Logs:Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.

Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.
Dramatis Personae Erik, Leo	2023-09-14 "I do not care much for g-- rituals of atonement."
Location <BOM> On a Boat - Ascension Island
This is a dry docked 40 foot sloop, but most people probably would look at it and think "a big sailboat in a ditch". The graving dock appears of have been sculpted whole-cloth out of the surrounding earth, including sturdy footprints for the padded blocks supporting the boat. Said boat has a distinct lack of sails at the moment, the naked mast absurdly tall to landlubber eyes where it juts from a sleek fiberglass hull which has been meticulously sodablasted and repainted a gleaming, classically marine white. It's a pleasant evening, the sun not quite down yet but getting there. Though he spent most of his day holed up in his other cabin he has now abandoned Writing About Jellyfish to instead actually be -- okay, not on the ocean. The boat is, alas, still in drydock, but he is near the ocean at least, and taking advantage of the last of the fading sunlight to do a little extra tinkering. Just at the moment he's sitting cross-legged on the deck, clothing considerably less stylish than his usual -- just faded jeans and a plain black undershirt in slightly varied states of grubby/sweaty. He's got a long strand of rigging wire that he's partially threaded through a sturdy length of halyard rope; his expression is scrunched in determination as he tugs hard at the wire, which is making slooow progress pulling some of the core of the rope out of its cover. Eventually he gives up on trying this by hand alone and stands up, stepping on the end of the rope for better leverage. How long has Erik been standing at the edge of the graving dock, watching this progress? Possibly Leo did not notice his approach, given his preoccupation with his task. There he is anyway, though, peering at Leo's process with no small fascination. He's dressed for -- well, probably not boat work, but work all the same -- in sturdy dark jeans, steel-toed brogues, and a buttoned up navy twill workshirt with sleeves cuffed at the elbows. His rings are on his fingers, both left and right hand, steel link bands on each wrist. He's squinting at this rope-wire situation for a moment longer before he clears his throat. "Would you prefer to do that by hand, Mr. Concepcion?" "Oh well I cannot --" Leo is reflexively starting with just the faintest note of apology like he might be worried his current struggles are inconveniencing anyone else but him. It's just a few words into this that the very distinctive voice actually makes it from his ears to his brain and he looks up from the rope with wide eyes. One blink, another blink; the dim light mostly hides his flush as his strained tugging eases off. "Oh," is relieved, this time. "Thank you -- I mean. No. I mean this would be much quicker, I think, for you." His eyes flick down over Erik's clothes as he rolls one wrist loosely, stretching out some cramp as he waits for Erik to come aboard. "Sorry," he is adding, "soon this will be better for company. For now, just a terrible host. I have put all my guests to work." "It will be," Erik agrees, as the wire in Leo's hand shivers "quicker, and I suspect easier." The wire doesn't move further yet -- first Erik is climbing floating aboard to inspect the wire-rope situation. "Though I cannot say I entirely understand what you are trying to do, here, and will need some instruction." Probably he is talking about the threading, but he is studying the rest of the sailboat, too, looking up at the towering mast. "Have you yet named her? Or is that bad luck?" "The old halyard was pretty worn -- I cut the shackle off and I need to splice the," Leo is starting to explain before realizing he is probably launching into far more information than Erik needs for this task. He redirects to a more/less explanatory: "I need the wire pulled until about half a foot more of the rope comes free. There's a little black mark when it's cored far enough." He's starting to hand the wire towards Erik but, then, remembering this is really not necessary. He stays standing on the rope to brace it against the pulling. "Soon, maybe. The cabin needs a little more work before I can..." He shrugs, gesturing one hand towards the door to the boat's interior. "-- do you like the water? When she's ready," he's offering this with a stilted kind of diffidence that is not very good at keeping the pride out of his voice, "I could get you to the City." "So you could!" Erik seems warmly amused at this prospect. "I look forward go her inaugural voyage to Brooklyn." This, in itself, is not an answer to Leo's question -- that doesn't come until the wire has started to move of its own accord, pulling up, up, up. It's hardly any time at all that the black mark comes into sight. "I do not have the most fond memories of the times I've been at sea -- I expect I will have a much more pleasant time on your vessel." "Thank you." Despite Feats Of Magnetokinesis being abundant in Erik's vicinity, Leo's eyes have still gone wide with an unaffected delight at the simple ease of this task, now. He takes hold again of the working end of his rope oh-so-gently, as if it is now something delicate and not an incredibly rugged piece of equipment. His head dips at Erik's answer, acknowledging. "I did hoped to finish this by this weekend, I thinked -- maybe the tashlich," he pronounces this very carefully but, all the same, not quite right, "would be nice to have in actual quiet at sea. Maybe next year I can take her. Or," he's sounding less certain of this, more curious-thoughtful with a peeking glance