, or making it so that they can get the lay of the social land. Or maybe just stalling so that they can talk to the Rabbi without a huge pile of people coming up to talk to him. That, too, is possible. They set their bag on top of their Tanakh, finally, and gather themself a little plate -- a bit of brisket, some potatoes, a bit of brussels sprouts -- and are forking up a mouthful of brisket when Aaron approaches. That bite gets deferred so they can offer a small glance aside, through the shag of their dark hair, and smile lopsidedly at Aaron. "Coming home," they agree. "It's been a few years. I was in Portland -- Oregon -- but -- I missed ... " A small wave of their fork, in a little circle. "Shir Tikvah in Portland is delightful, but it's still, uh. Portland."
"As a lifelong southie, I can only agree with you. My dying breath will be used to order a water ice." He clutches his chest and feigns drooping, "...The... raspberry... gelatto..." He lolls his tongue from the side of his mouth and tilts his head to the side. He straightens back up, having employed rabbi dad humor, and smiles back to Ziv. "Well. Welcome back to Philly. We're happy to have you back. I'm Aaron." He offers one massive, and now calloused and scarred hand. Arrow training is doing a number to his body, to be sure. Ziv may or may not be privy to the ado involving a rabbi named Aaron and the face of a riot cop. But he's definitely that Aaron, if so.
A bite of brisket, which briefly distracts them. "Oh, this is good." They let out a heartfelt sigh at the mention of raspberry gelato, before laughter bubbles up and the briefest flush of pink slides across their cheeks and disappears. "Oh, man. I haven't had a gelato in years. That's on my list of 'things I have to do very very soon,' along with grabbing a proper 'steak and a real piece of pizza." Because you're not a Philly Jew if your agendas aren't largely food-related, I guess. Ziv shifts their plate into their left hand, sets the plastic fork on it, and offers their hand in return. It's soft and cool, save for calluses at the fingertips. "Ziv. They/them, by preference, but I answer to any." Their gaze flickers over him again. "It's nice to see you not on a livestream, Aaron." That last sentence comes with another lopsided smile, and the sort of tone usually reserved for questions like 'did it hurt when you fell from heaven'. Cop-punching is hot, apparently.
"The only reason why I'm not still out there is because my Lawyer assured me that would be a bad idea. Strange that to behave like a model citizen you have to be complicit in injustice." Aaron keeps it really really real. Hot it may be, but so are consequences. "I'm not sure if I set the movement back or advanced it forward. Much hinges on the verdict, I suppose." And that's fully out of his hands, whatever the case. "He/him by preference. It's nice to meet you, Ziv. You play?" There's not many other reasons to have callouses on the fingertips, after all.
They roll their shoulders loosely. "That it may be, but there's nothing wrong with changing your tactics for a while. You're still here, which is to say, at Kol Tzedek, and people are still talking about what you and the others did, which -- I mean." The androgyne's eyebrows rise and drop, the lesser version of a shoulder shrug. "We live our values the best we can in the moment, and we live with the consequences, and that's the best we can ever do." A breath, and they move on, commenting in between bites, because really, it is very good brisket, "It's great to meet you, Aaron. I do, but -- not presently, unfortunately. My guitar was stolen in Portland, which was sort of the -- straw that broke the camel's back for wanting to come home. I'll scratch up enough for another one soon enough."
"You're welcome to have my old camp guitar. I bought the Martin when I started doubling as a Cantor for summer services and here at Kol Tzedek. My old Gibson has a few dings in it, but still tunes and plays well. Just doesn't have the rich tone you need for a big room like this one." Aaron grins as Ziv seems to enjoy the brisket. "You know. The chef who bakes that brisket? He's been known to host shabbat evening dinners at his place. If you ask, he might make it for you, even." Aaron's eyebrows lift in a 'it's true, you can ask anyone' manner, then takes a bite of the potatoes.
Now that makes Ziv's eyes light up -- if only Aaron could see actually how much. In their mien, when they make eye contact, their white irises actually show up, their black eyes lighting up with brilliant white. Alas, all he can see, at least right now, are the hazel eyes of their Mask glittering with delight and hope. "I would be absolutely thrilled to have any guitar again," Ziv agrees. "I had an Art & Lutherie, which I really loved, but... " A vague shrug. "I need to get back to busking, because I'm sort of -- broke -- after moving." Another bite of the brisket, and then they offer him a sly grin aside. "I could only be so lucky to get dinner with, and made by, the chef who made this brisket. I should definitely ask." Another bite of brisket, accompanied by potatoes, and they add, "And, of course, I'd have to bring dessert, which is my actual specialty."
Aaron's expression doesn't change at the mention of busking for money. He does eventually lift his eyebrows when he remembers that comment was supposed to have been a necessary explanation. The perceptive will thereby discern he knew he was offering a way to earn money that doesn't read like charity on his part. "Well, then you definitely need that guitar. It's back at my apartment, unfortunately, or I'd let you walk out of here with it. I could fetch it back for you, I suppose. Or bring it around tomorrow." He takes another sip of his drink and quirks a small smile at the trailing comments. "How's next week sound?"
And they accept the offer as graciously as one possibly can, which, for the perceptive, allows in response that they knew that's what he was offering, and accepted it in kind. Ziv's read their Maimonides, thankyouverymuch. "I do," they admit, with a wry little smile. " -- I mean, I wouldn't want to put you out. I'd be glad to go with you, or meet you tomorrow." A half-moment later, they seem to realize what they've said, and the blush that slips across their face is brief and brilliant, and they hide the lower half of their face by reaching for the water they'd set aside on a nearby table, and taking a sip of it. "Next week sounds amazing," they agree, recovering admirably.
Ziv will realize precisely how clueless Aaron is about flirting in this moment. Because it just doesn't register. Not precisely. There's clearly some confusion behind his eyes. The 'am I being flirted with over my brisket?' look is there clear as day. He just comes to the precise wrong conclusion. Which is that no, that would be impossible. Aaron is his own worst enemy. But of course, now he's blushing and stammering for a moment, himself. "I. Could. Get you the guitar tonight. Sure!" He breaks into an awkward laugh at that point and shrugs his shoulders. "Great!" It's a date! OhgodwhathaveIdone.
The Siren tilts their head to the side, blinking slowly and watching the face journey that Aaron is on; he'll probably read this wrong, too, but Ziv is entirely charmed by the whole thing, from start to finish, and their smile grows. Ohmygodhe'ssoobliviousandcutehelpmebeforeIcollapseonthefloor. They finish their plate of food and set the empty down on the table for the moment, leaning to pick up a napkin and clean the corners of their mouth, which covers their own second round of blushing and looking away awkwardly before casting another glance back at him from under the shag of their dark hair. "That would be really great," they answer, gnawing on their lower lip. "If it's not ... too much trouble, I'd like that a lot." They mean the guitar, right? They definitely mean the guitar. That's got to be -- "Awesome."
"Great!" He said that already. "Awesome!" THEY said that already. "Super duper, pooper scooper!" Abort, Aaron. Abort. "I just need to pack up my things and make sure everyone gets out before I lock up. So." He gestures over his shoulder, "I'll go take care of those things. And if you're still here when we close up, then..." Aaron nods his head. Ziv gets it. He turns and bustles off about his work. Restacking chairs, collecting siddurim. All the petty cleany-uppy duties you have to perform in a shared facility. By and by the crowds start breaking up or at least moving outside so the place can be shut properly. Aaron is the last to pass out and turn the key behind him before trying the push bar a few times to make sure. He then turns about, guitar on his back, not sure if he hopes Ziv is there or hopes that they are not.
