uuuuuggggghhhhhh boring fine do you want to meet and find out who im about to go back to the inn and make dinner. you live like two halls from me. i'll feed you! im a great cook!!! 😍🍽️🎣🍋🍝🥖
[ Okay, so that's the real olive branch. A mild apprehension at meeting "irl" for the first time is covered up by some illustrative emojis... But he'll push the issue even if he has to drop his cover. Clearly it's someone Chara must know to some degree if this anon knows where Chara lives... Weird and weirder. ]
Wouldn't us meeting ruin the mystique of the whole thing?
[Although judging by the video, Chara is getting up and leaving. Because who do they know that lives that close in the Inn? They're totally making a beeline for Alberto's room.]
you want mistic??ok figure out which room it is. i'll leave a clue. seeya 😏
[ He's back home by now, having finished up his mischief at Sokka's. He really is two halls over, and although he's not been over to their place yet, he talked about it with Asriel before when they first met, and he's had Asriel over two or three times now... But his clue won't be subtle at all, hardly even a "clue" — more tongue-in-cheek than anything.
He leaves a rubber chicken propped up against the wall outside the door. And waits. He at least starts prepping for dinner. ]
[Yeah the rubber chicken totally gives it away once Chara is within sight of the room, as they make their way over towards it and... They're totally picking up that chicken and knocking on Alberto's door with it.
So it's a thump and squawk instead of the normal thunk of one knocking, as they wait for whoever this is to answer the door.]
[ The chicken knocking on the door cracks Alberto up, squawks loud and clear over the thuds, and he's laughing out loud to himself already as he hurries to drop what he's doing in the kitchen. He'd been uncertain about this idea — which has never stopped him from doing anything, of course — but he's suddenly glad he did just by hearing that chicken squawking and knocking.
In turn, though, Alberto doesn't answer the door... another rubber chicken does, the young sea monster standing unseen behind the door to open it ajar enough to just show the toy's head popping out. As the door opens, spirited Italian music can now be heard playing in the background, but Alberto says nothing — just gives the chicken a little squeeze, a short friendly squawk "hello." He's way too amused with himself over this. These chickens are the worst best gift he's ever been given. Well, second-best — Asriel gave him a very touching gift not so long ago.
It's equal parts exciting and a tiny bit nerve-wracking to meet Chara for the first time under the guise of anonymity, but, well— this won't be their first rather personal interaction that began anonymously, after all. And food brings people together. Alberto's barely begun prepping, but... Chara needs to be let in, and chickens take precedence. ]
[Of course another chicken answers their knock, of course. What else would Chara be expecting? Most certainly not that, that's for sure. But hey they'll play along, squeezing the chicken they have on hand in reply to the squawk hello from the one being held in the doorway.]
So are we just going to talk via chicken or do I get to see who you are?
[ That earns a nice trill of a laugh from Alberto from behind the door, surely familiar just on first listen, as he pulls the door fully open.
And it opens onto... quite a scene.
It's nothing compared tohis hideoutback home, though very much in the same style somehow, but even without that mess he called home for reference, the visual impact still loses nothing. Alberto's been busy rebuilding his "collection," slowly but surely, ever since he's arrived. Alberto has amassed a lot of— well, junk, to be frank; but one man's trash is another man's treasure, as long as he does something cool with it. He felt too uncomfortable in the empty space the inn room was when he first arrived, especially considering it's all one room, kitchenette, bedroom, living room, office, all in one. He's made the space his own, that's for sure. Alberto's the furthest from minimalist — he's a maximalist. He's used to being alone, but, man, gotta fill the void somehow... Excess makes him feel at ease — and reminds him of his old safe space back home.
