[PM to Join] Among the Better Men

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

His eyes followed the movement as Aremu turned, albeit slightly, removing the wooden hand from where it'd been attached to his wrist. His hand went to smooth against the skin, and Lars wondered if it was sore - wondered if it was more difficult to leave it on than to take it off. He knew well that sometimes, trying to make up for the absence of something was worse than the absence itself.

Lars' eyes were drawn up to the imbala's face again when he spoke, and he found himself once again silenced, oddly uncomfortable (or perhaps not uncomfortable, but he couldn't find the word) with the offered kindness, and unaware of how to respond to it. He couldn't accept, he reminded himself, but he could not refuse either, and so he didn't respond, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. He couldn't first receive help without payment and then dinner as well.

It was not anyone's place to serve him, he thought, and certainly not another passive, but then - this wasn't the same, not even slightly, as a servant bringing dinner to a student in Brunnhold. Aremu owed him nothing, and presumably was not trying to get anything out of him either.

This was Niccolette's house, Aremu confirmed, and Lars made a mental note not to mess with anything - not that he would have in the first place, not intentionally, but he certainly didn't wish to give the woman any more of a reason to dislike him. He did not wish to make an enemy of her, nor did he want to get on Aremu's bad side.

He stepped closer to the counter as Aremu set out the eggplants, cutting them in halves. It was difficult, he realized, to stand back and watch someone else prepare food while his own hands were empty, unused.

"I can... make out certain letters," he gave, drawing his hands together before him, keeping them still, "I learned, when I was younger. I think I knew how for a while, but it's lost to me, now."

Lars had tried, throughout the years, to somehow unlock that ability; he'd read over notes and books and anything he could get his hands on, but outside of a few letters, nothing made sense. For a while he had kept a note from his parents, with words undecipherable but memorized clearly - a note from Bennett, as well, that he'd never made sense of.

He breathed in deep, eyes drifting across the kitchen, "could I at least assist you?" requested the passive, "I would feel bad if I didn't at least help you with dinner, for taking your time."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

He had known, Lars said, but it was lost to him. Aremu nodded, slightly. It was hard to know what to make of it. Aremu knew there were things the mind clung to, and things it pushed away. Was it as simple as uncovering something already there, buried, whether shallow or deep? As simple as reminding Lars of what he already knew?

Or was it more complex than he could begin to imagine? Was it locked behind feelings he could not begin to understand? He had pledged only to try, Aremu told himself, and so he would. Lars wanted, whatever it was; perhaps that was half the battle.

“Of course,” Aremu smiled at Lars when the other man asked if he could help. “Would you peel and dice the onion?” He fetched a knife for Lars, and a wooden board on which to cut, and set them down before the other man.

Aremu took out a metal sheet, and propped the eggplant halves on them, standing them face up one next to the other. There was a brush sitting out, nearby; he poured a bit of oil into a thin bowl, and brushed it in long, smooth strokes over the eggplant shells. He opened the heavy oven door, slid the tray inside, and closed it against behind them.

Aremu went to the pantry, then, and took out a potato, rinsing it beneath the running water at the sink. He set it on another wooden board, and took out a metal peeler. He held the potato in place with his right wrist, and ran the blade over it, lightly, peeling the flesh from it with quick, easy motions.

When it was done, he found another knife, and began to chop it, quick and precise, cutting it in half lengthwise, and dicing each half, his left hand moving neatly and steadily. He lay the knife down, gently, and brought the bowl of stringy eggplant pulp to Lars’s board.

“Would you chop this as well?” Aremu asked.

Aremu went back into the pantry, then; he came out with a pottery jar in one hand, cloves of garlic and a piece of ginger atop it. He set the jar down by the stove and carried the ginger and garlic to his board.

“I’m not sure the best way to begin,” Aremu admitted. His fingers held a small knife against the ginger, peeling the delicate skin away; he flicked a last bit clean and set it down on the board, and turned his attention to the rougher, papery garlic skin.

