Flan
the-rose-has-wilted
Notes: SLASH! BEWARE! I don't own Xiaolin Showdown, just the plot. Which probably isn't very good!
linelineline
It wasn't that HIS smile was any better than anyone else's.
Because it wasn't.
And it wasn't that he was a better person.
Because he most certainly wasn't.
But he had an appeal that was so completely alien, yet insanely attractive. For some reason, he was being foolish about love again.
Avó had always told him "You fall in love with the right person, and you'll know" Then they would go back to the stones outside their front yard, overlooking the arid little town below. "Don't make the mistake I did." And his big brown eyes would stare up, not understanding the meaning of the words, but promising to repeat them in his head until they would never leave him, like the cirrus clouds low in the azure sky each afternoon. Now he understood what it meant. But he didn't want to make the same mistake.
"You see how you make a flan?" she had asked him, working in the small kitchen that the light scattered and made the dust shine in the afternoon. "You see, it takes time. Anything worth doing takes time." And he helped add the sugar, large brown eyes sucking in the nectar of youth. Flan at Christmas was always the best. Years later he had baked one, but he had never done it right; it turned to mush, the lovely brown caramel covered in white pudding. It was almost a bread pudding.
He knew what she would have told him. "A good flan takes time!" But he had a thought. Perhaps it wasn't just time, it was also dedication. And dedication comes from love of... something. But he thought it might be someone. He looked up, remembering the stucco that was above his head every morning for eight years. It was such a pretty cream color. But it could have been pretty in something else. And other things are pretty too.
Like a stark white, the kind when your shadows are blue, framed in black. The fact that they weren't tones of earth appealed to him; they were untouchable qualities only the stars could possess. Although, to be true, some roses are white.
But he always thought of roses as being red. And they can grow in soil, as long as you care. Avó's roses were beautiful. All white. But they stayed that way because of her devotion. And perhaps that was what he needed. Something for him to be dedicated to. And then master Fung caught him sitting, staring at the wall with his polishing rag limp in his hand.
And it was back to polishing the floor. But soon the paleness overcame the back of his eyes, folding in on him, and drowning him again. The face was always so polished and powdered, and the black eye product never smeared. And the lips having been plumped and beautified; it was so wrong. So wrong. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. It irritated him to no end, because it's not what you should be thinking about when training, or pouring tea, or doing any of the myriad of tasks he was treated to. And sure, he liked ice cream as much as your next friend.
But he still loved flan. And He still could picture his Avó's face, telling him: "Follow your mind, because you've got a good one." And he already loved the torrid state of his home, but he couldn't get cool, pale and white out of his head. So how was he to trust his mind, if he'd already lost it?
And, honestly, he didn't trust himself with important decisions anymore.
He gripped the rag, going into a flurry of polishing, trying to erase the face out of his head, wash the thoughts from his mind. He scooted to the right, polishing onwards towards the end of the hall. It made him want to put his fist through the white paper screens that were choking him, clogging his eyes. He needed to go, get out. He could say he didn't live there anymore. He wanted to see the stars in the night, because the inside space was not welcome for wind; it left him in the doldrums. He polished along, each stroke causing more desperation to flit into his soul. He was going to hyperventilate if he saw one more white face.
And, besides, cooking wasn't something that guys did. He, and they surfed, stared at girl's asses and kicked other guys. They didn't make flan. And they didn't become romantically involved with anyone other than hot girls for any other reason than, you know. Because that wasn't what guys did. So the dilemma was still present. And he wanted to do what guys do.
"You fall in love with the right person, and you'll know"
He knew that, but how were you supposed to tell? He scrubbed along, peeling scratches off the floor, then scooted down further. How can you tell when your with the right one? He didn't know. Everyone else had gone to bed, he knew that, And this wasn't fair. Just because he shattered a pot of tea when someone mentioned apple cider. Spiced with cinnamon.
"You see how you make a flan?"