Alberto's hung an old fishing net over the top half of the only window in the room, the central focus point upon entering, through which he's strung all kinds of random trinkets he's found around town, even cascades of tiny crystalshanging from a dead tree branch he shoved up on top of the well-worn armoire beside it, all refracting the colorful Christmas lights in subtle little rainbows all over the room, dancing in the corner of the eye. Four swords of various sizes, shapes, and dullness/sharpness, are propped against the armoire inconspicuously — as worrisome as it may be to imagine Alberto owning four swords... A big pair of old-fashioned binoculars also hangs on a bent wire clothes hanger he nailed up upside down between the armoire and the window, using the mangled clothes hanger like a hook on a horrible coatrack. An intricate and delicate looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously all along the windowsill, sheerly for lack of room elsewhere; he doesn't even know what it is, he just thought it was pretty, so stole took it. He doesn't even have alchemy magic! It's not the best place for fragile magical artifacts, though... Especially seeing as the windowsill is also strung with various lengths of colorful ribbons hanging off it, with little bells and feathers and crumpled up balls of tinfoil tied onto their ends — homemade cat toys. There's even a string of many little bells hanging from the bathroom door knob at the foot of the bed, the door kept closed (as he seldom makes much use of it, the only undecorated area)... A frayed, very worn, woven circular rainbow rug brings each corner of the room visually together in the center.
There are several large dark green glass bottles strewn about all parts of the room, all empty olive oil bottles, lending some cohesion as well; a couple do have some wildflowers he's picked shoved in them, but most are left empty. A couple jars have a fair collection of magic wands sticking out of them, all of these also "taken" shortly after his arrival, but again just because he thought they were cool-looking sticks — he still has no clue what they do, even after so much time here... He found an old chaise longue at a flea market which he'd dragged home on his own laboriously and shoved against the wall in the corner of the room beside the window. Eventually expecting guests, y'know! Randomly a bent, rusty bicycle wheel is propped up against the sofa's side, some drawings and scraps of paper clipped to its spokes with clothespins, like it's some decorative bulletin board... Hanging above the couch in the corner, there are jars tied up with woven twine, some filled with random pieces of sea glass, seashells, acorns, cool rocks and little gemstones, all clearly ongoing collections. There's at least a somewhat empty space in front of the sofa, though, keeping room at the foot of the next wall, because much of it is taken up by a wide roll of brown butcher paper he hung up on a curtain rod to draw a never-ending mural on, its present page half-filled with crazy-looking doodles of cats and self-portraits and Vespas and who knows what else. There's an open antique hard suitcase on the floor below it all but overflowing with crayons, markers and colored pencils in every imaginable color. The boy clearly wants for nothing...
Just next to this chaotic creative area, his desk is actually surprisingly neat — well, comparatively to, uh, everything else. It's kept functional. There's a rusty kerosene lantern on it, flame dancing in it presently, but most of the desk is clear except for some stray sketches, beside scattered leftover curly wood shavings and a whittling knife, a half-cut wood block, shape indistinct, and a few little figurines lined up along the back of the desktop, all of which Alberto's ostensibly carved himself: a mini Vespa, a little rowboat complete with little oars, a— m-miniature wooden fork...? There's a stack of random comic books piled unceremoniously, next to a shoebox (though Alberto actually still owns no shoes?!) full to the brim with obviously handwritten notes — letters? An old cup of espresso sits off to the side, left out half-empty and forgotten. Alberto's Polaroid camera sits in the center, open and unfolded out of its black leather case, which is tucked away carefully behind it, with a freshly opened pack of film next to it along with a few scattered empty black film casings. The wooden desk chair has a bed pillow tied to its back with rope and a folded up green fleece blanket on the seat, makeshift cushions. Sticking out of one open drawer in the desk are a slew of tools, too many sharp things thrown together — saws, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, knives, an axe, spatulas? Definitely some kitchenware mixed in there... Similarly out of place, any excess of this random collection of metal crap has been stuck into the slats of a rusty old toaster on the ground beside it, clearly no idea what a toaster is or that it belongs in the kitchen, not meant to be a desk-side overflow toolbox.
