[closed] cool cherry cream and a nice apple tart.

[babbylon]

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.]

Comments

[hymnals]

[ The kitchen had been insult onto injury. He had heard--and observed--some of the atrocities that went on there during the course of the party, but he'd elected not to interfere. At first he left it alone because he wanted to give Gilgamesh the freedom to experiment. Later, he kept back because he just didn't want to talk to the other man.

As it stands, he's not sure what he wants. Adrasteius has a difficult time holding onto anger at individual people. His rage blazes high and hot and then sputters out, leaving nothing much in its wake most of the time. But occasionally a heaviness remains, a sorrow that dogs at him for a while, like a faithful, terrible pet. That's how he's felt since his last conversation with Gilgamesh, since the altogether disastrous party in general. Heavy.

But he carries on, nevertheless, as he always does. Besides, if Gilgamesh wanted to stay here--and despite everything, Adra hopes he does--then he would have to learn something of proper cooking. Probably many somethings. So he had readily agreed to this instruction.

He comes into the kitchen wearing black slacks and a stiff-collared white shirt. The shirt is unbuttoned down to his collarbone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing both his tattoos and several patches of newly blooming bruises. His long hair is tied back into a high ponytail. He looks ready to rumble. ]

Hmm. I have perfect faith.

[ He opens the icebox, opens cabinets, etc, taking things out and setting them up. A ball of buttery dough, already made. Various bowls, measuring cups, and big stirring spoons. Cinnamon, sugar (brown, granulated, confectioners'), almonds, butter, honey, and so on. They're gonna bake. ]

We're making pastry--something from Azeroth. First, we'll prepare the filling.

[ He gestures to the assembly of butter, etc. ]

Are you ready?

[babbylon]

There is no possible way that I could fail you.

[Actually, there's many possible ways he could fail, all demonstrated already, but Gilgamesh had a remarkably high rank in Charisma for a reason: he tended to pull others into his nonsense rather easily with his astronomically forceful presence. But here, the energy's genuine, not simply fabricated. He does want to learn, does want to do better, and is willing to acknowledge that at least when it came to cooking, he could stand to improve.

Gilgamesh notes the bruises but doesn't comment on them, figuring there to be good reason for it. The elf deserved some measure of privacy; besides, this was a professional occasion. No need to muck it up by being overly sentimental. With utmost confidence, Gilgamesh nods his reply.]

I am your hands, Adrasteius. Direct me as you see fit.

[He's ready. Ready as he'll ever be.]

[hymnals]

[ Strictly professional. Adra glances at him, his expression neutral. No possible way, huh. Well, they won't get into it. There's work to be done, and he means to see it done correctly. ]

First, you have to measure out the ingredients precisely.

[ He rattles them off: four tablespoons of butter, a half cup of granulated sugar, three fourths cup of brown sugar, a tablespoon of cinnamon, and two thirds cup of almond paste. All of these things, in various bowls and tubs, are set up around another clean, empty bowl with a wooden mixing spoon inside it. ]

Make your measurements, pour them in the bowl, and mix them together. Don't stop until the filling is smooth.

[ He pauses, and adds: ]

Very smooth.

[ AS SMOOTH AS YOU ARE, BUDDY ]

[babbylon]

Understood.

[Unfortunately, as clear as the instructions were, Gilgamesh was still Gilgamesh at his core. Which meant he possessed an insufferable and insatiable need to show off at all times. Today, it manifests itself in the form of Gilgamesh choosing to fulfill this directive with magic rather than physical labor; with a levitation spell, he lifts spoons and cups and manipulates them all at once to make the appropriate measurements. And... well...

It works, actually, mostly because Adra had given him something he could understand: numbers, and Gilgamesh excelled with numbers. He measures out everything precisely as ordered and then dumps it all in the bowl, stirring once again by proxy using psionics. In fact, this may have been a safer bet than him doing this by hand, as Gilgamesh understood magic a bit better than utensils. What sort of King ever even lifted a spoon, other than to feed himself?

Predictably, Gilgamesh looks very proud of himself. Praise him, please.]