He think he did. And then, he got up, standing slowly on two steady feet. He went out the walkway, tiptoeing past the others, sleeping, released peacefully from the burdens of the day. He slid the door open, stepping into the courtyard. There were so many stars out here, against the blue of the night. You can see anything in the sky... even a face. And he looked across the sky at the rise of the hill surrounding the Dojo's walls. And, shouldering the load in his head, he turned back in. Each step was slow and measured, as if he had no idea how he was going to go about walking back to the doorway, blinking. He was tired. But it wasn't even midnight. And that was when it was important. And it was too cold outside anyways.
The kitchen appealed to him, and he stepped in, letting the light from the hall illuminate the space. What was the likely hood that monks, who seemed to starve themselves due to ritual, would have anything like sugar. Hah! What a luxury. And he looked. There weren't any cabinets, nothing to indicate storage. And he turned, to flick the light out when he turned. bumping into a large pillar of flesh.
"Clay?"
"Rai? What you doin' up? The heifers were put to bed hours ago!"
"I don't have time for your cowboy-isms!"
"Yeah, well, happy Valentine's Day to you, too." And the boy walked on., presumably a light-night bathroom break. And that was the last straw; he turned around, feet planted in the kitchen.
"You see how you make a flan?"
Yes, he knew, he knew. You needed dedication, and you needed love in your heart. But he had both now. But no sleep seemed to have no effect on him. And he found the rose water, down, the sugar, the ramekins, the butter. He had six or seven hours to spend, which was cutting it close.
He was going to do this right. Each of the glazed containers were buttered, the knife scraping the bottom gently, as he turned them in his hands. Those hands, so callused now prepared to make a delicate dessert. But he had practiced the steps so carefully. And a pot was placed on the stove, a half a cup of sugar to 2 tablespoons of water, measuring in his palm. He didn't have the utensils, but a wooden spoon would do the job. He didn't need a thermometer, he knew the golden color, when the sugar coated the spoon.
"You see, it takes time. Anything worth doing takes time."
The sugar was ready, and it poured out into the ramekins, the bottom a rich brown, hiding the pure white bottom. He turned on the oven, eyes scanning the tiny device, it seemed to inadequate. The dial read 350. right on target. He mixed the milk and sugar, heating it until it was just warm. both hands wrapped around the pot's lid, keeping the milk from boiling, coaxing it to correct temperature. It would be ready soon. He dipped in his finger, liking the taste. It was good.
"A good flan takes time!"
He mixed the eggs and yolks, the vanilla, and a quarter of the milk mixture. Simple. Easy. But so easy to destroy. Fragile, like a flower. And he added the rose water. That was what made the recipe. It was why you could make the recipe that for someone who loved someone else, no matter how they do it. His eyes closed a moment, before pouring it in with a practiced hand, whisking as best as he could. Thinking of cinnamon. Cinnamon and applesauce. He inhaled the scent of baking, something to cherish.
He , armed with his whisk, poured the eggs and vanilla into the milk, stirring under a higher heat for a minute or two. The two flavors combined. He knew when to stop, lest it become undesirable.
"You see how you make a flan?"
He poured the custard into the ramekins; just the right amount went into each one. The dish they went in was filled to half the height of the small dishes, and placed them in the hot oven. He set aside, cleaning for the forty-five minute stretch in the oven. He knew the time well. And then he took them out, setting them on the available table to cool for as much time as he had. He ran to his little inlet in the paper screens.
"You see how you make a flan?"
He folded a small white square of paper on his knee, and wrote a gentle scritch-scratch into his thigh. And, careful not to smudge it, he didn't sign his name. He grabbed one of the flans, and took the note and custard outside. Don't ask how he did it.
linelineline
And there was a dessert on his table that morning. He was up, applying his makeup. One delicate eyebrow was raised, questioning. Was it a bomb? And then he saw the note. A small square of paper, with some words gently scritch-scratched into it:
Dear Jackalope,
Don't worry, stupid! It's not a bomb. It's flan. Try some!
P.s. Happy Valentine's day
And, Jack never loved a dessert so much.
"You see how you make a flan?"
End.
Well. I hope you like it. If you haven't guessed, it's Jack/Raimundo. The recipe is for Rose Petal Flan at I like reviews! Pease don't flame. I really appreciate helpful criticism, though.