The kitchenette in the final corner of the open room, though, is actually the only part of the room that looks comparatively functional and sensible, although it too is crowded and cluttered. Hanging on the walls are a string of garlic bulbs, a string of peperoncini, a couple tied-up bundles of indistinct green herbs left out to dry above several glass canisters filled with dry pasta and small jars of various spices, pinned up along with a metal ladle, a metal spaghetti spoon, a couple wooden utensils, two cast-iron skillets, and a copper colander. Above the small stove there's a magnetic knife rack with far too many knives for a young boy to own, all of unique shapes, sizes and types, even unusual ones like a mezzaluna; this gleaming collection draws the eye before anything else in the lively, busy, colorful kitchenette. On the countertop, there's also a cheese grater, a bowl of lemons and clementines, a basket of ripe tomatoes, a mortar and pestle, a huge dark green glass bottle of what can only be assumed to be olive oil, and a long loaf of bread sticking out of its paper bag with little bits torn off the end from spontaneous snacking. On the stovetop, a tarnished silver stovetop espresso maker sits out brewing, fresh espresso in the making already, beside a stack of a few little white espresso cups and tins of coffee — because, y'know, he put on coffee before anything else unregulated preteen caffeine intake, what can go wrong... There is a small stack of dirty dishes left in the sink, but not too many. Unsurprisingly, the fridge, too, has a bunch of photographs and drawings hung up by colorful alphabet magnets, spelling silly things like "FORZA," "ALBERTO," "VESPA," "MIAO! CIAO!" — y'know, key 'Alberto'-y words; and though he has to climb up to stand on the countertop to reach it, he even has a big glass jar on top of the fridge with more back-up letter magnets in it. It's a thoroughly well-stocked kitchen, obviously. He's made use of every inch of limited space he has in this kitchen, but everything is accessible, visible, decorative even in its utility. A rather nice kitchen scene for an independent fourteen-year-old child, though, really.
In the corner, there's a beat-up wooden stool (did he just "find" all his furniture...?) with some random pots and pans piled high atop it as some makeshift storage in his limited space, plus two pet bowls on the floor beside it, both painted on with horrible chicken-scratch handwriting, completely becoming of their owner: ᑕꪖᖇᒪօ and ᦓOꟻιᗩ. So— Sofia's returned, it seems. Unless he's really such a hopeless, schmaltzy romantic that he's kept her bowl for sentimental value. But somehow that doesn't seem quite his vibe.
It's all an overwhelming sight, surely especially for someone walking in with no clue whose home this is... but just the immediate sight of it, well... is probably a clue it's Alberto's, if Chara hadn't already guessed before even arriving. Chara's a smart kid. And Alberto's— well... Alberto's got a distinct style. He needn't even shut the door yet to expose himself for Chara to realize who their host is, more than likely. But as he does, he's wearing a lazy-lidded, smug smirk, a look they've seen on camera many times already at least, one hand on his hip, standing contraposto, as he slings the rubber chicken across his shoulder casually, a soft, raspy squeak escaping it as he does. He musters all the nonchalance he can as he welcomes Chara in for the first time and reveals himself, letting the other kid take the whole scene all in. ]
Ciao, mia cara~ Benvenuto~
[ See what he did there... Chara... cara... "My dear..." He's been waiting for the right time to use that pun for a while, truth be told. The linguistic magic of Avalon is a wonderful thing, making it so that even deliberate use of language is still understood like it might fall on the ear of a polyglot but still be recognized as distinct; likewise, it works best for music, like the energetic Italian music Alberto has on in the background of this chaotic scene, because really, art cannot be properly translated or truly appreciated outside its own context, can it? And... th-that could really be said of this whole night already, of Alberto's whole room, and, well— of Alberto, himself... ...Did Chara really expect it to be anyone else? C'mon. A rubber chicken answered the door after it gave an anonymous operatic serenade. Out of all this overwhelming nonsense, it's probably more of a surprise that Alberto listens to opera and apparently can cook, all things considered. ]
[It's a sight, that's for sure. As Chara takes mental note of where various things are, because they figure them being placed that way then they must be important, before they're moving to go into the room. Since that's why they're here, right? To go inside.
They say nothing about the state of the room, or the music, instead more focused on Alberto and his words. They get an eye roll from Chara, even with the weird way words get translated they have a hunch that Alberto only said it to be funny and they will not give him the pleasure of having them find it funny.]
