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[closed] cool cherry cream and a nice apple tart.
Who: Gilgamesh and Adrasteius
When: A few days after the housewarming, likely.
Where: Adrasteius' residence
What: Gilgamesh owns up to his failings; Adrasteius teaches him a lesson; a surprising new addition joins the Spouse House.
Rating: I can't imagine this going beyond PG, but I'll update if needed.
[Gilgamesh had erred.
Not in how he treated Adrasteius, as the great tyrant would likely remain forever oblivious in that regard, but rather in how he treated his sacred domain: the kitchen. He'd burnt it, soiled it, and nearly blown it up in his quest to make a meat pie, and there was no hiding the evidence the next day. At first, Gilgamesh decided to lay low; though he feared no man's temper, he didn't particularly want to face Adrasteius anyway. Not after the awkwardness of their last conversation, how furious he'd been over a perceived slight. A slight Gilgamesh did not and would not understand, no matter how many times he'd turned over the incident in his head.
But eventually, the air in the home grows too stiff to ignore. So rather than persist in stubbornness and continue to act as though he'd done nothing wrong, Gilgamesh takes a step in the right direction—he admits fault to Adrasteius himself, and then, in typical Gilgamesh fashion, demands something immediately after.
"Teach me how to cook properly."
He'd been promised they'd start with a simple dish, so when Adrasteius has some free time, Gilgamesh waits for him in the kitchen. He's already sporting an apron and looking rather antsy. When he hears familiar footsteps, he rushes forward in his eagerness.]
I am prepared! I vow to be most studious and most serious, "Chef"!
[He really, really wants to impress Adrasteius, or at least make up for his mistake, and it really, really shows.]
When: A few days after the housewarming, likely.
Where: Adrasteius' residence
What: Gilgamesh owns up to his failings; Adrasteius teaches him a lesson; a surprising new addition joins the Spouse House.
Rating: I can't imagine this going beyond PG, but I'll update if needed.
[Gilgamesh had erred.
Not in how he treated Adrasteius, as the great tyrant would likely remain forever oblivious in that regard, but rather in how he treated his sacred domain: the kitchen. He'd burnt it, soiled it, and nearly blown it up in his quest to make a meat pie, and there was no hiding the evidence the next day. At first, Gilgamesh decided to lay low; though he feared no man's temper, he didn't particularly want to face Adrasteius anyway. Not after the awkwardness of their last conversation, how furious he'd been over a perceived slight. A slight Gilgamesh did not and would not understand, no matter how many times he'd turned over the incident in his head.
But eventually, the air in the home grows too stiff to ignore. So rather than persist in stubbornness and continue to act as though he'd done nothing wrong, Gilgamesh takes a step in the right direction—he admits fault to Adrasteius himself, and then, in typical Gilgamesh fashion, demands something immediately after.
"Teach me how to cook properly."
He'd been promised they'd start with a simple dish, so when Adrasteius has some free time, Gilgamesh waits for him in the kitchen. He's already sporting an apron and looking rather antsy. When he hears familiar footsteps, he rushes forward in his eagerness.]
I am prepared! I vow to be most studious and most serious, "Chef"!
[He really, really wants to impress Adrasteius, or at least make up for his mistake, and it really, really shows.]
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Come here.
[ He has a sheet of wax paper on the other side of the counter, and he dusts it lightly with flour. Then, he takes his dough and spreads it over the surface, making a rectangle shape. This he then coats with the filling. These things he does himself, as they are pretty simple and basic. ]
Now, I want you to watch me for a second.
[ He begins to roll the dough, gently, slowly, moving it towards one length-wise side of the rectangle. ]
You have to do this carefully. Paying attention, minding your fingers, minding the shape of the dough. Some parts of cooking can be accelerated by magic, it's true. But a great deal of putting together a dish is really putting it together. Using your own strength, your own imperfect hands.
[ He's focused on the dough as he speaks, frowning a little. ]
At least, that's how it is with me. Physically engaging the ingredients, pouring my direct energy and feelings into them ... that's how I make food. That's how I want to create.