They blink once, twice, and then nod their head. "... cool," Ziv answers, briefly but genuinely confused by that third reply. Their expression smooths out after that brief confusion, and they tip their kippah'd head toward him. "Absolutely," they agree with him, and nod once, twice. They go to take care of their own plate, and then assist with all of the stacking and picking up and all the rest. The empty disposable plate that once held their macarons gets tossed in the trash, and they carefully tuck their tallis bag and Tanakh into the backpack underneath their chair, which they sling over their shoulder, and head outside to wait. Or maybe not wait. Or maybe wait. Because for once? The Spring isn't actually sure whether or not Aaron actually wants them to wait. What a fucking time to fail an Empathy roll.
And so they're standing outside, fiddling with their phone and debating whether they ought to take off or not, when he comes out and locks up.
Aaron takes a big breath in and holds it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly. Time to be a grown up. He puts on a smile and advances forward in a way he never ever would have done even two months ago. Not even after Lux. Not ever. The first thing he says once he closes rank on Ziv is, "I'm in a relationship with someone." The next thing he says is, "We're poly. If that's a deal breaker, I understand. I do. And it's okay." This is followed quickly by, "They were the first person I'd been with since my brother died. I'm new at this. I'll make mistakes." And then he states more pertinently, "And if we get involved I can't be the one you call rabbi." Then he ends it with, "And if I misread the situation, then..." He makes a frustrated sound that amounts to 'fuck' in Yiddish, "!באַרען"
The Spring's Mantle actually flares at that, and their middle-of-the-road Wyrd might have a little of that leaking out: the scent of rain, rather specifically the scent of cool Spring rain falling into a river running through a city. Water on water on water, which is nowhere near Kol Tzedek. It's a strange scent to briefly catch. Ziv's head tips to the side, and they fold both of their hands around the straps of their backpack, looking up at him. The first sentence makes them blink, and they rock back onto their heels a bit, before the second sentence makes their head tilt to the side, and their eyes widen slightly; their smile returns, if subtly so, and they dip their head forward again. There's that looking up at him through the shag of their dark hair. "I am also in a relationship with someone. A new one, but a relationship with someone. We are also poly, and explicitly, well-discussedly so." They nod once, twice. "Regardless of our traumas or our lack of recent experiences, people make mistakes in relationships, so that's okay, too." Ziv's hands release from the straps of their backpack and get offered, palms up, toward Aaron. "You did not misread the situation. I was very definitely flirting with you, which puts you under absolutely no obligation to me whatsoever." A pause. "I mean, I'd like to keep coming here if I can; my faith keeps me anchored. But if I have to pick between that and amazing brisket with a super hot MOT, there are other synagogues, Aaron."
Hillel and Shemai poof into place on his shoulders. They are bickering, loudly, over whether it is better to not lead another into bad counsel than it is not deny them their community. The cool quantification of mitzvot is something he's very good at on the fly, even discounting how his brain visualizes such things with respect to his shoulders. "No. Don't. Don't leave. That would be awful for you. This is your home. Just. Maybe ask another rabbi for spiritual guidance. That's all." And the mezuzah tilted thus ever since. Aaron's expression works its way into a smile as he ticks his head towards 50th. "I hope you like trains." He begins walking in that direction, guitar slung over his shoulder, his messenger bag over the other.
Their extended hands stay palm up during his momentary wrestling with -- if not angels, sages -- and then return to the straps of their backpack when he says 'No.' It might be a security gesture, holding on to something they know is theirs when he initially says something that might be backing out of the whole affair. But then he goes on, and their expression relaxes, their smile returns easily. "That... that I can do." A pause, and they repeat, "Aaron." As if affirming that he's Aaron and not Rabbi. At least, not when he's not actively leading services at Kol Tzedek. They reflect his smile back to him and amplify it, as water is wont to do, and then fall into pace alongside him, their short legs keeping pace with his longer ones by way of taking more, smaller steps. "I don't dislike them," they laugh. "Public transit is a way of life. My cleaving to queer stereotypes definitely includes 'does not, and possibly cannot, drive.'"
"I own a Smart. But I try not to use it. And anyway, I had to leave it at my parents' house. In their garage. For some strange reason, PPD really started disliking my parking jobs in the city." There's a slight edge to his voice at the implication, but the way he straightens up his back rather implies he hopes a pig heard him. "Anyway." He sets a polite pace that won't have Ziv having to jog. It's not difficult in his dotage. Unsurprisingly their timing is good. Aaron must have the SEPTA schedule tattooed on him or something. Because the trolley is along almost immediately. "We'll get off at capitol station. So enjoy the scenery, it'll be a bit." And it is a lovely enough ride. Up Baltimore Avenue then across to Market and along towards Broad. Nice night for it, though.
They grimace at the way that Aaron lays out the strange, nay, inexplicable difficulties that he has with his Smart, and reflexively glances over their shoulder. They may find it really hot that he punched a cop, but they're still a rather small, legally non-existent twink wearing a genderfluid kippah after dark in Philly. Cops might appear out of nowhere and beat the shit out of them. You never know. They smile lopsidedly at him, not even actually questioning their good fortune. Fate works that way for Changelings sometimes too. Ziv hops up onto the trolley after him, pays, and slings their backpack off, settling in next to him. "It's been a while since I was on a trolley in the city, so." So it's a pleasant ride, and a good night for it. "Besides, I've got great company." They flash him a smile, and, after a moment's pause, offers, "I was trying to think up a decent conversational topic from this week's parsha, but I'll be honest, Pinchas is one of the harder ones for me to find an awful lot of meaning in. So I guess we'll have to find something else, and I'll have to give up trying to show off."
"Yeah. Lots of reform sermons on Pinchas devolve into 'why did it matter to the authors' and 'how and why we read Torah, even the weird bits'. It's usually one of those two." His involved a lot of measurement puns. He tried. "And I just now realized that was a joke. Heh." He shakes his head at himself, dangling from the ceiling of the car by the hand strap. "It's habit forming. Reading Torah, I mean. It comforts me. As much for the ritual of it as the contents. The same with services. The familiar is comfortable. That's why I read Pinchas. Because if I didn't, I couldn't talk to you all about it." He shrugs a bit, "I think it was a pretty good arrangement God made there."
There's a moment of silence where they tip their head to the side as if something just occurred to them. "Well, that's true. And it does lend itself to a lot of good puns." They hang on to their backpack, rising from the seat they briefly snagged to grab a strap and hang on, the better to talk without having to yell up at him. "It is. And the habit of Torah, and the Daf, if you're really down, is -- important. Any positive habit is only good if it's a habit. But uh... " A pause, there, from Ziv. "It's funny, I said I couldn't think of anything to say about it, and then I realized that there's actually a lot to talk about, because so much of it deals with investment toward the future. What we build, and what we leave behind, and who we pass it on to. The investment of Phineas as a kohanim, the inheritance of the daughters, the counting of the men, who would have done all the inheriting, and the fact that they did that counting to figure out who'd get what when they got to Israel, and then even Moses investing Joshua."
"Hunh." A pause. "I guess it's really -- at least, in the second I thought about it just now -- kind of all 'what will you leave behind you for others, and do you get to choose who you pass on your legacy to?' Moses did. Tzelafchad didn't." Their forehead wrinkles up, as if they're mildly puzzled to have had all of those words just sort of come wandering out of their mouth.