So, rubber chickens then? Seems a bit unclassy for you, considering what you're listening to.
[ That gets a raised eyebrow. Alberto has no concept of class or opera being considered in any way fancy most places... He'd gone from growing up as an only child of an eccentric single dad under the sea, surely a family of little means, then to an uninhabited island all by himself, then to a tiny, slow-paced fishing village, living with another poor single dad who owned a struggling pescheria he could barely keep enough fish in his net for before he'd employed Alberto... and even then, Alberto's poor delivery skills ended up costing Massimo money, in the end. Although Alberto wanted for nothing with Massimo, they also knew little luxury. After all, Massimo slept on a rickety old bed in the kitchen so that the children could have the only bedroom in their modest apartment. But Massimo cooked with such full flavor and gusto, singing opera to his pasta and pesto, that Alberto had no idea they were struggling. His only association with opera was the humble but rich meals he ate at Massimo's and that association is full of only fondness.
And... he didn't know what a rubber chicken even was until earlier today when he saw Sokka's post online. So the comment is totally lost on him. He shrugs it off with a roll of his eyes, and tosses the chicken unceremoniously over his shoulder without a care; it hits the wall with a loud squawk and a crash, knocking over some pile of miscellaneous somethings, including a harpoon that clatters to the ground... Wh-Why does Alberto own a harpoon?! Where'd he even get half this crap?!
He slings an arm over Chara's shoulder casually and guides them along toward the kitchenette lightly, waving his other hand. ]
Eh! C'mon, let's get cooking.
[ Like... Alberto expects Chara to help? To cook? Because he does. He didn't mention that part in this weird-ass invitation...
They're quickly released, at least, as Alberto makes a beeline toward the stove, taking the coffee off along with a couple tiny cups from his surprisingly tidy stack. ]
Here— you ever had espresso?
[ Chara has about ten seconds to object before Alberto pours a second cup automatically... ]
[SIGH, they're going to just drop their chicken right there on the floor then. Since Alberto doesn't seem to care, why should they? As they are led through the room to the kitchenette area. And oh boy, Alberto most certainly doesn't want Chara to cook.
Considering the only time they made food they poisoned their adopted dad, that's a good enough reason to never want to let them cook. At the offer of coffee though...]
No thanks, I like sweet things.
[They even make a face as they refuse, that kind of stuff is gross to them.]
[ Alberto cocks a judgmental brow at that decline as he takes his first sip of his own, setting the pot back down and giving Chara a flat stare over the brim of his cup. ]
Ooookaaayyy...
[ He files that fact away. He knows he has gelato in the freezer, but he figures he'll wait to reveal that fact until the real meal's already underway. Not that Alberto's opposed to dessert before dinner. Or dessert as dinner. He's just already determined here.
So, with another hearty sip of his own espresso, he sets it down on the counter and starts ripping off a bunch of bits from each of the bundles of dried herbs he has hanging, laying them together on a well-worn wooden cutting board, and grabs the mezzaluna from the knife rack, and hands it gracelessly to Chara. ]
[Hey at least they were somewhat polite in their decline! They could have been much much ruder about it.
And oh boy, that is some kind of knife that has been handed to them. Or... A weird chopping thing, either way, a sharp blade.
If only Alberto knew that they have a knife on them already that they could use instead, but hey they're going to hold the mezzaluna awkwardly in one hand.]
[ He barks a laugh, putzing around in the fridge, before producing two small but still fully intact cod fish, one in each hand, with a wide, smug grin on his face... ]
Don't worry— I'm practically an expert. I'll teach you everything you need to know~
[ ... He's not an expert... But he isn't exactly lying otherwise. He can manage, since arriving in Avalon. A few months ago when he first got here? Ehhh... he might've been lying.
He slaps the two fish down on the counter, standing beside Chara, and grabs a plate from above, then a long, curved, thin fillet knife from the rack. He has... so many kinds of knives... it's really kind of excessive. He points at the herbs with it, flinging it carelessly in the air as he explains. ]
Bunch up the herbs tight with your fingers, to start... Hold the handles with both hands, and start rocking the mezzaluna back and forth, then do it the other way, and another way, pretty much every way, until they're all tiny. Got it? I'll get started on the fish.