From what Lars had said, Aremu saw little reason to sit there and watch him drag himself through reading some passage or other. He remembered beginning with the alphabet, with learning to sound words out. “We could try with the alphabet tonight,” Aremu suggested, conscious, oddly regretful, of how little time he had. “If you’d like.”

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

It was a small but welcome comfort when the imbala agreed to let him help, the white-haired passive returning the smile easily now. He stepped forward, again, closer to the counter until he was standing beside Aremu and given a cutting board and knife of his own to work with. His fingers found the handle of the knife to grip it comfortably, turning it over to watch the light glint in the metal, realizing then that he hadn't held a kitchen knife since he'd left Brunnhold. His eyes lifted to Aremu's face, for a brief moment, before back down to the onion, which was grabbed and set upon the wooden cutting board before him.

"Certainly," he agreed, holding the onion with his left hand while his right brought the blade of the knife down to remove the top of it. It was spun to the other side, the bottom sliced off next and then the knife was set to the side for a moment as he removed the outer layer.

Lars hadn't realized until now, too, just how fitting of a title 'Bad Brother' truly was. It would have been funny, perhaps, if it was not so accurate.

He halved it first, setting one half to the side while he held the other in place, fingers holding the smaller end while the knife was used to slice through it. It was turned, then, and he sliced it the other way now, pushing the smaller, diced pieces away to the edge of the cutting board as he worked. A bit of tension seemed to fade from the Hessean's shoulders, his posture relaxing now in the warmth of the kitchen. It was comfortable, he decided, working alongside Aremu.

He did the same with the other half, pushing it all to the side as Aremu brought him the bowl. Lars smiled again, smaller this time, taking the bowl with a nod. He laid it out upon the wooden board, chopping quickly but carefully as he listened to the other man speak. He wasn't sure either, he could admit, he had no clue where to even begin. He had done all that he could think of alone, and none of it made any difference.

"The alphabet," Lars repeated with a nod, "sure, yes. Whatever you think is best."

The eggplant was put back into the bowl as he finished with the knife, and Lars jerked his head up slightly, flipping back a few strands of hair that'd fallen into his eyes again.

"I... am not the best student, I don't think, but I've been trying for a while. I try to look through books when I can, to see if I can make anything out - even familiar words are hard to figure out, though. I remember the shape, but not the sound."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu set to work dicing the garlic cloves and the ginger next. The blade of the knife cleaved through them; here, and again there, he turned it to scrape the bits together, to settle some too large piece to where it belonged.

He was setting the knife down as Lars scraped the eggplant back into the bowl. Aremu took the bright coriander next, tugging a few springs loose. He held the edge in place with his wrist, and pinched the leaves off at the beginning of the stem, gently. He passed the second to Lars with a little smile, and kept at it. When it was done, he chopped them, roughly, the knife passing through the pile once, and then again.

Familiar words, Aremu thought, turning it over. He asked, then; he had known in the accepting that this would require a certain directness between them, a give and take of asking and answering. It was best to start as he meant to go on, not to shy away.

“How are they familiar?” Aremu asked. He went to the stove; he settled a heavy metal pan onto it, and poured what was left of the oil into it, letting it grow warm over the oven’s heat. “Is it that you see them, and think they look familiar, but not more than that?” There was no judgment in his voice, and no regret either, no easing around it. It seemed important to him to know, even if he could not quite yet know how to put it together.

Next to it, Aremu set a small pan of water to heating.

There was a quiet crackle in the oil, when it was ready. Aremu brought the onions over first, set the side of the cutting board against the pan, and scraped them loose into the oil; they sizzled when they hit, letting the first beginnings of a smell into the air. “Will you stir?” He asked Lars with a smile, handing the other man a long-handled wooden spoon.

Aremu went to the icebox instead, and found what was left of the tomatoes he had stewed the day before, those that had been left stored in an old yogurt pot with a tight fitting lid. He took them out, and set them next to the ceramic jar on the counter. He leaned against it, and watched the other man. “Let me know when they’re just beginning to yellow,” he told Lars.