"Well," he remarks with a wry tick of his head and a twitching of his smile that makes it clear he's not sure if he should be making this joke. He can't quite stop himself, nor can he quite get through it without laughing. But he eventually manages to get out, "At least I know you're not a secret messianic." Inappropriate jokes are not his forte, and it's clear he thinks that was in very poor taste, indeed. And is being very naughty, having made it. "There's a bit about economic justice in there if you tilt it right and squint, too. You take from Torah what you bring to Torah, they often say. Makes me wonder what has you thinking of legacy and generational matters." Light parlor talk for your usual first not even a date. "Intriguing."
If it's a naughty joke, then Ziv is on board with it. They snicker underneath their breath, tipping their head forward again, and give him another one of those glances from under their lashes and the shag of their hair. "Surely I am not. But I'm glad to have passed the test." The smile they flash him is open, sincere, and brief, before it fades into thoughtful consideration of the question he asks. "Well," they answer, wrinkling up their forehead again, "I did just come back to my hometown after a good long while away, and am attempting to find my roots and figure out what kind of life I'm going to be able to build here. What I can contribute to my community, what I'll leave behind. What I left behind in Portland, and the other places I've been. But -- a lot of who I am to the communities I'm in has always had a lot to do with looking after people, and I guess ... 'what you set in place and what you leave behind' has a lot to do with looking after other people. I'm certainly not benefitting from my legacy."
"Or maybe I just watched Hamilton too many times this week." A wink.
"Ah. Yeah. Hamilton," Aaron nods his head agreeably. That would make the most sense, and certainly speaks best to his peculiar brand of rabinnic humor. "That would do it, sure." Aaron puts his hand out towards the wall as the trolley nears the turn north towards Market street. The car shakes and wobbles around the turn, after which point he resumes depending on his legs and the strap. "I spent my whole life in this city, pretty much. Never had a phone number that didn't start with 215, anyway. I love this city, I love its people. I never really thought much about legacy until recently." Until he punched a cop, that is to say. "It's a weird situation I'm in. Pulled in two directions. Into different worlds. Wanting to fight so hard just to stay who I was before it all turned upside down." He glances down to Ziv and admits, "It's hard, honestly, because I don't recognize myself any longer. I never would have done something like this before. I would have been terrified."
They follow his cues about balance -- Ziv's got the noodliest little arms, and decent balance, so falling over requires doing exactly that. "It would. It might not be why, I haven't really analyzed it too deeply, on account of it's a thought that I just had while we were talking, less than five minutes ago, but it might be." They straighten back up -- okay, so they become more upright again -- once the trolley stops that leaaaan that comes with making that turn. "I was here until I was twelve, and then -- life happens -- " (which is a very strange way to say 'I was abducted by forces beyond my control and forced to spend eighty years existing in torture and then abandonment,' but, yeah,) "and I'm only just getting back to the city now, properly. I passed through here, a couple times, but I wasn't ready to stay." Their smile returns, a little wistful, and they turn that hazel-eyed glance up to him, through the shag of their hair and their dark eyelashes. It's a thoughtful, considering thing. "It's like that, when your life changes. A lot of the time, we just want to scramble backwards, and hang on to what we were. But that's like swimming down when we want for air. It's scary to swim for the surface, but that's all you can do. Anything else is asking to drown."
"... well. I can't say I'm sad for that, then. If it made you bold enough, or aware enough, or... whatever." A small gesture with one hand, and they curl up the corner of their mouth, a sly small smile aside. "I get it, though. Better than I can explain."
"I wasn't sure about all of this. About God. And divinity. Faith. I was a good rabbi, though, and possibly because I was so filled with doubt. So wanting for answers. Dedicating my life to Torah wasn't my first inclination when my brother was killed, but I was on my way in that direction. I felt that if I knew he was in a better place, then I could live my life out in peace. And I know now that there is a God. That there is divinity in the world. Faith is rewarded. Prayer is powerful. All of that I... I know." Aaron looks down at Ziv with a small frown, realizing he's sounding a touch... insane. Frankly.
"So now I know God is with me. My right hand. My high tower and my deliverer. And he makes my hand for war. All of that. And because I know it, I feel worthy of being happy. Worthy of the attention I discounted before. If God chose me? A guy that figured he was a gay asexual? To wield his righteousness and speak his truth? Then I deserve happiness. I deserve a lover. There's nothing wrong with me. And I know that now. Not just... platitudes. I felt it. So I did what I wanted to do and asked you over."
Another wash of that rain-on-river, cool-clean scent, sneaking past their Mask. Another Lost would see the profound outward roll of their Mantle, the curling of water lilies and greenery around their feet, as they listen. Awash in what he wants for himself and what he knows of himself, that Aaron's doing what he wants to do, and that involves their company: it's a heady tonic for a Spring, and their Mantle flares their delight as their smile widens just a little. They listen intently, turning up attention to him that centers him: Ziv has a way of looking at people that makes them feel like they're the center of the universe. People generally like being the full center of attention, and feeling like they matter, and the Darkling makes it seem genuine. (Because it is.)
"You don't have to explain. Some things you just know. I know evil things exist in this world, really evil things, and I know there are people who fight that evil. And if that's not God, then I don't know what is, you know? Maybe God exists outside of that, and maybe He doesn't, but it doesn't -- " A pause, and Ziv backs up. "It's not to say that I'm negging your belief in a God outside of you, outside of -- what we do. I'm not. I don't know He doesn't exist, but I don't have your certainty that he does. What I do know is that there are people who stand tall in defiance of what is evil in the world, and I don't, personally, need any evidence of God outside of that. As long as there are ten righteous men, right?" A small, thin smile, there. "As long as I can believe there are ten righteous men in the world, that's all the evidence of God I need." A flicker of their free hand, then, careful and light, toward his wrist -- light as a raindrop, there and gone again. "You do deserve all of those things. And I'm glad to be someone whose attention you think you deserve."
"Because you do. And I do."
"It doesn't come naturally to me. Like I said, I'm new to all of this. I'll make mistakes." Aaron is also much older than Ziv. At least by appearances. Little does he know. But certainly that factors into his hesitance. "For one, I have to have a conversation with my partner. Which is a whole new level of adulting for me. I've never tried the poly thing before. So that's new, too. They have no room to be jealous, or the like. I'm sure it will be fine. I just... figured it would never come up when I said yes to all of this. I was so shocked they were interested in me to begin with, you know? Two people? Outlandish thinking at the time." He laughs at himself quietly, shaking his head a little. "Anyway. Are we calling this a date?"
"You've said that. And I reply to you again that everyone makes mistakes, so expect me to do that, too." Their hand draws back, resting against their side again. "Whether or not they have reason to, they might be, and that's just something you have to work through, the two of you. Talk through, really. Jealousy is a reflex, and it's usually rooted in fear of loss. If they have no reason to be jealous, because they have other partners, and you don't, and poly is new to you, they might experience jealousy or worry because they might worry that you'll slip away from them." A vague gesture of their slim hand. "I'm not trying to catastrophize, and I'm sure it will be fine, just saying, even if there are feelings, they're normal and you just talk through them." Ziv laughs. "I'm shocked that you think it's outlandish. You're hot, you're smart, clearly passionate and committed to what draws you, and you make a great brisket. You're a hell of a catch." A soft curl of laughter, like bubbles surfacing from deep water, and they nod their head. "I think we can. More to the point, I'd like to."
"Yes. What you said before and just now sounds like something you say fairly often to people with a great deal more experience at this than I have. My mistakes will be ones you've never seen before. Monuments to my general inadequacy where this stuff is concerned. " He's joking a little, obviously, but also sharing a genuine anxiety. "I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into." The trolley rolls around another corner, this time turning right instead of left, onto Market Street and heading for city hall. Pedestrians are out in force, heading to the bars and restaurants. The city is alive all around them, as per the usual.
