Dracobolt: Thank ya muchly.
ObviousMan: Thank you and I appreciate your support.
Seventh Sage: The flower thing as actually turned out to be more fun than I thought it would be. I should be thanking you.
BrokenAngel,ForgivenDevil: Now that was the reaction I was aiming for!
End of Response Section3/11/05 I'm a pyro who has OCD. This chapter is proof. I had to change it slightly as it wouldn't work the first time. The fact that I put off writing the scene until I could find the right recipe both scares and amuses me. But mostly amuses.
Oh, and just in case any of you wonder(I did), double cream is just very rich cream, about 48 butterfat. That's 8 higher than the highest-fat cream that you can get in the US. And a ramekin is just a small dish used for baking and serving. No matter what country you live in, this has been your lesson of the chapter. If you already knew this, I hope you were amused with my ignorance. On with the fic. And what's probably the longest disclaimer I've ever written.
Disclaimer: Rallalon does not own Tales of Symphonia or any of its characters, places or items. Cooking-related information used in this chapter was found at the following sites which Rallalon doesn't own either: www(dot)dvo(dot)com(slash)recipepages(slash)grilln(slash)CookingWithaBlowtorch.html
www(dot)bbc(dot)co(dot)uk(slash)food(slash)recipes(slash)database(slash)sweetpotatobrulee(underdash)72133(dot)shtml
www(dot)answers(dot)com(slash)ramekin&r67
www(dot)ochef(dot)com(slash)543(dot)htm.
She is in no way responsible for any mishaps/accidents a person may have while attempting to cook a recipe they learned of through her fic.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Time passes very slowly. Or perhaps time is simply how humans, and elves she assumed, explain how the world changes, saying that time has passed. And maybe when the world does not change, what humans think of as time slows down. Or it could be that what humans thought of as time moves at one constant pace, but the perspectives of humans make it seem like its speed changes. There was also the possibility that it did change, either randomly or maybe when flattered by all the attention it was getting and thereby slowing down.
However, it was far more likely that Alicia was just trying to amuse herself while keeping an eye on the soup and stirring. It was still something to think about, though.
"Coffee, Ali?"
"No thanks. Melissa, do you think that- What?"
"What do you mean, 'what'?"
"You just looked, you know, like you do when you find out some guy likes you." At Melissa's prompting gesture, Alicia tacked on, "Relieved and happy."
"You on coffee is weird. I guess I'm just glad you're not sick or anything with how you were having trouble sleeping and everything." Melissa shrugged.
"Yeah. Thanks," Alicia replied, deaf to the awkwardness of her friend. Normal. Three weeks of everything going back to "normal". Strange how it did feel normal, now. Strange how just three weeks could erase a habit of nearly three months. Roughly four and a half since this all started, she figured. Strange.
After the first week, the constant checking of her apron pockets stopped. The urge to get out of bed and tiptoe down to the kitchen finally left her. Constant wondering turned into the occasional thought. The need to talk to him, to listen to him, to hear those footsteps... died down.
That was good, wasn't it? No one was supposed to be that focused on just one person, to have one person the center off all their waking thoughts, as well as some of the other kind. It couldn't be healthy. But to have that feeling, the one that made her heart pound, the one that led her to the kitchen again and again, the one that made her want to smile no matter what was happening... for that feeling to leave her... She wasn't sure she wanted that. She wasn't sure if it had completely happened. Partially... yes.
This was her first major crush. That was basically all that she was sure of. If it lasted only a third of a year, well, that was pretty good for a thirteen-year-old girl, she thought.
Eyes going back between the soup and the timer, she slowed her stirring, stopped.
"Combatir."
"Yes, sir?"
"You have a moment." From Cook, it was a statement, not question. Her job was reduced to monitoring now and someone else could be pulled in for that. He knew that better than she did.
"Yes, sir."
"Today's the day."
Alicia's mind blanked. "Sir?"
"Ask Wenton to teach you how to use It."
Straight face, no outburst, be mature, straight face, no outburst, be mature, and, above all, don't question why. "Thank you, sir."
"You're old enough now. Get to it, Combatir."