Aremu went into the cupboard them, and came out with a jar of flour; he went and found a bowl next. He poured in a steady portion of the flour, and sprinkled a little on the counter as well. Next, he added a bit of oil; last, he reached for the hot water and poured in a little as well. He took another spoon, and began to stir; he added a little more water, and stirred again, and then he stopped. Aremu reached into the bowl, and took out the dough, and set it down onto the floured surface.

”Add the garlic and ginger,” Aremu told Lars when the onions were ready. “After a few moments, we can add the potato as well.” He began to knead then, steady and careful, feeling the dough beneath his hand with each press and turn.

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Lars took the coriander as it was handed off to him, setting down his knife and following Aremu's movements, plucking the leaves gently from the stem. He set the remnants to the side when it was done, taking up the knife to chop the leaves once and again. He kept his hand on the knife once he had finished, holding it loosely as his gaze moved to watch the imbala set things upon the stove. He nodded, then, not appearing bothered with the question; he was glad, really, that the other man did not simply assume that he knew more than he did.

"Yes, mostly," he confirmed, setting the knife down now; he replaced it in his bruised hands with the wooden spoon offered out to him, moving to stand by the warming metal pan, "I have a few words memorized, because I've been told what they are - I'm not sure which letters go with which sounds, or anything else."

Lars stirred the onions a bit so as not to let them burn, keeping an eye on them as they sizzled in the oil. He'd missed this, he realized, the familiar smells of a kitchen; it made him feel at home in a place that was unmistakably not.

He didn't allow himself to turn his head and watch the other passive move around the kitchen (he wanted to, yes, he wanted to watch him, to know him and his mannerisms), keeping himself turned forward, stirring onions until they'd started yellowing. Lars reached for one of the cutting boards then, dumping the ginger and garlic into the pan as Aremu had requested, setting the board back down on the counter afterwards to return to his occasional stirring.

He did look over, then, watching Aremu as he began to knead the dough he'd just made.

"I worked in the kitchens," said the passive then, dragging his gaze back to the pan, "in Brunnhold. It's nicer, here," Lars reached for the potato, then, that Aremu had chopped up before, adding it as well to the pan.

"If I know the alphabet, all of it," he began, thoughtful, "can I read any language? Or does each language have its own separate alphabet?"

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu pressed the dough beneath the heel of his hand, gently, pushing it away from him in a smooth and even stroke. His fingers held onto the further edge of it, and folded it back upon itself; he pressed it, again, against itself, and folded it once more. He listened, quietly, as Lars spoke, and he did not ask for anything more than what was offered, but only continued to work.

He knew it, the moment that the dough became elastic; he felt it beneath his fingertips, beneath his skin. He began to divide it up, then, pulling it gently apart with his fingertips, and made small, even balls of it, setting them apart to rest.

“Some languages have different alphabets,” Aremu said, with a smile for Lars. “Some share them. Mugrobi, for example – it has its own alphabet, but it’s not widely used, anymore. If you can read Estuan, you can read Mugrobi, although it would take a little adjusting. Gior goes its own way, as, I think, always.”

Monite, Aremu did not say, has its own alphabet too.

The potato was cooking, now; the kitchen was full of the scent of onion, garlic and ginger, a faint hint of potato somewhere low beneath it, starchy and pleasant. Aremu finished with the last of the dough, and washed the bits that had stuck from his palm. He dried his hand, and came to the stove, leaning against the counter next to it. He was relaxed, easy here; there was no tension in the line of his shoulder or his back. It was warm in the kitchen, and he was aware of a pleasant anticipation, somewhere inside him.

When the potatoes began to look done, Aremu went and took the twists of paper from the table. He set them to the side of the stove; he opened one first, and took a pinch of the freshly ground spices inside, carefully gauged against his fingertips. He sprinkled it over the potatoes, a little dusting of pale yellow. The second twist was larger; this one Aremu scooped up into his palm, and weighed, carefully, in the air. He leaned over the pan, gently, and tipped his hand carefully sideways, letting a thin stream of it scatter against the vegetables.