"I have a dog," he decides to share as a warning and a segue both. "Little fella. Wiry little schnauser mix named Chewda Maccabee. He will act as though he has never known the warmth of the human hand before in his life, so I hope you're not allergic."
They shift their weight a little bit, hanging off the loop that they can barely reach, because they are smol Spring, and answer, "Well, also, because I sort of slot into that 'everyone talks to you about their problems' sort of place in the world, and I have, many many times, had that conversation with people who aren't my partners, or likely to be my partners, or ... on a date with me. It's not just about my personal experience, it's ... I tend to be one of those people who are on the receiving end of 'you ought to go talk to someone.' Just not in a degree-having sort of professional capacity. My life kind of got in the way of degrees." Arcadia doesn't have any universities, for all that there's an Arcadia University between Philly and Ambler. Awkward, that. Another one of those soft laughs of theirs, bubbling up from the depths of the water, and they shift their balance, accommodating the change in direction.
"I love dogs," Ziv replies, flashing teeth in a brief, brilliant grin. "I always wanted one as a kid, but, it just didn't work out, and I haven't been settled enough to have one of my own. So he can love on me, and I'll love it." They pause, and add after a moment, "You made mention of being ace. I'm allo, but it's not a big deal. I have enough of a sex drive for two, maybe three people, but I also have a partner who matches me." A wry little twist of their mouth, there. "I bring it up only because that can sometimes be ... an anxiety point? For ace people, in my experience. I'm a zero pressure human." Or humanoid, anyway.
"I don't know what I am anymore, Ziv," Aaron admits with a downward glance their way once more. He holds the gaze to make certain they know he's being truthful. "For years it was Torah and the daf. The congregation's needs. The next appointment. Volunteering at the Attic. Volunteering at Kol Tzedek. Activism. Marches, speeches, bar mitzvahs, shiva. There was a part of me that wouldn't let people in. Was afraid of taking from others. Of getting close." Because they could die, just like his brother did. Aaron glances down for a moment, then back out the window as Market's rents creep higher with their proximity to Broad street.
"I thought I was gay. My partner is non-binary. You're genderfluid." Flag game on point. "So that doesn't apply, does it? I enjoy sex. When I let myself enjoy sex. So I'm not exactly Ace, either. I don't know what I am, and honestly I don't necessarily care to have a name for me right now. I'm becoming someone new and learning what that means, and I've decided you're a part of that tonight." Like Sukkot, his gaze is rather intense at the moment.
They look up at him, and after a half-second, they switch from that through-their-hair gaze that's so common for Ziv to actually looking up at him directly. The Darkling's gaze is an intense one, a thoughtful one, and that 'you are the center of my current universe' way that is apparently inherent to them. "When you've lost a lot, it can be hard to get past surface interactions. Which is not to say that your interactions had no depth or meaning, but to say -- I went the other way for a long, long time. It was easier to take what I could get at the moment -- whether that was fucking, or eating, or dancing, or ... whatever." The perils of being Spring when you first return. "What felt good in the moment could be harmful long-term, but when you've lost, it eases the pain. And it's easy, because no one asks you to get close to them. You can make a carapace out of it, and protect yourself."
"I always joke that the great thing about being genderfluid is that everyone who's attracted to me is gay." That's Ziv's equivalent of the Messianic joke, there. A little naughty, but they smile slyly when they tell it. "My other partner -- Rieko -- is a woman. You're a man. I've dated people of ... well, I can't say every gender, because gender is an infinite spectrum, but... a lot of genders." A glance out the window, there, and then back to Aaron again, and their hand sneaks out to brush its fingers against his. Their gaze links back with his, similarly intense. "You don't have to have words. We're from a people that likes to have words for things but... " A shrug. "It's not necessary. And for the record? I showed up at Kol Tzedek tonight thinking 'I need to find a place.' And then dang, that rabbi cute, though... and with a rainbow kippah? Mmm, I'mma try the flirt, but I expect nothing. And I did expect nothing. So this? It's all already so far beyond my hopes that I count myself luckier by the minute."
"Yeah," Aaron agrees. His head nods a single slow agreement and then he's looking back out the window again, though he curls his thick and calloused fingers around Ziv's hand gently. Hands that had formerly never known violence are now demonstrably impacted by his training regimen. It's impossible to conceal if one knows what to look for. "A woman?" He's not surprised. But he's also surprised. But he's also not surprised. But also? He's kind of surprised. That would probably make Ziv the first person he's dated not exclusively into guys. So far as he knows, anyway.
"I'm glad you have her. I've found it easier to date when I'm not feeling like I'm responsible for the other person's everything. Up until very recently I was ... a busy person. Now I'm just not confident of my ability to keep pace with the modern relationship."(edited)
Soft laughter is Ziv's specialty, it seems. Like the distant sound of waves curling in against a rocky shoreline, it's soothing in its own way. They squeeze their hand around his -- soft, cool, and the grip of it isn't particularly strong, like the rest of them. And the roughness of his hand? It actually causes a brief flush of color in their cheeks. Ziv has a type, apparently, and it's big and capable of defending them. "Mmhm. She's -- she's definitely something. Little taller than you, built like a brick house." Their eyes glitter, and they let out a sigh. "It's more surprising that I'm attracted to a cis person than that I'm dating a woman, for the record." The smile there is wry, and brief, and they shift their weight a little, recentering themself as the trolley rumbles along.
"Whether or not I was seeing someone else, you're not responsible for my happiness. Not that it would lessen your feelings, or that your feelings about that aren't valid, but if it helps, I have a partner who both wants me to be happy doing whatever I'm doing, and to whom I have, much to my surprise, found myself going home on a semi-regular basis." Another small squeeze of their hand.
His eyebrows lift at the description. For he is not a small dude by any stretch of the imagination. "Well, damn," he says with uncharacteristically salty language, "she sounds amazing." That's not faint praise from him, either. His eyebrows are up. "I get that a lot. The 'I can't believe' part. I think it has to do with me being ... comfortably cisgender? In that way you can be when gender was something you explored once. You know? I'm cis because I am cis. Not because I never entertained the question that I wasn't. And I never tolerated gay men with no room for the queens. Back when that was an issue." Because yes, he's that old. "Either that or I'm an egg that everyone's pinging to and I just don't know it yet."
Of course, Rieko is sometimes a little taller than Aaron in the same way that a house is a little taller than Aaron, so perhaps Ziv understates for a purpose. "I know, right? Cowboy is ... pretty amazing." Their smile slides its way across their face like lights shimmering through water, and they shrug their shoulders up high. "So I'm just the luckiest little twink that ever there was on many counts," they laugh. Their shoulders drop, and they cant their head to the side, listening. "Oh, yeah, no, I get it. It's funny, actually -- one of the activists I follow on Twitter came out as a cisgender woman yesterday. And that sounds like a joke, except it's not. She spent like a year using they/them as her pronouns, exploring her gender, identifying as a couple of different things, and at the end of the day, she came to the realization that she's cis, but gender-non-conforming. And honestly, that's great. If you've been there, tried that, and you know it's you... maybe that's why those of us who are trans don't find your cis-ness to be offputting. It can be, for us. Like. I mean, the microaggression game is strong for many cis people. And so we don't... bother." Which, if they thought about it, means they just accidentally outed their partner as trans. But clearly they either didn't think about it, or Rieko punched her way out of the closet and wouldn't know what one looked like if it bit her on the ass.