[ He stops when it's halfway done. ]
Now, you take over. Roll it to the edge of the rectangle, and then press it the roll slightly flat, so that the edge is sealed.
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I can do this.
[Half to acknowledge Adra, half to reassure himself. As fearlessly and as confidently, as he'd do anything else, starts to roll. Roll to the edge. Press it flat. Seal the edge. Gilgamesh repeats the instructions in his mind and follows them through, absolutely. Actually, his focus is a little scary. Sharp like a razor's edge, unfaltering.
But it's because of that he completes the task flawlessly. Maybe, in the end, he just needed a little bit of direction.]
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But Gil performs admirably. More than admirably. He does exactly as he's told; he listens; he takes it seriously. Some of the tension drains from Adra's shoulders. He leans over, examining the results. ]
Yes. That's gorgeous, Gil.
[ He picks up a thin, sharp knife. ]
Now for the artistic bit.
[ He gestures to the roll with his knife, and he hands this knife to Gil, handle first, as he goes on. ]
Make cuts in the dough, alternating diagonally. You want to create small, wedge-shaped rolls.
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And no matter how stubborn or prideful he may have been, he valued the elf's opinion, or else he wouldn't be here at all.]
...it is not often I wield my own weapons like this. I launch blades rather than slice with them.
[Still, he tries to make conversation throughout his cutting, so it isn't so stilted. Reveals a little more about himself.]
I've excellent dexterity. But I suppose I touch so very little—things, I mean—that I've forgotten the proper form.
[Despite what he says, however, he once again performs above and beyond expectations.]
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Keep taking lessons with me, and you'll be learning all sorts of new forms.
[ He taps the beautifully sliced rolls. ]
For example, now I want you to take that knife and cut little slits in the wider part of each roll.
[ He demonstrates, and after he does this, he pinches the resulting three pieces of dough into a slightly pointier shape. ]
You're making toes, you see. Very cute toes.
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[It is, indeed, a different side. When stripped of his ego, and all those thousands of years of embittered wisdom and instilled duty, Gilgamesh was actually rather youthful. Childlike, in how he handled experiences that were new, or otherwise different. Of course, when you lived for as long as he did, not much qualified, but cooking for himself certainly did. A little excitement starts to seep out, the sort that was pure and happy rather than twisted and sadistic as it could sometimes be from this man. There's no denying he enjoys Adra's company, either, and so more freely allowed the idea of him in charge.
One slit, two slits, three slits, four. This was pretty easy; why had he struggled so much before?]
Do not tell me you're having me craft adorable shapes. That does not at all suit my image, you know.
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In Azeroth, we call these pastries rylak claws. Perhaps it will please your image to know that the rylak is, in fact, a ferocious two-headed beast. Great, leathery wings, enormous teeth, thick hide ... a terror to hunters.
[ He nods approvingly at Gil's continued efforts. ]
And also an adorable pastry.
[ He brings over another bowl, this one full of beaten egg, and sets it beside the rolls, along with a brush. ]
One last thing before we bake. Brush everything with the egg--get it nice and shiny.
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[Yet Gilgamesh's tone implies but I could conquer it with ease. Sometime, he would have to sit down with Adra and ask him all about his Azeroth. It sounded like a world worthy of his records, even if he was bound to his station on Earth. If it was full of great beasts like that, it might even be worthy of a visit.
Gilgamesh dips the brush into the bowl and then glazes the dough, nice and shiny.]
There! That should suffice.
[...and then he turns around and glazes the tip of Adra's nose. Because it looked like it needed some shining.]
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It's not too bad. Guns don't do much, but only a dragon's hide can survive a bolt of frostfire.
[ He's about to compliment Gil on his glazing when he's brushed, and for a moment he just stands there, lips parted, ears rigid.
Then, slowly, he touches his nose ... licks the glaze off of his finger. ]
Mm. Well.
That will do.
