Logs:(Lightly) Fried Rice

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(Lightly) Fried Rice
Dramatis Personae

Harm, Marcus, Tomas

2020-09-16


"Are you going to wash that?"

Location

<XAV> Kitchen - Xs First Floor


The kitchen staff at Xavier's tends well to the needs of its residents. Always cognizant of its students and faculty's dietary needs alike, the menu has a wide variety of choices, and the longtime cook works wonders in the kitchen. The pantry, too, is kept well stocked for those who want to come prepare themselves their own snacks. The shelf, fridge, and freezer space is ample, though if anyone wants to keep their own food there, they'd better make sure it's labeled clearly, and even that is no guarantee it'll last.

It's late, dinner long since packed away and much of the energy of the mansion winding down for the night as people busy themselves with studying or television or games or getting ready for sleep. It is mostly quiet in the kitchen, too -- empty except for two figures over by the stove where a slight teenager with decidedly uncanny-valley inhuman proportions and deep azure skin is tossing mixed veggies in a wok; on the counter beside him there are several bottles of various oils and sauces, a tupperware with day-old white rice from yesterday's dinner.

Marcus is barefoot, dressed in dark jeans and a plain grey tee, and though usually Very Quiet when he's seen around school at the moment is brighter, animated. For all his energy he speaks carefully, measured and enunciated in Haitian-tinged French. "{It is less awkward than I thought it would be. But still awkward. I think it would be even weirder to have that class with your dad, though.}"

Harm is leaning against the counter, generally staying out of Marcus's way now that the prep work they can help with is done. They're wearing a long woven tunic dip-dyed in sunset colors and brown wrap pants, shoeless like their companion. "{I having already learn some of that, back home? It is no awkward.}" Their French comes awkward, halting, occasionally ungrammatical and always with a ludicrously heavy American accent. "{But if it was my dad? No! I will not like that. But, maybe different, if my dad is Mister Holland.}"

Tomas is of average height, a small frame, he has mid length black hair and a slouched posture that makes him appear shorter. He is wearing a David Bowie T-shirt that is way to big for him, sweats and a pair of Tennis shoes, he never liked being barefoot, the flour can be sticky, He has a necklace on under the shirt and a single earbud in one ear. Tomas walks into the kitchen with an empty plate and an empty salt shaker in his hands, he sets the empty plate in the dishwasher. He looks over at Marcus cooking and stands just in his view to get his attention. He holds the empty shaker in his hand and points to the salt on the counter near Marcus.

"{I can not imagine if it were my dad. But he just -- wouldn't. He's already mad I have to take the class. If he met Mister Holland he would probably...}" Marcus's words cut off abruptly when Tomas wanders in, his shoulders a little tenser and his head bowing. He tosses his vegetables again deftly, looking back up only when Tomas gestures. At first his brows pull into confusion -- he looks from Tomas to the array of seasonings in front of him, but then glances back at the shaker. His frown clears, though his posture remains tense as he slides the salt across the counter.

Harm waves at Tomas as he approaches. "{He doesn't like to talk,}" they tell Marcus with a shrug, still in unpolished French. To Tomas they say, their tone at once hopeful and doubtful "{Do you speak French?}"

Tomas grabs the salt shaker and opens it and takes a big "drink"of it and puts the top back on. He hands Marcus the empty salt shaker he was holding and signs "thank you" in ASL, keeping the, now partly, full shaker for himself. Tomas waves back at Harm, and turns his head a bit in confusion at the French being spoke to him.

Marcus's nose wrinkles, lips twisting down in clear disgust as Tomas eats straight out of the salt shaker. "Um," is his somewhat bemused commentary. He does not touch the one that Tomas offers back to him, just shaking his head emphatically as the other boy tries to hand it back. "No. Keep that." In English, too, his Haitian accent is thick. He tips the rice from its Tupperware into his wok, eyeing his spread of bottles before starting to add some without measuring. Sesame oil, soy sauce, chili sauce. More tossing.