Aaron is, like many rabbis, excellent at compartmentalizing. The topic is just sort of sidestepped. He knows better than to inquire and assume, both. So he just nods his head in understanding. "It's similar in a way to what I experience as a-- for lack of a better term right now --gay man that doesn't present at all effeminate. There's a lot of presumptions made, especially because of my profession that I am straight. And if I don't push back against that presumption, I allow myself to be erased. And if I do, I'm accused of making my sexuality an issue." And thus the rainbow kippah. He gestures to his own, then on to Ziv's with a chuckle. "Well. I see you, Ziv. As you are, not as others would have you be. I can't promise I'll never mess up if you're having a pronoun swappy kind of day. But I can promise that I'll care about those days when you're having them. It matters to me."
"I can see that. I imagine I probably would have made that assumption, out of self-preservation if nothing else. Ain't nothing worse than hitting on a straight man," Ziv sighs, lolling their head back out of exaggerated dramatic weariness. Oh no, the horror of hitting on straight men. They straighten up, then, and let out a puff of breath. "The kippah definitely helped, not that being hit on by me was your aim." Their smile dances around their lips again: wry is their default state of being, their default state of joking, apparently. The trolley lurches a little, and they sway with it, hanging loosely from the arm loop. "And yeah, it's a needle to thread. I'm glad you do, for more than just selfish reasons."
They tip their face up toward him, and the smile they offer him settles across their face, present and genuine. "Thank you. It's good to be seen, and to see you. As you are, not as others would have you be. I default to they, so you can't go wrong there, with me."
Aaron nods his head once and offers a tight lipped smile, jostling in time with Ziv, just a fraction of a second out of step. That will be city hall they're coming to. And the trolley comes to a stop. "This is us," he remarks, moving to the door to step out into the night and holding his hand up to offer Ziv a hand down to the ground again. Plus it means he's pre-holding their hand for the walk towards the subway station under city hall. He aims them down to the south bound track and, predictably, the train arrives more or less as they're stepping out onto the platform. It disgorges the market street traffic and leaves the south bound train only about a quarter filled for the ride south towards Aaron's place.
"I don't know what I'd do if I lived in a city without public transit like this one."
When the trolley stops, Ziv lets go of the loop and shakes their arm out -- they've been holding their noodly little arm up like that for a while, and it's a bit stiff. They pad after him, sneakers soft on the trolley floor, and accept the hand down, both for the assistance and because it makes it easy for them to knit their fingers into his again, which makes their smile return, nice and easy. Their attention turns outward now that they're not on the trolley anymore -- it's night, in Philly, and they're a little twink wearing a Pride kippah. It's about then that something prickles Aaron's Peripheral Mage sight, because when you are a little twink walking in the dark downtown, it's awful nice to not lose your Defense even if you're taken off your guard. Fae Cunning is just good reflexive self-defense. "Honestly, it's pretty impossible to get around without it, I think. Portland's is pretty good -- TriMet makes it pretty easy to get around the entire city. Mostly buses, but there are a couple of light rail lines that make it easy to cross the river when you need to."
Aaron twitches his eyebrows coincident with the contract activation. Which might seem odd. Aaron doesn't immediately call attention to anything, however. They're still in public, after all. Plus it's just kind of rude, since most people don't even have peripheral mage sight. Needless to say it does make Aaron slightly preoccupied for several moments. The first time he's seemed like his attention is drifting all night. Maybe Aaron's NUMTOT credentials need review! Because he just wasn't into that TriMet story.
He recovers, though, by putting on a smile and nodding his head agreeably. "Especially not with the cops in this town. Can't park my car anywhere!" Bitching about the police in public in a relatable manner is Aaron's kink these days. He seems a tiny bit smug having done so, truthfully. "Did you get into South Philly much? You know not to lip off to the Italians, right? The ones with the gold chains and the track suits, I mean."
There's a tiny glance out of the corners of their eyes when his eyebrow twitches. I saw you seeing me seeing ... But no, they don't have any peripheral mage sight at all, and Kenning is so unreliable that you don't want to fire that shit off in public anyway. It might ping off of some random werewolf just minding their business and eating a soft pretzel and a water ice. You just don't know! They clear their throat slightly.
They laugh brightly, light-on-water (there are a lot of water metaphors here, it's not gonna stop), as if he hadn't told them that story something like twenty minutes ago. "It's true, you can't. So I just don't have one." They flash a smile back to him, and then wrinkle their forehead up. "I do, sometimes. There's a good bookstore down that way -- Shelf Indulgence? I like it. But... uh... yeah, I tend not to lip off to anyone, really." They bring their arm up and flex their damp-spaghetti arm. "Not the best idea."
"Yeah. Just mind your manners, is all." Aaron would be remiss to drag anyone into his neck of the woods without that piece of advice. "I've been there a time or two. Not lately. Their Judaica section isn't the best in town." And also he's not Plain any longer. No more playing with the nice psychics and such.
Broad Street Line moves fast between stations. Before long they're nearing Passayunk and Snyder station which is where Aaron directs the pair to disembark. Once more his hand is offered, and once more he leads the way. This time up and out of the station and down Snyder towards Juniper street. The shabby apartment blocks he calls home. And has for nearly most of his life. It's not an awful place to live. But it's not great, and he could certainly afford to live better if he's casually buying Martin guitars and paid cash for a Smart.
"I've never found a problem I couldn't talk my way out of, one way or another." Including Arcadia. "But! I appreciate the warning." Ziv nods their head thoughtfully. "Usually I go down there for the used sci-fi. I read my way through a couple old pulps a week. It's -- not great literature, but I don't expect it to be. Like eating potato chips." They shrug lazily, and they follow him off of the train, take his hand again. It is a lot more comforting to be holding the hand of someone much bigger than they are. Probably, they would have stowed their kippah by now if they were alone, because it's one thing to be proud, and it's another to be foolish when you're alone.
They pad softly along next to him, looking up at the buildings which have changed, the intersections which are the same but also different. There's a subtle wistfulness on their face which might be easy to miss, but it's there. Not inexplicable, mind, because they did say they moved away as a kid. A glance up and down the street before they cross an alley, because they're still not quite used to the utter prevalence of cars, and might never be.
Eventually they're at his building and he's punching his key code in. He holds the door open for Ziv, then slides his ID card to get into the building proper. It's a bit shabby. Probably build in the 1970s and rarely renovated. It looks its age. But the security is good, and the elevator works. So you take the good with the bad. Aaron leads the way inside then punches his floor, waiting for the door to open. There's an awkward smile down at Ziv before they step out onto his floor. Down a few doors, and he's turning the key in the lock. "Gimme one quick second to wrangle Chewie."
Aaron slips inside, hangs up his bag and guitar, gathers up the dirty clothes hastily and tosses them into his hamper in the bedroom. There's a quick sniff test, a hasty introduction of Febreeze to the air, and then he heads back into the bedroom to get Chewie out of his crate. "Come here, little man. Hello. Yes, yes. I am happy to see you, too. Guess what, though? We have a friend. We're going to take you walkies." Aaron heads to the door and grabs Chewie's leash from the back of it before stepping back out again from the apartment.
"Can we walk him real quick? So we can. You know. Enjoy ourselves without that hanging over us?"
They follow him in to the building, quietly trailing along in his shadow like a line being pulled along after a boat. Quiet and content in his company. That awkward smile is returned more readily by Ziv, and they glance at the elevator button like they might be about to make a shomer Shabbos joke, but that's about all there is. The joke is in not making the joke.