"Yes, sir!"
Of course, it was easier to forget about teenage gentlemen and their large hands when one had distractions. And It was a distraction she'd been marveling at for years, regarding with great interest and, though she didn't like to admit it, fear. It was a distraction that hinted at things to come. As she dutifully listened to every word Anthony Wenton said, she realized that she had found the recipe for her bet.
So maybe true distractions were hard to come by. Maybe she didn't really want one just yet.
.-.-.-.-.-.
It was morning. It was morning twenty-three days after a play under the stars.
"Up!" Alicia cried, already fully dressed, as she pulled the sheets away from her roommate in a practiced motion. Making breakfast for an entire building meant waking up far earlier than anyone cared for. Except for Alicia, today.
Melissa muttered something that roughly translated to "I thought you stopped drinking that stuff." At least, that was the polite version.
"I did! Come on, up!" She then proceeded to steal a pillow.
"Evil."
"Yep!"
"..."
"Come on, wake up!"
"Yes, milaaaa-dy."
"No sarcasm until you're up. Come on, let's go!"
"Go without me. I'll-" a yawn. "I'll be there..." One more. "In a little bit."
"Okay..."
"You're leaving on the light, aren't you?"
"Ah-huh."
"Evil."
"Wake yourself up then," she answered, still smiling, and left for the kitchen.
He was back today. He was back.
No words for this feeling, no words.
The kitchen was still fairly empty when she got there, just Cook and some of the earlier risers. Alicia immediately grabbed her apron, her heart pounding, and put it on before checking the pockets.
She stopped.
She was torturing herself, she knew that, but when it came down to it, she wasn't sure she wanted to look. Had he been unable to get to the kitchen, there would be no note. And this seemed likely now that she thought about it. He'd probably be tired or with someone who would wonder what he was doing. So long as she didn't check, she could believe otherwise, that he was back and that this hadn't been some way of his for saying a permanent good-bye. It didn't matter how likely she thought it; there was the possibility and she was fairly sure she'd believe that possibility to be true if she check and it wasn't-
O Martel, when would she stop being such an idiot?
She reached in, felt paper. Thought she was going to fall over from self-inflicted nerves. Winced at the return of her headache. Sagged slightly, suddenly very tired.
"Ha."
Alicia turned around to find a bleary-eyed Melissa yawning. Despite this, she looked rather satisfied to find her younger friend as tired as she was, probably because Alicia had been annoyingly energetic just minutes before. Misery loves company, after all. Melissa seemed to think she had it.
That Alicia had the urge to laugh harder than she had for the past three weeks wasn't exactly taken into this consideration.
.-.-.-.-.-.
"Good evening."
Suddenly shy, Alicia tried not to smile too much at the teen standing patiently by the counter, waiting for her. A nice change. "Good evening to you, too." Okay, holding back the smile was pointless, but so far she had restrained herself from a fierce hug and a yell of "You're back!" as she doubted it would be exactly appreciated.
He smiled back, but there was a definite question in his expression. Was he wondering if she would ask him about the trip? His name? She wanted to ask, desperately. But he just looked so uneasy about the possibility... It'd be a bad idea.
"Close your eyes."
He stared at her. "What?" Apparently, that was the last thing he had expected her to say.
She gave a small laugh. "I want you to guess what I chose, but I need to get everything out here first. Are you alright with a dessert?"
He nodded obeyed, trusting her not to do something immature while he couldn't see, like throwing something at him or simply leaving the kitchen. She made sure she could be heard when going to the pantry.
Two sweet potatoes... Brown sugar... Where'd the- ah, there it was. And she'd leave the double cream in the refrigerator until it was needed.
She looked back into the kitchen and had an odd feeling of déjà vu. His back wasn't turned, but he still couldn't see her peeking out at him. Strangely, he didn't look impatient. In fact, he looked amused and interested, cupping his chin.
...Okay, she should probably move now, before he wondered what in the world she was doing and caught her staring. Looking. Getting bowls and a pair of ramekins would be a good idea.
"Ready."
He opened his eyes and it was quickly obvious that he was wracking his brain for some sort of a guess.