“Stir it around?” He asked.

Aremu set what was left to the side; he took the stoppered jug, next; he held it against himself with his right arm, and eased the lid off. He poured the tomatoes into the pan, stewed thick and already salted. “Let me know when it’s hot,” he told Lars.

When it was time, Aremu scooped the eggplant into the mixture, along with half the coriander; he left the rest nearby. He had not, in the end, touched the red chilis; Aremu was willing to forsake them, this time. He had not, he knew, quite given up hope; not yet.

“There,” Aremu said, pleased. He breathed in deep, and grinned, a little crooked. “Have you ever had Mugrobi food?” He asked Lars, curiously.

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

He resigned himself to watch the other passive continue kneading dough, knowing he should watch the pan but wanting to look up at Aremu's face, figuring it best to settle somewhere in between, somewhere safer. Aremu divided up the dough into even pieces, and set them aside, and Lars allowed himself a glance to catch his smile when he spoke again. He did not return it, far too invested in the words to try and mold his expression into anything other than bright-eyed curiosity.

Different alphabets. How did anyone ever learn to read and write in any more than one? It was hard enough, he thought, figuring out the first language, and he couldn't imagine taking on any more. There were certain words he remembered, certain phrases in Tek that he was beginning to keep in mind and recognize, but he felt that he didn't even know Estuan all that well. Oftentimes he found himself lost in a conversation (not as much now as he had in Brunnhold, but still), the longer, more complicated words difficult to figure out. Sometimes, he could ask for the meaning - but other times, he left it alone. He didn't love the feeling it gave him, having to ask for the meaning of words.

Lars stirred the onion, ginger, garlic, and potato around with the wooden spoon, looking back to the pan and breathing in deep the warming scent of it. He felt the imbala move around him, going to grab something else and return to the counter just as soon. The Hessean held the spoon (and himself) out of the way as Aremu added the spices, afterwards giving a nod and going to give it all another good stir, making sure to get everything properly coated.

The tomatoes were added next, stirred in with the rest of it, and the pan was quieter for a minute or two as it warmed itself back up, slower now. He waited for it to bring itself back up to heat, giving it the occasional stir, and once it was ready, he informed quietly, "it's hot, I think."

Aremu brought the bowl of eggplant over, dumping all of it in along with some of the coriander they'd chopped. Lars stirred, again, gentler now, turning his head to look towards the imbala beside him. This time, he did smile, and shook his head lightly, setting down the spoon.

"I haven't," he answered, and really, he supposed he hadn't had much variety in his meals at all. Certainly not in Brunnhold, and though he had the opportunity to branch out now in the harbor, he wasn't fond of spending the money. He would take what he could get, most days, now that he was so recently out of the house he'd shared with the humans and mostly on his own. Lars' smile turned a little sheepish, then, as the passive glanced back to the pan.

"I'm not... opposed to trying it, though. If you're still of the mind to let me. I think I spend too many nights in the Dove rather than eating real food, anymore," it was a joke, and he hoped it sounded like one.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu grinned, when Lars answered, and a little wider, somehow, when the other man’s smile turned sheepish. He was glad his patience had been rewarded; he was glad he had let himself hope. “Of course,” Aremu said, and he frowned down at the pan. "We have made too much for one, anyway,” he let himself touch Lars on the shoulder, light, but he didn’t linger.

Aremu took out the other jar he had brought from the cabinet; he reached into it, bare handed, and came out with a careful handful of small red lentils. He let a few scatter through his fingers, back into the jar, and then sprinkled the rest into the pan, letting Lars stir them in. He added a bit more water, slowly, pouring carefully.