[Chara does not believe the claim of expertise, but hey they'll do what they're told. Bunching up the herbs and such before going to chop them up with the weird knife they were given. They can, at least, follow instructions.
Even if they find the whole thing kind of stupid.]
[ Alberto smiles and nods at that, watching Chara's work out of the corner of his eye as he readies his first fish. He takes his fillet knife and starts with small cuts down the back of the fish's dorsal fin, along the bone, surprisingly careful and practiced in his angle and pressure and speed. He slowly opens the fish up, dissecting it without a hint of squeamishness as he exposes its bones and starts to cut along them to separate the first fillet. He's clearly done this before, feels comfortable with his knife — maybe even takes some fun in it, just by his movements and the soft, proud smile on his face as he cuts it up and makes conversation. ]
Sooo~ Have you had branzino before? Or pasta? Asriel said he never had pasta before I made it for him. You guys grew up eating the same foods, yeah? Uh— snail pies or something, right?
[ He's actually genuinely curious about it, what monsters in their world eat, not just making idle chit-chat to be polite, as he makes fast work of slicing his fish. ]
I ate snails as a kid, too, but— y'know— water... fire... They were just, uh, heh— snails. No pies.
[They're pretty focused on what they're doing, since they don't want to mess it up. Although they really would prefer to be using a regular knife instead of the weird thingy Alberto gave them, but they're not going to complain.]
I've ate pasta before, I didn't always live with Asriel after all. And yeah I've had snail pie, mom makes it sometimes... Well, made it I should say.
[Chop, chop, chop.]
You're missing out, on the snail pie I mean. Sadly I don't know how to make it.
Y'know, maybe we can find a recipe for snail pie on the Everything Machine, eh? I'd try it. We can learn how to cook it together — the three of us.
[ A vague sort of tenderness about this suggestion as he continues butchering with well-taught care, a la his own adoptive dad-human. ]
So— you grew up with a human family first, then, uh— you died, and moved in with your monster family? Is that how it went?
[ It's a bit of a personal question, but delivered with some casualness, as Alberto removes the first fillet, flips the fish over, so its face is now facing Chara, and starts on removing the other half with the same deftness. ]
[Chara has a hunch that no one around here would know how to make snail pie, but hey it couldn't hurt to ask.
As to the next question? It makes Chara laugh.]
No, no. I died after I lived with Asriel, I ran away from my human family and fell into the Underground where the Monsters live and that's how I met the Dreemurrs.
Eh? "A kid like me?" What's that's supposed to mean? I mean, hey— keep your secrets, ragazzo, but— I'm just asking. Y'know, as a friend.
[ He peels the second fillet off, placing it on a spare plate off to the side, and chuckles to himself a bit abruptly, breaking the tension, as he lifts the mangled fish into the air proudly. ]
Ehiii~! Finito!
[ He turns it sideways so the face is looking at Chara, holding it out toward them slightly, a smirk growing on his face. He breaks up the awkward transition with some awkward humor, naturally, putting on a silly voice and making the butchered fish's mouth move as if it were talking. ]
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corruptedsave) wrote2021-03-02 10:49 pm
no subject
Well, hello stranger.
no subject
wanna guess who
no subject
no subject
fine
do you want to meet and find out who
im about to go back to the inn and make dinner. you live like two halls from me. i'll feed you! im a great cook!!! 😍🍽️🎣🍋🍝🥖
[ Okay, so that's the real olive branch. A mild apprehension at meeting "irl" for the first time is covered up by some illustrative emojis... But he'll push the issue even if he has to drop his cover. Clearly it's someone Chara must know to some degree if this anon knows where Chara lives... Weird and weirder. ]
no subject
[Although judging by the video, Chara is getting up and leaving. Because who do they know that lives that close in the Inn? They're totally making a beeline for Alberto's room.]
text -> action;
figure out which room it is. i'll leave a clue.
seeya 😏
[ He's back home by now, having finished up his mischief at Sokka's. He really is two halls over, and although he's not been over to their place yet, he talked about it with Asriel before when they first met, and he's had Asriel over two or three times now... But his clue won't be subtle at all, hardly even a "clue" — more tongue-in-cheek than anything.