"Sure," they agree. And of course it isn't just about wrangling Chewie, and of course they know that, and so they wait out in the hallway, hands on the straps of their backpack, rocking back and forth on their feet. Letting their nerves out when he can't see. This is fine, this is all fine, this is omg really fine. If they were in a sitcom, this is when they'd pump their fist and say 'yesss' very quietly, because this is the first time since they hit on the hot rabbi that they've had a moment to breathe.
"Oh, no, that's perfect. I'd like that. Lemme drop my backpack?" And their attention shifts to Chewie briefly; they wiggle their fingers at the pup. "Hey, Chewie! Oh wow, you are just the cutest damn thing."
Chewie is a wiggle yipper. He doesn't bark when he's excited, he just vibrates and makes excited sounds in the back of his throat. Warbles and growls and little howly sounds and yips. All at appropriate apartment volume, too. But boy howdy is he thrilled to meet Ziv. Because-- and Ziv may not know this, but Chewie will assure them --he has never known the warmth of the human hand before. I know. I KNOW. It seems hard to believe, but it is true. No one. No one ever in the history of the world. No one. Has ever pet Chewda.
Aaron looks longsuffering the whole time but smiles wanly, "Yeah, go in and drop it on the couch or wherever. He's a quick walk, so don't worry." Once Ziv is back from the apartment, Aaron calls the elevator again and rides it back down. This time he goes out into the courtyard to walk the pup, rather than out front. Safer.
And Ziv is -- as any right-thinking person should be -- a sucker for dogs, especially dogs who have learned to bark at apartment-safe volumes. "Oh, I know," they assure the pup, reaching out to scritch his ears. "You have never been loved, ever in your life, it's true, I know. Don't worry. There will be plenty of love for small pups." Also, it's easier and more socially acceptable to coo at small puppies than hot bears.
They shuck off their backpack, step in quickly, and set it next to the couch before sidling back out and alongside Aaron again. The antics of the pup are adored by the Darkling and endured by the Obrimos, and so it ever shall be. "This is a nice place." Which probably says something about Ziv's standards of living, really. "Cute courtyard."
It is a nice place for certain standards of nice. It's got good bones. It's just ugly. One of those rare affordable yet secure finds. The kind of place mafia guys stick their mothers. "It's treated me well. The owner let me remodel the apartment I'm in, since I've been in it for so long. So I've got nicer appliances and such. It's almost a condo for me at this point. Just. Not a condo. But I live well here. Affordably. I support a lot of charities, so." Aaron ticks his shoulders as he sets Chewie down to go and do his doggy business. Ziv can enjoy the heartfelt staring and shame of a tiny dog taking a huge pee. Just. So long.
"Yeah," Aaron says with a sigh, "the hard eye contact is a thing. Just. Just go with it." He pats Ziv on the shoulder in sympathy. Still peeing? Yep. Still peeing.
"It's your home, and it does the thing that you want it to do. It's pretty great that they let you remodel it, though. I look forward to seeing your work!" And then barely paying any attention to it at all, thanks. Ziv tucks one of their hands into the pocket of their skinny jeans, tipping their head up to look around the courtyard. And then there's the peeing.
They stare down at the dog, sort of perplexed, and blink, several times. "Oh, puppies," they sigh, shaking their head a little. "I know, dude, it's gotta be a huge relief. Feel better? I bet you do." If they're put off, it barely shows, though their laughter is just slightly awkward. The shame! So much pee!
It's worse when he does #2. He is the most awkward dog when it comes to doing his business. But Aaron tidies up his poopies and tosses the bag into the trash set out for that purpose. Now that he's relieved, he's a much happier little fella and waddles over to sniff at Ziv's footwear and ankles and make his warbleyips for attention.
"Good boy, Chewie. Let's go inside now, little buddy! Come on! Ziv's coming with us!" Aaron leads the pup-- with much reluctance on the pup's part --back towards the inside of the apartment building and back towards the elevator. It's still on the ground floor, mercifully, which makes the ride back up faster. With a great deal of excited sniffing and, should he be picked up, an abundance of tiny-tongued kisses. He is a very sweet little guy, just weird.
It would probably be pretty awkward being a human being if you had to pee and poop in the open with everyone watching you. Having been left in the open to fend for themself for decades, Ziv has a sort of understanding of these sorts of things, if not this exactly. They give the poor little pup a wry look of understanding, and when he comes over to sniff at their battered sneakers, leans down to scoop him up.
"I surely am!" Ziv agrees contentedly, and splutters cheerfully in that way that people do when they're getting nibbled and face-licked by small, enthusiastic puppies. "You are, indeed, a very good boy." Soft padpadpad along with Aaron. "He's a sweet guy," they offer, stepping into the elevator with a puppy curled up in their arms.
His little butt wriggles with joy at being so held. He's clearly a very awesome apartment pup, and Aaron has doted on him well. Once they're back in the apartment, Aaron flips on the lights and reveals his fortress of solitude. Its a spacious one bedroom with an open floor main room. Kitchen and dining room adjoining directly to the living room. Good for apartment entertaining, doubtless. His appliances are all upgraded, very clearly. He's got the largest plasma screen TV that makes sense for his room. And generally? Wise expenditures of money are evident in his space. He decided he wants a thing, buys the best thing that suits, and doesn't buy things he neither needs or wants. It gives his space a variously spartan and indulgent feel.
There are lots of bookshelves, though, as are common among rabbis with high falutin' degrees. Lots of souvenirs from trips to Israel and abroad. Gifts from congregants, and so on. There's family photos all about in frames. His parents. His brother, doubtless. Lux is even in a frame or two, as well as Imam Abdi, hospitalized the day Aaron flipped out and decked that cop. The couch is big, comfy, and leather. Of course. But rather than reach instantly for hospitality, he gets out the shabbat candles and the lighter and gestures Ziv over, "Would you care to do the honors?" Ziv is the non-man in the place, after all. "Be sure to set Chewie down on the counter, here, so he can help." Wait, what?
They happily carry the pup up the stairs, making little contented 'yes, you're the best good boy that was ever a best good boy' back at the puppy whenever Chewda licks their face or gnaws on their chin. Basically, the pair become a little feedback cycle of cuteness, with Ziv making 'good puppy' noises and Chewda goaded on by this. And then they step in through the door to the apartment, and their eyes widen slightly. Still carrying the pup, they wander over toward the bookshelves -- of course -- drawn by the books. So many books.
Their attention is pulled back by the candles and Aaron setting them out. "Oh! I would, thank you very much." A bright smile blossoms across the Spring's face. They're about to set Chewie down on the ground when Aaron says that last bit, and confusion blinks across their expression. But who are they to gainsay something that's very clearly normal here. Maybe while they were away, everyone taught their dogs to participate in the lighting of the Shabbat candles. You never know. So. Gingerly, Chewda Maccabee is set down on the counter next to the candles, and then they reach for the lighter.
A sort of ineffable peace suffuses their expression the moment that they light the candles and begin to go through this ritual. It's something that was -- if not exactly forbidden as a ritual -- then at least not their job when they were seen as a boy. This isn't their domain -- except now it is, and here's not just another Jew but a rabbi handing them that bracha and saying this is yours. Their hands close over their eyes when the flames are lit, and then three gentle scooping gestures follow before they shake their hands out to the side -- shaking off the week -- and there's another flare on peripheral Mage sight , because activating Enchanting Presence any time they're called on to sing for an audience is a reflex.