“It’s called odi’yuw’eqep,” Aremu said, something mischievous in his smile, the Mugrobi even softer and more lilting on his tongue than Estuan. He would repeat it for Lars, if the other man asked; if Lars was willing, he’d do it until the other man could get the gist of the word. “Treasure of the eggplant,” Aremu explained. “More or less, anyway.”

He moved away from the stove, after a little while. “Keep an eye on it for me?” Aremu asked Lars. He took the hand with him, carefully, tucking it and the straps beneath his arm.

He left the other man in the kitchen then; he went along the hallway, into the room he called his own, the same one where he had stayed last time. Marsha had remade the bed, Aremu noticed; he could always tell by the way she did the corners. He wasn’t entirely sure why she did it, but even asking her not to had failed, so far; it had only meant that she had taken to doing it when she thought she would not be caught.

Aremu put the prosthetic away first. He took out his notebook, then, and a pen as well. He found, as well, tucked into his things, the piece of wood-lined slate he used for drafting, when he did not wish to waste paper, and a long piece of chalk. These he brought back to the kitchen with himself, and tucked, unobtrusive, off to the side.

The smell of the spices and the eggplant had filled the warm kitchen, by now; Aremu breathed them in deep, and grinned. “Here, let me?” He edged past Lars, and reached into the oven, his hand tucked inside a heavy cloth. He pulled the tray out, carefully, and set it on the stove.

“May I?” Aremu asked, setting the cloth aside, and extending his hand for the spoon. He began to heap the mixture into the eggplant halves, careful, filling one at a time and smoothing them with a long, even stroke. In time, each of them was full; in time, Aremu set the spoon aside, wrapped his hand in the cloth once more, and tucked the tray back into the oven.

He took out a flat circular pan, and set it on the stove top next to the pan which had held the filling; he greased it lightly, and left it to begin to heat.

“Would you rather roll or cook?” Aremu asked with a grin for Lars. He took out a rolling pin, and brought the first of the circles he had made to the center of the workspace; he held the center of the pin with his hand, and brought it evenly back and forth, applying steady pressure until the dough had become a flat circle. He eased it off the counter, and shifted it to the side, settling the next ball of dough in his place; he did not start to roll, but turned to Lars with a smile, letting him have his choice.

[Lars]

ibutatu residence
yaris 19, 2719 - in the evening

Lars nodded, looking back to the pan with a small smile at the mention of it being too much for one. Yes, it was, and he wondered then if that had been done intentionally. He didn't mind not having to pay for some bad meal at the Dove, but the imbala was being far too kind to him. He had agreed to try helping him read, for one, and for nothing in return, and he had brought him here to Niccolette's home and made him dinner, willingly. They were not friends, Lars thought as Aremu touched his shoulder, but this seemed like something friends would do.

The passive held the spoon out of the way as Aremu added in some red lentils, and more water. He looked back to him, curious, as he gave the meal's name - "odi - odi'yuw - 'eqep?" - and he said it once, and again, managing it better on the second try. He liked the way it sounded, coming from Aremu. Lars was doubtful that he would ever understand more than simple Estuan, and learning more than little words in Mugrobi seemed intimidating, but he did not mind hearing it. It was softer, almost... poetic, as opposed to the harsher language he knew.

"Of course," Lars nodded at the request for him to keep watch, only allowing his eyes to follow the imbala until he exited the kitchen and disappeared from view. His eyes were fixed downwards, then, watching the water begin to bubble again, watching it slowly dissipate. He didn't allow himself to think much while Aremu was gone - he thought it best not to ponder what the man was doing, as it was not his business anyway - nor did he look around the kitchen as he wished to do, because he didn't want to intrude. He felt like he was intruding enough just being here, and he didn't need to make Aremu feel that too.

Aremu wasn't gone for long, fortunately, and Lars stepped easily out of the way when the other man needed to get into the oven. He handed over the wooden spoon, next, and watched as each eggplant was filled with the mixture they'd made, and then set back into the oven. He hadn't allowed himself to consider the aching feeling in his stomach before, but now, the promise of food only strengthened it.