"May I ask?"
"Sweet Potato Brulée."
"There's such a thing?"
Alicia nodded, her smile back in full force. "Do you want to peel or boil?"
From there, things fell back into the ease they had grown used to, nearly as if there had been no large gap in their cooking sessions. Alicia brought up the play and her disappointment in the ending; he thought it was the best part. But how could that be?
When one thought about it, there was nothing saying that the Chosen of the play had actually returned to Meltokio. In fact, he could have simply used the boat to run away. The ambiguousness of the ending was what made it good, letting viewers decide the outcome from their own opinion.
Interesting. Were most plays like that?
Some. Would she care to discover which ones for herself?
...Possibly. If he didn't mind taking her, that was.
...He didn't. When tide was low enough, of course.
For curiosity's sake, when would that be?
Tomorrow night, he assumed. Or perhaps the night after.
The night after, she thought.
Yes, he thought she was probably right.
...The Sweet Potato Brulée was in its last stage now. He might want to stand back.
"...What is that?"
Alicia had just pulled It out from its place under the counter and was busy rolling up her sleeves. "A blowtorch," she replied simply.
"I see." He paused. "Why is there a blowtorch in the kitchen?" Something in his tone told her that while she was more than used to the idea and took it as a given, it was something fairly bizarre to him.
Making sure her hair was still in pigtails, she struggled not to laugh, kept in check mostly by the thought of how people disliked not knowing things. Laughing at this point wasn't a good idea. "You'd be surprised how often it can be used."
"...I see."
The counters were made to be heatproof and the ramekins were fairly safe, so... Alicia lit the blowtorch and adjusted it until there was a yellow-red cone in the center of the dark blue flame. Moving the flame back and forth, keeping it about three finger widths above the desserts, she tried to ignore the feeling that he was looking at her. Of course he was: it was a natural reaction. Turning your back on someone with a blowtorch wasn't exactly a common response.
She stopped and the sugar continued to cook even as she turned the blowtorch off. "And that's why we have this thing," she told him, trying her best to meet his gaze. It would be easier if he didn't have that look that was one part of something close to wariness, two parts respect and one part... something else. Having worn it herself on occasion, she knew it was basically a reaction to watching someone use a blowtorch, but... still...
It was a while until she looked directly at him again, catching then end of what she liked to think of as a long glance. His gaze went down to his dessert and he smiled softly to himself. A different sort of smile.
Before he could catch her staring, she looked away, suddenly embarrassed. She wanted to ask him. She wanted to ask him now.
"I've been wondering for a while. What's your-"
He looked at her.
"-favorite kind of dish?"
From this incident, she learned two things. One, she was a coward who couldn't say a simple question right. Two, he liked stews which, of course, took too long for him to make one.
Clean up was a fairly simple procedure and was, in Alicia's opinion at least, over far too soon. Just, well, after not seeing him for three weeks, well, she didn't want to say good-bye just yet. It was perfectly normal to want to spend time with friends after a long while apart. Nothing wrong with that.
"Close your eyes."
She stared at him. "What?" Blinked. Something was weirdly familiar about this.
"Close your eyes," he repeated, gently.
Smiling despite herself, she crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Listened to his footsteps. Heard him open a cabinet door. Close it. What... Now that she thought about it, it seemed to be roughly around where he had been waiting. She thought. Resisted the urge to look. The strong urge. Not from paranoia or anything, just curiosity. It really did take a lot of self-control to simply stand there with one's eyes closed.
Heavy footsteps, approaching.
Then silence, save the refrigerator, their breathing and her heart. Why was he pausing like that? Exactly how close was he?
It couldn't have been that long until he moved, but it felt like it. A step towards the counter and then many towards the door. "Feel free to look now."
She did, turning to face him. He gave her a hesitant smile, bid her goodnight.
...What?
What by Goddess Martel's name had that been? And... and why?
She took a confused look around and-
Oh.
Huh.
Where- No. She knew where.
Why... That was the question. Because how could he have thought she wouldn't like it?
For there on the counter, was a small sprig with several small flowers.
Small, white Presea flowers.