The Siren's sweet voice intones as if, after this, they're about to turn into a ring of eyes and say fear not. It's angelic, is what we're getting at, here. Eight successes worth of Impress The Cute Rabbi, if anyone's counting, which Ziv definitely is. "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheynu melech ha'olam asher kidshanu b'mitzvotav, vitzivanu l'hadlech ner shel Shabbat."
The end of the prayer trails off, leaving a gentle silence in its wake. If you're opening a Temple in time, you could do worse than inviting a Siren to do it.
Chewie sits down primly to observe the humans and their funny light things. He's very curious, his little wiry head darting this way and that between the two as they work. When the lighter is flicked, Aaron asides to Chewie, "Shema Yisrael." And Chewie promptly sits up on his hind paws and uses his forepaws to cover his eyes. Sort of. It always takes him a few times to do it, though, and so it looks as though he's gesturing over the candles. He leaves his paws on his snout, too, throughout the prayer.
And then Aaron says, "Amen, Chewie!" And Chewie sits back down on all fours and wags his tail. What a little mensch.
Aaron taught his dog that trick, very clearly. And he is very, very proud of that fact. He's beaming, in fact, over the candles at Ziv. Aaron then scoops up his doggie, gives him a rough toussel and a firm smooch atop the head and sets him back loose on the floor. He scampers around, sniffing at the furniture and at Ziv's bag and possessions, trying to discern where they came from.
"Are you hungry, Ziv? I could whip something up quick. Oh! Your guitar. I forgot." He starts heading for the bedroom in a bustle of activity.
Not enough to distract a performer from performing, but goodness, that's adorable. Once they're done with the prayer, Ziv can't help but burst into delighted giggles, their slim fingers coming up to cover their mouth. Once he's back on all fours, Chewie gets a little ear-ruffle from the Darkling, their eyes glittering with amusement in the candlelight. "That's possibly ... that's definitely in the top five most adorable things I have ever seen," Ziv admits, shaking their head.
Ziv's backpack smells like a lot of things! Like the Hedge, like several neighborhoods in Philly, like Ziv themself, like Rieko's shirt which is in the backpack. It's all very interesting, with lots of different smells to be smelled.
"Oh -- I mean, I just ate at the oneg -- brisket and all -- but if you're hungry I could eat." Ziv watches Aaron retreat, and then wanders over toward the couch to sit down, the way one does in someone else's house when just going and poking around at things other than the bookshelf is very rude.
He returns a short moment later with the guitar and its hard case. He lays it out on the coffee table, works the latches open, and lifts the lid. It is in fact a fairly high end, but much loved Gibson acoustic. Aaron lifts the neck so he can flip open the storage spot beneath the guitar. "Capo. Winding key. Two or three sets of spare strings-- I think I might have replaced the B or high E once, so they're probably not full sets? And there's an auto tuner in there, too, if you don't have a great ear." Aaron flips it close and latches it up again, patting it gently. "All yours."
Aaron then settles down on the couch beside Ziv, reaching up to unclip his kippah and fold it up neatly, setting it on the side table for now. He loosens his tie and undoes his collar button to officially mark himself Off Duty in a rabbinical sense. "I ate before services. A lot of the community only eats at the oneg, though. And that's not always enough for a meal. So. I figured I'd offer. If you get hungry later, don't hesitate to ask." He offers an encouraging smile the siren's way. "You sing beautifully, by the way. You'd make one heckuva cantor."
"Oh, wow. This is -- a really lovely guitar, thank you." Ziv wasn't expecting a bad guitar, naturally, but this is a really nice one, and they reach out a hand to gently pat the case, as if saying hello to a new puppy. They toss a glance aside at him. "I have a pretty good ear, but thank you." There's amusement in it, not reprimand. Their eyes are big, like a kid on -- well -- the appropriate gift-giving occasion of one's choice. "... I know I've said thank you, but thank you." When the guitar case is closed up, their smile turns its not-inconsiderable wattage on Aaron.
They reach up to unclip their kippah, folding it neatly and stowing it in the front pocket of their backpack; their sneakers get casually worked off their feet and nudged under the coffee table so that they can turn on the couch, leaning their elbow on the back of it and pulling their knees up onto it. By reflex, when resting, they look a bit like a mermaid coiled on a rock in the mouth of Copehagen's harbor. Such is the way of a person who had a tail instead of legs for about eight decades. "Oh, no, I appreciate it. I ate some before I came to services. Rieko fusses if I don't eat, because sometimes I forget." A little wobble of one hand. "If I do, I sincerely promise that I will tell you." Their head dips forward, and they glance up at him, as is their rite and custom, apparently. "Thank you. Generally speaking, you have to have more education than I do to become a Cantor, but. I like to sing."
"You could get the education," Aaron counters with a small shrug. "Two minutes in a room with your voice and the scholarship boards would be lining up. Not to harangue. You've just... got a gift for music and a love for Torah that is obvious and beautiful. I'd have loved to become a Cantor myself. If things had gone differently for me, in any case." Aaron is about to try to get comfortable and finds his jacket bunching up, which causes him to sigh, "Actually. Give me a second. I'm going to get out of this suit."
Fortunately Chewie is around to entertain Ziv while Aaron disappears into the bedroom again for a few minutes. He returns in a light t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Because clearly Ziv needed an invitation to the gun show. Aaron's formerly waning muscle tone is back with a vengeance. The body that once played football returns to punch fascists, apparently. He settles back down on the couch and turns to face Ziv, draping his arm along the couch back to rest alongside Ziv themself.
"There. You've officially seen me unwind."
The look on their face is clearly 'I had never considered that could possibly be an option,' and Ziv goes quiet for a minute. "You're not haranguing," they reassure, looking down at their knee, and then back up at him. "There are -- a lot of reasons -- why that would be complicated. But if you think it's possible, then, it might well be." You know. The whole 'not legally existing' thing is difficult. Their eyes glitter at his awkward sighing, and they nod their head once. "Of course. It's your house. Be comfortable."
When Aaron returns, Ziv is entertaining Chewie by wiggling their besocked toes for him to chase around in circles, in a possibly-inadvisable bit of 'hey look my toes are toys' bit of training. But it seems to be entertaining them both, so... oops? Ziv looks up from being distracted by the puppy to ... being distracted by Aaron. Their eyes widen slightly and there's a reflexive little bite on their lower lip. Oh help, not a gun show. A moment of rapid blinking, a brief flush in their cheeks, and they sit up a little bit, clearing their throat. "A delightful sight," they offer, a small smile playing around their lips.
It is at this point that Aaron points out, perhaps having noticed the bit lip, "So. If you decide that you just want to pack up the guitar and sidle out of here, that's an option. You don't have to stick around if you're not comfortable. And there are no strings attached to the guitar. I've not got a lot of space in here, and I'm actually working at getting rid of a lot of my extraneous possessions. I've always been something of an ascetic. And that's... that's moreso these days." The life of an aspiring Perfected Adept is not one of wealth and excess, no.
"But that said. If you are certain that you want to stay? You can grab a shower if you want. I'm sure I've got something you could wear around here if you wanted to relax. I've got some wine, if you're a fan. Nothing harder than that, I'm afraid. There's music. The TV gets most streaming services. But you've already seen Hamilton, you mentioned." He gives a wink at that, playful. "I can grab us a quilt, if you wanted to get cozy with me. As I've warned you repeatedly; this is all new to me. Again. I just know I'm not keen to see you walk out the door yet."