He remained off to the side a bit, not wishing to get in the man's way while he set another, flatter pan upon the stove and drizzled it with oil. Lars had not done much cooking like this before - the students and staff of Brunnhold were less daring, less interesting in their tastes. In turn, Lars had been far less interested in making any of it.

At the question, Lars blinked, hesitating for a moment before he dipped his head, smiling.

"I can roll," he offered, and moved to switch places with the other passive, rolling his sleeves up just above the elbows. There were bruises here and there, along his arms, as well as tiny cuts and scrapes that the Hessean had acquired from some drunken stumbling and falling. Mostly falling, he'd admit.

He looked to the dough that Aremu had already rolled out, taking note of its size and shape before he went to grab the rolling pin. Lars set about rolling the next ball of dough, his movements here a little better-practiced than with the spoon, a little steadier and more sure. He gently shifted the dough, now flat and circular like the first one, away from his working space so that he could grab the next one.

"What is this?" asked Lars, eyes downcast as he watched the dough stretch and shape beneath the pin, "it's circular. I haven't cooked dough like this, in a pan."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 19 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu’s gaze glanced briefly over Lars’s forearms; he noted the bruises and the nicks, the little scrapes, against the other man’s pale skin, and he noticed, too, the muscles that moved gently beneath the skin. He did not ask; he knew something, already, of Lars’s strength, and something, too, he thought, of how the other man liked to lose himself. There was nothing new in the little scrapes, and Lars, Aremu told himself, firmly, was not his to worry for.

“We just call it bread,” Aremu said, with a grin. The pan was beginning to smoke; he took the first flat piece, and set it against the metal pan. It smelled, immediately, a rich doughy scent in the air; Aremu let it cook, briefly, and then pinched the edge between his thumb and fingertip and flipped it in a quick, deliberate motion. The underside was already spotted brown, the dough beneath a warm pale white.

“Quickbread, sometimes,” Aremu said. “There’s another, almost the same dough, with a little longer rest, and a little bit of a different preparation, which can be fried in a deeper oil – it puffs up, then,” he grinned at Lars, gesturing out with his hand, fingers spread wide. He plucked the finished quickbread from the pan, and set it off to the side.

He let the pan come back to just beginning to smoke, and laid the next piece of dough atop it. After it had finished, Aremu drizzled a little more oil atop it, and then fried the next piece of bread.

By the time Lars had rolled out the last piece of bread, and Aremu had turned it over so the brown spots atop glistened and the bottom was cooking, the kitchen was full of the smells of the eggplant mixture they had made, warming through. Aremu set the finished flatbreads on a plate, and brought it out to the table; he set it down, and cleared the dishes to the sink. He set out two porcelain plates by the stove, and wrapped his hand in cloth again, and brought out the eggplants; the halves were well and thoroughly cooked, sagging but still intact beneath the weight of the stuffing. Aremu transferred them to the plates with a spatula, careful, his motions even and smooth. He sprinkled the last of the cilantro over them, and handed a plate to Lars.

Aremu set his own plate down, and fetched two forks and knives, setting them down at the table. He went back into the ice chest, then, and took out the yogurt he had bought at the market, unsealing it and setting it out on the table with a spoon. He went back to the ice chest then, and took out a jug of thick fruit juice, pouring it into two cups and setting down one for each of them; last, but not least, he went to the cupboard and brought out linen napkins, and offered one to Lars.

Finally, with a faint, contented sigh, Aremu sat himself behind his plate; his stomach grumbled again, audibly, as if to remind him he hadn’t yet eaten. He grinned at the other man. “You’re welcome to use the fork, if you like,” Aremu said. He himself took one of the thin, flexible pieces of bread, and, one-handed, ripped off a piece; he dug it into the eggplant filling, scooping up a comfortable bite, and ate it that way. It was rich and warm; it was savory, and spicy. It had been well-worth the effort, Aremu thought, deeply pleased, especially with Lars’s help.