[ Very dignified. ]
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[And Gilgamesh makes a great display of waggling his eyebrows to show he's Very Impressed with this admission. Really, the idea of Adra hurting anything at all was a bit off, as he recalls their incident with the griffons... but if he lived in a dangerous world, with monsters and bandits and more out to kill him, then he must've embraced the necessity of violence on occasion in order to survive.
Gilgamesh respects that. Even pacifism had its limits. Some of his ideas were strange, and laughable, but he wasn't totally without common sense.]
We should compare tales. I'll bet you've never encountered a scorpion man before.
[To be fair, most people hadn't. Gilgamesh's own world could be crazy at times, too.]
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Stay a while. You'll find I'm full of surprises.
[ Adra would call himself a pragmatic pacifist. His world had shades of moral gray, like any other, but it was home also to forces of absolute, unrelenting evil and malice. Against these, he had no illusions, and no restraint.
Of course, he's also only been a pacifist for the past seventy years, or thereabouts. ]
Hmm, a scorpion man ... no. I have encountered men like barracudas, like giant tarantulas and monstrous lobsters and just about any other wretched thing you can think of, though. But. No scorpions.
[ This he must admit. Only regular types of scorpions. ]
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[It's an impulsive sort of response, but it's not exactly false. And when accompanied with a faint sort of smile, it leads one to wonder...
Men like barracudas. Giant tarantulas, monstrous lobsters. It sets Gilgamesh's imagination running free, inspires an old nostalgia in him, from the times he was a true and earnest adventurer in addition to being a posturing King. A boyish blush spreads across his face to think of it, complimenting his pretty features well.]
I do miss it, on occasion. Wandering the wilds with my brother. Taming the vast beyond. Perhaps...
[His smile falters. Just a little. Just enough.]
Perhaps that's why I like this world so much. It reminds me of what I once was. Of what I could always be, if set free.
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But it is interesting to see that color rise in Gil's cheeks, for once. Adra's found himself noticing certain things about his features, lately. The shape of his jaw. His cheekbones, his mouth. His eyes were always unique, but now they're--something more than that. He sighs internally. ]
Enprise is not so different from my own home, in many ways. This world is a place of danger, but also of mystery, of adventure and insight.
[ He goes on, watching Gil, his own gaze as fixed and attentive as ever. ]
A place to be whoever you want to be.
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Well, that's enough of that for now.
[The brush off is a little too quick to be genuine, a subtle nod that he agreed with that last statement in truth, but pride dictates he must move on.]
I await your further instruction, Chef. Let us make this creation the very best it can be.
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[ He was not typically a person who cared for charisma; neither was he often much affected by either beauty or handsomeness. He hailed from a society renowned for all of those things, and found little merit in them on their own. But once he spent enough time with a person, once he began to admire certain other qualities about them, then he sometimes found himself in the troubling position of noticing, for example, the character of their laughter, or the elegant length of their neck, or some other detail that never, ever registered before.
But he sets aside thoughts of Azeroth, thoughts of Gil, thoughts of anything except the matter in front of them. Time to focus, and get through this.
He nudges a bowl of almond slices towards Gilgamesh. ]
Take one of those and press them against each toe you've made.
[ He demonstrates, arranging the almond slice so that it points outward from the toe--like a claw. ]
Best be quick about it, too. That egg you brushed on is halfway to drying by now.
[ He gestures to a pan lined with more parchment paper, and the oven beside it. ]
Once you're done, arrange everything on that tray and put it in the oven. We'll prepare the frosting glaze while the pastries bake.
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[Gilgamesh throws himself immediately back into the game—because that's what this is, a competition to win the elf's affections again—and inserts the "claws" as instructed. One, two, even three at a time, all perfectly angled. Well, mostly perfectly. Some are a little askew, but that just adds to the charm.
And it really does become obvious, with how much effort he's putting into something so seemingly mundane, that Gilgamesh does want to make amends, in his own way. Because he's a being incapable of apologizing, he does it another way, by showing off his earnestness. He looks eagerly to Adra, now, and perhaps he gets what he's wanted along: an adoring expression, truly invested in his feelings.