They pause, then, and press their lips together like they're trying to suppress a giggle, their head tipping forward. "So, to be totally clear -- I am deeply, deeply grateful for the guitar, but getting it tonight was what we in the flirting trade refer to as 'an excuse.'" Another one of those glances, and their cheeks flush again, head tipped a little to the side. "I'm -- very comfortable. I'm where I would like to be right now, geographically speaking. Here, in this apartment, with you. And also Chewie, who, for the record, is great company." They raise a hand, pushing the shag of their hair out of their face.
"I would appreciate that. The shower and the comfortable clothes." Which may end up swiped, because that seems to be a thing that Ziv does. "I do like wine, and I would like to watch something with you. Perhaps even Hamilton." Beat. "I sing better than Lin-Manuel, but that's not saying much. The man is a great lyricist but... he plays Hamilton because he wrote Hamilton." A pause, and they add, "I should send a text to Rieko and let her know not to expect me. Not that she'll be upset, but because she gets anxious when she doesn't know where I am. Protective, not possessive, you know?" They unfold their arm that pillows their head and turn to grab their phone from their backpack, apparently having made that decision. "Clean clothes, blanket, something to watch, I approve of all of these things."
"Then I'll go prep the shower and find you something." Aaron moves his hand off the back of the couch to rest briefly on Ziv's shoulder, then their cheek, before it withdraws. He rolls up off the couch and steps into the bedroom to nudge it open and leave it that way. The cleanliness of the apartment isn't just a hasty sham. With the clothes off the floor, it's basically clean. Could use a dusting, maybe, but Aaron clearly leads an ordered life. He pulls open his drawers and goes sifting through his things. A pair of draw string jogging pants are located, since they can be cinched up tight. And a one of his t-shirts, as well. Which Ziv will swim in, but whatever. There's no hope of underpants fitting them, though, so he doesn't bother. Some ankle socks are picked out, too, and situated on the toilet. Fresh towels and washcloth are pulled out, since Aaron's are still damp from his before services shower. The dirty ones are tossed in the hamper. Then Aaron's gathering the quilt from the bed and carrying it back out to the couch.
"The shower's all yours. I'll be out here when you're done." He drops the quilt off, then goes to find a wine to open and let breathe. Yes, he has a wine cooler. What self-respecting gay Jew doesn't have a wine cooler? Honestly.
They fire off a couple of texts -- an exchange clearly happens -- and at one point, laughter bursts from Ziv, so clearly, whatever conversation is being had between them and their (other?) partner is one that's going well, or at least amusingly. There's no angst in the exchange, at the very least, because when they tuck their phone away again, there's a smile gracing their sharp-angled face. They rock back and forth on their feet for a moment, swaying to a current only they can feel, and then wander over toward the book case, idly examining book spines and pictures both alike. You can tell a lot about a man by what he reads and who he chooses to put on his shelf so he can look at their face every time he picks up something new to read.
When he steps out of the bathroom, Ziv nods their thanks and replies, "Awesome. Thank you," and slips in to start up the shower. Also to test out the acoustics in the bathroom, but that happens without them really thinking about it. Whenever Ziv is not doing something else, and no one else is there to occupy their attention, they end up humming, or singing. And so accompanying the fall of the water is their lovely tenor wordlessly rising and falling through Yih'yu l'ratzon, which ... Siren. So of course that's their fallback 'what's in my head' choice.
One gets the feeling that the book shelves aren't vanity pieces. While, yes, there are several spines that are or were recently in the firing line of public discourse, most of the books appear deeply personal to Aaron and his work. Tons of Judaica covering authors and thinkers from the Haredi to the woo Reconstructionist fringe. The whole spectrum of Jewish thought, really, is reflected on his shelves. There one (1) full Talmud. Numerous Tanakhs of various translations. All the usual accoutrements of a Reform rabbi's arsenal. But then the pantheistic aspects of collection come forward. Islam is the second most represented religion. And some of the books aren't even in English, they're in Arabic. A few on Buddhism, Taoism, very few Christian texts-- do you really need them, growing up in this country? --and a few on Norse paganism, of all things.
Books on prison reform, Saul Alinsky's famous book on organizing, Martin Luther King Jr, Malcolm X, Fred Hampton, Angela Davis, Tanahesi Coates, Ijeoma Oluo. You get the point. This boy is woke as fuck. And we haven't even reached his human sexuality and world politics section yet.
This isn't a book collection, it's a life's work.
Once Ziv is off to the shower, Aaron has a seat and waits. Though the tune can't help but catch his ear. That's one of Aaron's favorites, and so he finds himself humming along in his own sonorous baritone. He could have been a Cantor, and no joke. And while Ziv might not hear him, that doesn't stop him from joining in with decided amusement.
The Siren could probably spend 'until the water heater runs out' in the shower, normally speaking. Water makes them feel as normal as they ever can, but they're here for the company, not the shower. So it's a shower that's as precisely as long as it needs to be in order to scrub what needs scrubbing and rinse what needs rinsing, but they sing the whole time, swapping between snippets of actual words and humming without really paying attention to it. It's just how they are. It's like breathing.
It's possible that they do hear him, but maybe not. Possibly not until after they're out of the shower and drying off. They come out of the bathroom, carrying a folded pile of dirty clothes in their hands and neatly tucking them into their backpack. Ziv probably looks ridiculous in his clothing, definitely much more of a twink than they did in their own clothes, drowning in that t-shirt and having tugged the cord on the waistband tight so those pants don't just fall off.
They flop down on the couch next to him, ruffle their hands through their dark shag of hair, and flash him a brief, brilliant smile. "Hi."(edited)
Aaron observes the meander back couchwards with a lopsided smile, head shaking slowly. Oh, Aaron Cohen. You do have a type. "Hi," he rumbles back quite by accident. You get to singing and the carefully measured high baritone of conversational rabbi turns into 'cowboy ordering sasparilla' real quick. It leads to him clearing his throat gently before trying that again, "You look-- is it okay if I say adorable? Because that's the word that's jumping to mind. I don't mean it as a diminutive." Even if they are tiny. Relatively speaking, anyway.
Aaron reaches out a hand to play his fingers through the mess of floppy damp hair on Ziv's head, combing it back with his fingers to clear their vision so he can have a good look at their face. And suddenly Aaron isn't really interested in what's on the television any longer. He's suddenly regretting going with adorable, in point of fact. Another hasty clearing of the throat and he changes his vote, "You look good. In my shirt." Bear go grumble. Bear approve. "You look... great." They look 'pinch me', in point of fact, but Aaron doesn't say that.
That 'hi' sure does make Ziv's coloration change, for the record. Cowboy ordering a sasparilla? Yeah, well. Ziv's got a type, too, and there's a brilliant flush of their cheeks at that first word as they turn to lean on the couch. Closer than before, angled toward him. Just close enough to be in his personal space while being able to sneak back out of said personal space if it's too much too fast. They clear their throat, lick their lower lip, and tip their head to the side, smoothing down their shirt when he asks if he can call them adorable. "Adorable is more than acceptable, thank you. I generally don't mind diminutive terms. Generally. And I'll let you know if I don't like something that you say, trust."
Their head tips under his touch, and they turn their face up when he pushes their hair out of their face. They were fine-looking enough when they were Taken, for a kid, with strong bone structure and pretty features, but they were made to lure men to their deaths in the water, so... the wide and gentle look of their eyes is at least part the work of their Keeper. Their lips curl up at the corners, and the flush of their cheeks spreads to their throat. "I'm sure I'll look good out of it, too, in good time," they answer, and the glance downward becomes a glance upward through their long black lashes. "I can't complain about the view from here, either." One of those cool, soft hands rises to play delicate touches over one bicep. Please go on with that grumbling, oh bear.
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