ArchivedLogs:Elsewhere

Elsewhere
Dramatis Personae Daiki, Steve	2015-11-16 "{It is not always like this, here. You picked. Strange time. To defrost.}" (Part of Flu Season.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Kitchens - Lower East Side
Gleaming and polished and new, the common house here boasts an enormous industrial-sized kitchen for preparing communal meals. Set up as two mirror-image fully equipped kitchens, both left and right halves of the room contain a trio of enormous ovens, each topped with twelve gas-powered stove burners. There is a wealth of cabinet and drawer space ringing the walls, and separate side-by-side fridge and freezer to each side of the space as well. Both halves of the room contain their own large central islands, black granite countertops providing a large expanse of space for food prep; beneath the center islands are stored a well-stocked supply of pans and pots and cutting boards and kitchen gear. The pantry is shared, a large walk-in room along the back wall, its shelves all carefully labelled and organized. The opposite wall has sinks, deep three-compartment ones for each side of the room. There are very clearly labeled signs in the kitchen, denoting the left half of the room strictly for preparation only of foods both vegan and Kosher; there are no restrictions on the foods prepared in the right half. Equipment from each side is color-coded and should be kept separate. Instructions request that any prepared foods served or stored in communal space keep /strict/ lists of the ingredients used for those with dietary concerns and that leftovers are marked clearly with dates before being stored. There are warm smells coming from the kitchen, right now. A large pot of tomato and corn soup is cooking on the stove, together with a sizzling pan of spice-crusted blackened tilpia fillets beside it. It might just be the spiced smells that make the kitchen a /particularly/ tantalizing destination, at the moment -- maybe. But it might be something else subtle and pervasive in the air around the commonhaus, an odd sort of /draw/ that makes this room feel a whole lot more, well, appetizing, than the rest of the house. Tending the stove is one tall slim young man, straight black hair pulled back into a neat low ponytail, dressed neatly in a very (very) elegantly tailored silver-trimmed blue tunic and paler grey trousers. A sheathed katana has been propped up against the counter nearby, unnecessary, really, for cooking but close at hand anyway. Drawn, perhaps, by the smell of cooking, Steve comes downstairs with his hair still damp from the shower. He wears a white t-shirt (it sits tightly on his muscular torso and has an olive drab logo on the chest a stylized eagle overlaid on a circle and holding a shield that reads 'SSR'), khaki pants, and white athletic socks with heather gray toes and heels. He has a yellow legal pad tucked under one arm. When he spots the chef at work, he comes up short. Studies the young man for a moment. "Daiki." It's not a question. He waves, then points at himself. "Steve." There's a small clench of tension threading through Daiki's shoulders at the sound of approaching footsteps; before he's even looked away from the stove he's reached for the sword. His grip on it relaxes when he sees Steve, head tipping in acknowledgment as he sets it back down. "{Sorry}," is in Japanese, but the tone of apology is fairly universal. For a moment his eyes meet Steve's, studying the other man's face thoughtfully. The small smile that he offers comes with a small subtle pull -- a flush of warmth, a faint whisper of pleasant affection. "{-- Ah, I don't -- do you speak Japanese?}" In very /hopeful/ Japanese, before switching somewhat less fluidly to, "{French? Spanish?}" in their respective tongues. He turns back to the stove, setting his sword back down. Steve shakes his head at the question in Japanese, smiling back all the same. He does not come any closer even after Daiki puts the sword down, though he did not look excessively /alarmed/ by it to begin with. "{I speak French,}" in rustic but fluid continental French. Then, in ridiculously Italian-sounding Spanish, "{Learning Spanish. Little bit.}" Switching back to French again, "{Thank you for all the food you've left me. It's all been delicious, but I was worried that I'd expose you to infection if I wrote any notes in reply.}" Daiki's attention shifts back to his food, turning over the fish fillets as his head tips to listen to Steve speak. "{French. Very well. I can manage.}" A little bit awkwardly, in halting Quebecois French, but he's perfectly understandable. "{Do you like fish?}" He half-turns again, gesturing with his spatula to the pan of fish. The small smile on his face is just a touch wry. "{That is very considerate of you. Though I already have sick. So much sick in here.}" "{I love fish.}" Steve sets his legal pad down on the counter, braces the heels of his hands against it. "{Though I am generally not hard to please in terms of food, and I am almost always hungry.}" He frowns now. "{More so than usual, lately. The sickness, I guess.}" He nods. "{Unfortunate to hear, but not surprising. It seems like the whole city is sick.}" His light blue eyes scan the kitchen. "{Is there anything I can do to help? Washing up, perhaps?}" "{Not the whole. Not yet. Last time --}" Daiki shudders. There's a stronger twisting pull -- a slowly growing feeling of /want/, of hunger, clawing needily into whatever appetite sickness is already instilling in Steve. Only semi-directed at the frying fish; just as much of its focus is on the cook himself. "{Last time it tore so much more of this city. Up. This time medicine. Maybe will help? Have you gone. For drugs.}" He nods at the offer to help, gesturing towards a cabinet. "{Need dishes. For eating.}" Steve shakes his head rapidly. Does not answer Daiki's recollection of the previous outbreak except with a grunt of displeasure or just discomfort. Then, after a delay. "{Medicine? Yes. I went Saturday to one of the treatment centers. Very crowded with frightened people. Fights broke out while we waited...not even fighting for place in line, just over seemingly insignificant disagreements.}" He looks at the cabinet Daiki indicates. Hesitates. Goes to it to retrieve plates and bowls. "{Have you? Gotten medicine?}" "{I --}" Daiki hesitates, a small tension clenching his jaw. "{Yes. There was also. Fighting. My fault.}" His voice is just a little bit more clipped than before. "{I had to try several clinics before I managed.}" He switches off the stove. One of his arms curls around his chest, fingers wrapping tight around the opposite arm. "{So far nothing.}" This sounds sharper, annoyed, the gnawing hungry feeling climbing higher. "{Feel sicker. Not better.}" "{How was it your fault?}" Steve looks genuinely bewildered, and sounds not a little irked. But then he freezes, plates and bowls still in hand. "{You mean, because of your powers.}" Not a question. "{Would it better better for me to go. Elsewhere?}" Daiki draws in a quick breath, fingers tightening around the spatula. "{Better. For /you/. Yes. Because certainly that's what's --}" This is sharp and snapped, too; for a moment there's a sharp surge, a cloying-clawing pull of mindless-ravenous need. For a moment he looks an /awful/ lot like dinner. Just for a moment; then it's back to /just/ -- a lot of hunger. He drops the spatula into the cast-iron pan with a clatter, backing quickly farther down the length of the stove range. "{I -- sorry. There. Was a reason for the notes. The fish should be good, though. I hope -- I hope.}" He does not finish this sentence. Instead, a very small smile. A little crooked. "{It is not always like this, here. You picked. Strange time. To defrost.}"