He leaves a rubber chicken propped up against the wall outside the door. And waits. He at least starts prepping for dinner. ]
no subject
So it's a thump and squawk instead of the normal thunk of one knocking, as they wait for whoever this is to answer the door.]
this is 20 years late but I'd love to continue!!!
In turn, though, Alberto doesn't answer the door... another rubber chicken does, the young sea monster standing unseen behind the door to open it ajar enough to just show the toy's head popping out. As the door opens, spirited Italian music can now be heard playing in the background, but Alberto says nothing — just gives the chicken a little squeeze, a short friendly squawk "hello." He's way too amused with himself over this. These chickens are the
worstbest gift he's ever been given. Well, second-best — Asriel gave him a very touching gift not so long ago.It's equal parts exciting and a tiny bit nerve-wracking to meet Chara for the first time under the guise of anonymity, but, well— this won't be their first rather personal interaction that began anonymously, after all. And food brings people together. Alberto's barely begun prepping, but... Chara needs to be let in, and chickens take precedence. ]
:|b
So are we just going to talk via chicken or do I get to see who you are?
a novella, for you c;
And it opens onto... quite a scene.
It's nothing compared to his hideout back home, though very much in the same style somehow, but even without that mess he called home for reference, the visual impact still loses nothing. Alberto's been busy rebuilding his "collection," slowly but surely, ever since he's arrived. Alberto has amassed a lot of— well, junk, to be frank; but one man's trash is another man's treasure, as long as he does something cool with it. He felt too uncomfortable in the empty space the inn room was when he first arrived, especially considering it's all one room, kitchenette, bedroom, living room, office, all in one. He's made the space his own, that's for sure. Alberto's the furthest from minimalist — he's a maximalist. He's used to being alone, but, man, gotta fill the void somehow... Excess makes him feel at ease — and reminds him of his old safe space back home.
His bed area is in the lefthand corner of the small, crowded room, adorned with a mess of colorful fairy lights and miscellaneous decoration, and his Vespa poster from, which is hung proudly above his bed, right in the line of sight, along with a taped together drawing pinned right above his pillow, clearly important by how it hangs alone. Along the wall his bed is pushed against, there are multiple rows of twine boasting a multitude of Polaroids, who even knows of what, but obviously a continual collection. A brown plaid flat cap hangs on hist bedpost, and his bed is messily made (but made nonetheless) with a simple red quilt and too many pillows for one person.
Alberto's hung an old fishing net over the top half of the only window in the room, the central focus point upon entering, through which he's strung all kinds of random trinkets he's found around town, even cascades of tiny crystals hanging from a dead tree branch he shoved up on top of the well-worn armoire beside it, all refracting the colorful Christmas lights in subtle little rainbows all over the room, dancing in the corner of the eye. Four swords of various sizes, shapes, and dullness/sharpness, are propped against the armoire inconspicuously — as worrisome as it may be to imagine Alberto owning four swords... A big pair of old-fashioned binoculars also hangs on a bent wire clothes hanger he nailed up upside down between the armoire and the window, using the mangled clothes hanger like a hook on a horrible coatrack. An intricate and delicate looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously all along the windowsill, sheerly for lack of room elsewhere; he doesn't even know what it is, he just thought it was pretty, so
stoletook it. He doesn't even have alchemy magic! It's not the best place for fragile magical artifacts, though... Especially seeing as the windowsill is also strung with various lengths of colorful ribbons hanging off it, with little bells and feathers and crumpled up balls of tinfoil tied onto their ends — homemade cat toys. There's even a string of many little bells hanging from the bathroom door knob at the foot of the bed, the door kept closed (as he seldom makes much use of it, the only undecorated area)... A frayed, very worn, woven circular rainbow rug brings each corner of the room visually together in the center.There are several large dark green glass bottles strewn about all parts of the room, all empty olive oil bottles, lending some cohesion as well; a couple do have some wildflowers he's picked