Largely because he wants those feelings for himself, to center around him, but it's a start. He takes the pan and presents it to Adra for inspection.]
How is it? Good, of course, given that I made them, but still, I would like to hear your opinion.
[I would like to hear your opinion. Also not too shabby, coming from the mouth of a great tyrant.]
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Still, he smiles at what Gilgamesh has done, as warm and kind as he always is. He's glad that Gil's invested in this--if not for Adra's sake, then his own. Woman's work cooking may be, but it's rewarding, too. It's art and science, precision and innovation. And though Gil certainly doesn't need the help, food is an excellent way of drawing people in. ]
You've listened to instruction, Gil. You've been enthusiastic, you've been patient, and you've applied everything I've told you judiciously. The dough is perfectly shaped, the filling smooth. The claws are ...
[ He laughs a little. ]
... exactly as they should be.
[ Neither too perfect nor too messy. ]
We have only a few things left to do, and you'll have finished your lesson. Go on--let's get them a nice golden brown.
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[He might be getting into this a little too much... once he's acquired Adra's approval, he sets the tray in the oven in its proper place and even manages to set the timer just as it should be, for that nice golden brown he'd described. There's nothing left to do, so he's left feeling antsy, as if he should say something.
But what? He can sense that Adra's putting up a slight front here; even if he'd done remarkably well with his cooking, it couldn't erase that argument they'd had. He fiddles with his fingers for a moment, uncharacteristically starts to speak then stops, before finally settling on what he thinks he may want to hear right now.]
I am very glad for you. That you are in my life. That we met.
[What else, what else...? He's struggling with this. This is close to an apology, which, as has already been covered at length, he does not do well with.]
I would not want to live anywhere else. I want you to know—
[...
...
...!
That must be it! He's figured it out for sure.]
Kene'thil surfas.
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Adra drops the spoon with a clatter, his cheeks flushing. He grips the edge of the counter with both hands, and lowers his head, his shoulders trembling.
Damn it. Damn it. Why was it always so easy? Why couldn't he hold on to his anger, even a little? He has all the rage in the world for so many other things, for institutions, for concepts and ideas. But for a person, on an individual level, especially a person he already loves--he just can't. He can't do it.
That's a little infuriating, in and of itself. ]
I knew I'd regret teaching you that damn phrase.
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He just reaches for Adra's hand, and holds it, without saying another word.]
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[ He squeezes Gil's hand, angrily, but what kind of anger is it? Not the kind where he's letting go. ]
You don't have to say things just to placate me. I've already forgiven you.
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[No need for it. No use for it. Instead...]
I want your understanding.
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I do understand. I understand that you don't normally go to these lengths for amends. I understand that the concept of 'amends' is probably difficult for you. I understand that you want things right between us.
[ He pauses, and qualifies all of that, in a way he usually doesn't. ]
I think that's the right of it, anyway.
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[Gilgamesh stumbles over the admission. Giving voice to this is so difficult; he wasn't meant to be so open, yet the words come tumbling out anyway.]
I was not meant to understand others, and others were not meant to understand me. I ask for the impossible. It was a foolish thing to say, but I wished to say it regardless. Because I thought you might like to hear it. Because I like you a great deal. More than I should, more than I possibly can.
[The King must walk alone, the King must always—]
I will fail you, someday. But be strong; for you are even greater than all the love this King has to bear.
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I do like to hear it, when it's true. I like to hear anything that's true.
[ He sighs. ]
You already know that I love you. I can promise you now: that won't change. I can promise you also that you needn't worry about my strength. I go on. I always go on.
[ He squeezes Gil's hand again. ]
But it's like I already told you. I'm not giving up. I want you to stay here. I want you to feel like this place is yours.
[ Well, he's sure Gil already feels that way, in the sense that he feels that way about literally everything, but he's sure Gil knows what he means. ]
Perhaps I will never be able to understand you, nor you, me. It is difficult for anyone to truly understand anyone else. But I can stay, and I can try.
[ As for Gil ... well, that's his decision. ]
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