Honey wherever you go, I know
"Oh it's art is it?" he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "In that case, can't argue with art, even if bread is your one ingredient." If she wants to go around making bread bread sandwiches, since bread is arguably the one required ingredient to make it a sandwich, he'd not stop her contemporary exposition. He wouldn't fucking eat it, but he'd not stop her.
Although...
The idea that different colored gummy worms count as different ingredients is an interesting take, because they certainly taste different. "Fair," he concedes, which has nothing to do with wanting to roll up gummy worms inside of gummy worms and stuff them in his mouth. "No no, they wouldn't get slimy, they'd be reduced to their essence." Boiled down to a gummy worm hot juice, which might just be tea now that he thinks about it. An argument for another time, perhaps, as well as what exactly is written on the candy Geneva Convention, because gummy worms actually don't matter nearly as much as the way the quiet and stillness settles in the cabin. They'd just been something easy to focus on so that the walk here didn't leave room for every word they exchanged to echo back around and leave another mark again, more easily heard now that the well of emotions has lowered and left more wall space for sound and memory to bounce.
His bag slouches off his shoulders and is deposited to the side because I forgot about it last post. The call of the kitchen is one he'll happily answer, another distraction as much as a hope for firmer ground for the both of them, which can always be blamed on the subtle rock of the Sugar Tide should it fail. It's not a replacement for the things that still need to be said, there's no solutions in the cabinets, but it's something normal, something much easier to tackle than the monument of what now? They have climbed hunger plenty of times, but they have never found a hand hold in the Everest of their future.
"Good call," he says as he scurries back to the fridge, seizing the hot sauce with a triple flip up in his hands before fishing out the lone pepper he spots just before nudging the door closed. He holds the pepper up and squints at it, as if sizing up the spice level could be possible from the exterior. Shrugging, he sets it with the rest of the things and sets about to chopping it all up into something able to be sprinkled on. "And hot sauce," he agrees. "Most food is just a vehicle for cheese and sauce, honestly."
Unfortunately new tears do prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he ducks down as four sneezes hit him in rapid succession. "I think the pepper got extra spicy being left all alone," he warns, bleary eyed with heat and diving for the sink to wash off the pepper residue before he forgets and sets either of them aflame in the worst possible way. Flora, surely, could not relate.
Although...
The idea that different colored gummy worms count as different ingredients is an interesting take, because they certainly taste different. "Fair," he concedes, which has nothing to do with wanting to roll up gummy worms inside of gummy worms and stuff them in his mouth. "No no, they wouldn't get slimy, they'd be reduced to their essence." Boiled down to a gummy worm hot juice, which might just be tea now that he thinks about it. An argument for another time, perhaps, as well as what exactly is written on the candy Geneva Convention, because gummy worms actually don't matter nearly as much as the way the quiet and stillness settles in the cabin. They'd just been something easy to focus on so that the walk here didn't leave room for every word they exchanged to echo back around and leave another mark again, more easily heard now that the well of emotions has lowered and left more wall space for sound and memory to bounce.
His bag slouches off his shoulders and is deposited to the side because I forgot about it last post. The call of the kitchen is one he'll happily answer, another distraction as much as a hope for firmer ground for the both of them, which can always be blamed on the subtle rock of the Sugar Tide should it fail. It's not a replacement for the things that still need to be said, there's no solutions in the cabinets, but it's something normal, something much easier to tackle than the monument of what now? They have climbed hunger plenty of times, but they have never found a hand hold in the Everest of their future.
"Good call," he says as he scurries back to the fridge, seizing the hot sauce with a triple flip up in his hands before fishing out the lone pepper he spots just before nudging the door closed. He holds the pepper up and squints at it, as if sizing up the spice level could be possible from the exterior. Shrugging, he sets it with the rest of the things and sets about to chopping it all up into something able to be sprinkled on. "And hot sauce," he agrees. "Most food is just a vehicle for cheese and sauce, honestly."
Unfortunately new tears do prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he ducks down as four sneezes hit him in rapid succession. "I think the pepper got extra spicy being left all alone," he warns, bleary eyed with heat and diving for the sink to wash off the pepper residue before he forgets and sets either of them aflame in the worst possible way. Flora, surely, could not relate.
Kaisel
I'd give up half of forever, just to be with you
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