Harm actually recoils a little, struggling to keep their expression neutral. "Oook." Their lips compress. "Um. Sorry, I was just asking if you spoke French. I guess the answer is no."

Tomas grinned and nodded his head, aloof to the fact the two where grossed out by his new habit, before turning to watch Marcus cook. He pulled out his phone and typed on it, the phone dictated: "WHAT ARE YOU COOKING?"

"Nothing," Marcus answers, immediate and reflexive despite quite clearly obviously being in the middle of cooking. "Don't touch."

"Are you going to wash that?" Harm asks finally, indicating the empty shaker Tomas tried to hand Marcus. "It's really unsanitary to just put it back like that." Then, a bit more slowly. "It's communal."

Tomas types more: "OKAY I WILL STAY OUT OF YOUR WAY, SMELLS TASTY THOUGH " Tomas gives Markus a grin before turning to Harm, he looks at the empty shaker, then lightly hits his palm to his head as if to say "duh" before putting the empty shaker in the dishwasher. He then grabs a bar stool from near the kitchen island and sits near Marcus, purposely in his line of vision but out of the way enough, and watches him cook.

The tension in Marcus's shoulders is only growing as his rice keeps frying. His too-large square-pupiled eyes keep darting back to Tomas, and he fidgets restlessly where he stands. His long tapered fingers clench tighter at his spoon. Finally he looks up, a little on edge: "Why do you stare."

"Thank you." Harm says, clearly relieved, leaning back against the counter again. Looks at Marcus, then Tomas, then back. "{I think that maybe he want eat the rice,}" they suggest French. "{Because that it is full of salt.}"

Tomas types on his phone: "I AM NOT MEANING TO STARE SORRY IF ITS AKWARD I JUST WANTED TO WATCH YOU COOK ITS INTERESTING" he rubs the back of his neck bit as the phone dictates.

"{Everyone stares,}" Marcus replies to Harm, just slightly more bitter in the French than he'd been in English. "{Even here.}" His jaw is tight, the tension not leaving his hunched shoulders. "Awkward," he confirms, stilted and uncomfortable, in English. "You -- can ask? If okay? Not just --" He waves one hand in Tomas's general direction. Briefly turns to stare back, eyes wide and fixed. "Not just. That."

"{I am sorry it is always the staring.}" Harm doesn't avert their eyes from Marcus's cooking, at least, except to briefly glance up at where Tomas is perched. "It's important to communicate, and get consent," they add. "Not always easy, but. Important."

Tomas looks as if he is a little confused before releasing he was making the other student feel uncomfortable, and nodding a bit. He types: "YES I UNDERSTAND, SORRY BUDDY I REALLY WASENT MEANING TO OFFEND YOU" he rubs the back of his neck and sighs "CAN I WATCH YOU COOK? IF THAT IS OKAY? OR I CAN LEAVE YOU BE, I UNDERSTANDING WANTING PRIVECY" Besides typing on his phone his attention is still on the wok, and what Markus is cooking.

"Um." Marcus's head tips down, and he switches the gas off under his burner. "I have done. Sorry." He is scooping the rice into two waiting bowls, eyes darting rapidly between Tomas and Harm and the array of bottles and jars still on the table. "There is class. For cooking. Fun class. If you like..." A small uncertain frown. "To stare."

Harm takes the wok and loads it into the industrial dishwasher along with the cooking utensils. "{Thank you!}" They pick up their bowl. "{Come, we go into the eh...conservatory?}" The last word sounds like a guess, if a correct one. They switch back into English to address the other boy, "Have a good night, Tomas!"

Tomas nods and gets up from the chair, shaking his head in response to Marcus' mention of a cooking class, he'd never sign up for such a frivolous thing. Realizing that the two seem to be leaving to be on their own, Tomas gives the two a wave and walks off, but not before pouring himself a glass of soy sauce and sipping it as he walks off.