at Erik as he continues -- finicky work now but less of a brute-force struggle where he's working on rethreading parts of the rope through itself, "you? I do not know how you..." His brows are creasing slowly. "Feel." "I am sure there are many Jews in your circles that would enjoy tashlich away from the city crowds." There's something careful in his words -- not her but people, a strange stress in tashlich that is at once much more correct than Leo's attempt but still notably different from how his girlfriend pronounces it. "The next new year will come soon enough." This, too, is not an answer to Leo's question. Erik's studying the cabin when one finally emerges -- "I do not care much for g-- rituals of atonement." Leo's mouth compresses at the mention of the next new year, a brief troubled frown crossing his face -- fleeting, though. An equally fleeting amusement briefly pulls up at his mouth. "Here I had thought this was one solid place our ways overlap." It's more self-deprecating, his hand briefly lifting to a slender brown string that disappears beneath his shirt where it hangs over his collarbone. His eyes lower partway, not terribly focused on the deft work with his rope but intermittently peeking up at Erik from beneath his fringe of dark hair. "Do you have... do you celebrate. The new year. I suppose maybe one more day is like any other but these days I feel like reaching one more year is --" He shakes his head, hands clutching the rope a little closer to his heart as he finishes splicing it. Leo's amusement is not mirrored in Erik's expression -- on his face is a faint frown, not quite disapproving but perhaps heading that way. "I have no need of God's forgiveness -- if I have wronged, my people will hold me to account." There is a quiet forcefulness behind Erik's voice here, a steeliness set in his jaw that falls away when he looks down at Leo. When he continues it's softer. "... I used to. In Palestine, we marked every holy day with such intensity, for all those who could not celebrate. When I was married, I would cook as my mother did and fill our home with sweetness. Sound the horn for delighted children. Now..." His lips compress. "I am old," he says after a moment, as if this explains everything. "Will they?" This sounds startled rather than argumentive. Leo's eyes have gone a little wider. "-- to a lot of them you're halfway to a god yourself." He's now just toying with the rope, restless in his hands. "Each year gone makes getting there much more an accomplishment." But even as he's saying this he looks up at Erik with a very soft puff of laughter. "... I'm not old yet, though. Maybe it will feel different, if I make it there." His smile fades to a quiet melancholy. "I got some apples and honey for here and Freaktown both, but I probably can't cook like your mother or even like..." His hands squeeze the rope tighter. "They have, and will again," is Erik's quick and sure reply. "We are halfway to godhood." There is no clarification on who we is, but Magneto is looking with sudden intensity at Leo all the same. "You are, what, thirty years? I felt different at thirty. I had hardly lived, yet. Thirty is --" and here something occurs to him, interrupting his words with a small hitch of breath. "-- still so young." The ocean is near enough that the surf, for a moment, can maybe drown out the silence as Erik looks up, again, at the mast. "... Mr. Ion would have," comes at length, tightly, "coated the main lodge with honey and pomegranates by now. I suppose he might be disappointed in my lack of efforts." Leo's brows scrunch at we, his hands slowly lowering. His eyes go a little wider still at Magneto's intent gaze, meeting it for a moment with a small fidget from one foot to the other. "I am..." he ventures uncertainly, but accepts the older man's appraisal of thirty with a hum of allowance. He lowers the rope, running it through his hand to its loose end. "I think," comes softly, as he starts basting the fresh new rope to the frayed old one with a temporary threading of wire, "he would just be excited to see the new year with you." Erik's lips press thin again. "Perhaps you are right." There is less doubt in his voice than his words might imply. His eyes are dry when he looks back to Leo, some tightness still in his jaw. "You do cook, yes?" Erik may be backtracking a bit in the conversation. "Just because he has not yet returned does not mean our tables should be bitter. With apples and honey we could do many things." Leo is drifting closer to the mast, starting to pull the old halyard down so that it runs the fresh new rope behind it in its place. "I cook," he affirms with a very tentative smile. "I am not always sure I get it -- right. I have looked up many recipes but sometimes --" He glances back to Erik with a brief uncertain frown and then looks back up at the rope he is hauling. "-- maybe mine is. Less. Traditional." But there's more confidence in his voice when he continues: "I can help. Make the tables sweet." "Of course it's less traditional." Did Erik get the subtext? Maybe not -- occasionally things get lost when speaking in your second third tenth language. "Half of these traditions are nostalgia -- for the peace in between persecutions, for the joy of a full table when those were few and far between. When that is not the memory you are trying to put on your table, you're free to make something that tastes how you enjoy." There is some sadness in Erik's smile but there is a smile now, small but clear, and growing when he lowers his voice, perhaps to share a secret -- "I do not believe my mother was a particularly talented cook. I will be grateful for your assistance in the kitchens tomorrow, Brother."