[hymnals]

[ Adra eyes widen with agitation. Now, granted, he did employ magic himself--back when he could--but some things have to be done by hand! ]

Gil!

[ He doesn't mind psionics for the measuring so much, but the stirring? He goes over to the bowl to inspect the filling, frowning. It does look smooth. He dips a finger in, tastes it. Ugh. It's good. ]

--all right. Yes. You did well with that. But you need to use your hands, going forward.

[babbylon]

[Oh... that's not praise. That's the opposite of praise. Gilgamesh withers beneath the disapproval, but that mountainous ego ensures he never falls into complete discouragement. He pipes back up, immediately and obediently:]

Of course. I will certainly remember that.

[To emphasize this, he walks over and sets the spoons and cups aside in a neat pile. By hand. See how good he is? Please notice him, senpai.]

What next, then?

[hymnals]

[ Oh. That's good. His ears, which had been pressed against either side of his head, slowly perk back up and forward. He clears his throat, sighing. ]

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.

[babbylon]

[Using your own strength. Your own imperfect hands. But Gilgamesh would argue that he was made in a perfect image, so how could that be true? Even so, he recognizes the argument would be a lost cause, and he's unwilling to test Adra's patience today, at least intentionally. For once, Gilgamesh listens; not just at a surface level, but earnestly recording the emotion behind each word. Adra put his heart and soul into cooking, and Gilgamesh can recognize it with how he explains his methodology. Surely he could do the same.]

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.]

[hymnals]

[ Adra observes like a hawk, arms folded over his chest. He's been around Gilgamesh long enough to imagine how he might respond to the notion of imperfection, but it's probably good that they don't get into a dust-up over the issue. To be sure, Adra knows he isn't perfect, so that's the frame of reference he must go on.

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.

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh takes it so seriously, in fact, that his usual smarmy demeanor has left him utterly. The Gilgamesh that stands before Adra now seems bound and determined to obey and impress him every step of the way, with no more mistakes, no more room for criticism. He has accepted the unnatural role of student beneath a teacher and embraced that this wasn't his domain of expertise. He must listen, or risk disappointing Adra even further.

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.]

[hymnals]

[ It does feel strangely out of place, to have Gilgamesh listening to him so closely, and then following through earnestly with the directions he's given. Adra's not put off guard or unsettled; rather, he just sees it as yet another side of this man who lives with him. Sees it as more evidence that Gil can be better, choose better, do better. ]

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.

[babbylon]

Oh? For what reason, I wonder.

[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.

[hymnals]

[ He arches one long eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, too. Just a little bit. ]

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.

[babbylon]

It sounds like a formidable creature.

[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.]

[hymnals]

[ He makes a so-so gesture with his hand. ]

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. ]

[babbylon]

Oho. I see we've an expert on our hands; I was a fool to ever doubt your prowess.

[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.]

[hymnals]

[ He murmurs. ]

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. ]

[babbylon]

I may very well stay forever.

[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.

[hymnals]

[ He's accustomed to Gil coming back with grand declarations like that by this point, so rather than blush in return or become flustered, he only smiles gently.

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.

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh was not shy by any means, and would ordinarily posture and flirt in return if he noticed another person admiring him. But in this case, he can only stand there, earnestly, and look almost like a normal person, for once—smiling back, seemingly bright, with an invisible light shining down upon him. This man was many things, but undeniably, he was a Hero, a handsome individual who may have lured one too many into his web.]

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.

[hymnals]

Mm. Right.

[ 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.

[babbylon]

Certainly! I shall show you how swift this King can be...!

[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.]

[hymnals]

[ Adra observes as Gilgamesh races to complete the task, and he has to admit, it's admirably done. The expression on Gil's face is inviting, too: he's trying, and his efforts are authentic, and he seems to genuinely care that Adra find the outcome pleasing. But Adra's heart is so heavy.

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.

[babbylon]

Yes, Chef!

[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.

[hymnals]

[ Adra's getting everything together for the glaze--sugar, honey, milk--as Gil talks. He's twisting a spoon in the honey, lifting it up, watching the amber, viscous fall of liquid, when Gilgamesh finishes what he's saying.

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.