shoved in them, but most are left empty. A couple jars have a fair collection of magic wands sticking out of them, all of these also "taken" shortly after his arrival, but again just because he thought they were cool-looking sticks — he still has no clue what they do, even after so much time here... He found an old chaise longue at a flea market which he'd dragged home on his own laboriously and shoved against the wall in the corner of the room beside the window. Eventually expecting guests, y'know! Randomly a bent, rusty bicycle wheel is propped up against the sofa's side, some drawings and scraps of paper clipped to its spokes with clothespins, like it's some decorative bulletin board... Hanging above the couch in the corner, there are jars tied up with woven twine, some filled with random pieces of sea glass, seashells, acorns, cool rocks and little gemstones, all clearly ongoing collections. There's at least a somewhat empty space in front of the sofa, though, keeping room at the foot of the next wall, because much of it is taken up by a wide roll of brown butcher paper he hung up on a curtain rod to draw a never-ending mural on, its present page half-filled with crazy-looking doodles of cats and self-portraits and Vespas and who knows what else. There's an open antique hard suitcase on the floor below it all but overflowing with crayons, markers and colored pencils in every imaginable color. The boy clearly wants for nothing...
Just next to this chaotic creative area, his desk is actually surprisingly neat — well, comparatively to, uh, everything else. It's kept functional. There's a rusty kerosene lantern on it, flame dancing in it presently, but most of the desk is clear except for some stray sketches, beside scattered leftover curly wood shavings and a whittling knife, a half-cut wood block, shape indistinct, and a few little figurines lined up along the back of the desktop, all of which Alberto's ostensibly carved himself: a mini Vespa, a little rowboat complete with little oars, a— m-miniature wooden fork...? There's a stack of random comic books piled unceremoniously, next to a shoebox (though Alberto actually still owns no shoes?!) full to the brim with obviously handwritten notes — letters? An old cup of espresso sits off to the side, left out half-empty and forgotten. Alberto's Polaroid camera sits in the center, open and unfolded out of its black leather case, which is tucked away carefully behind it, with a freshly opened pack of film next to it along with a few scattered empty black film casings. The wooden desk chair has a bed pillow tied to its back with rope and a folded up green fleece blanket on the seat, makeshift cushions. Sticking out of one open drawer in the desk are a slew of tools, too many sharp things thrown together — saws, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, knives, an axe, spatulas? Definitely some kitchenware mixed in there... Similarly out of place, any excess of this random collection of metal crap has been stuck into the slats of a rusty old toaster on the ground beside it, clearly no idea what a toaster is or that it belongs in the kitchen, not meant to be a desk-side overflow toolbox.
The kitchenette in the final corner of the open room, though, is actually the only part of the room that looks comparatively functional and sensible, although it too is crowded and cluttered. Hanging on the walls are a string of garlic bulbs, a string of peperoncini, a couple tied-up bundles of indistinct green herbs left out to dry above several glass canisters filled with dry pasta and small jars of various spices, pinned up along with a metal ladle, a metal spaghetti spoon, a couple wooden utensils, two cast-iron skillets, and a copper colander. Above the small stove there's a magnetic knife rack with far too many knives for a young boy to own, all of unique shapes, sizes and types, even unusual ones like a mezzaluna; this gleaming collection draws the eye before anything else in the lively, busy, colorful kitchenette. On the countertop, there's also a cheese grater, a bowl of lemons and clementines, a basket of ripe tomatoes, a mortar and pestle, a huge dark green glass bottle of what can only be assumed to be olive oil, and a long loaf of bread sticking out of its paper bag with little bits torn off the end from spontaneous snacking. On the stovetop, a tarnished silver stovetop espresso maker sits out brewing, fresh espresso in the making already, beside a stack of a few little white espresso cups and tins of coffee — because, y'know, he put on coffee before anything else
unregulated preteen caffeine intake, what can go wrong... There is a small stack of dirty dishes left in the sink, but not too many. Unsurprisingly, the fridge, too, has a bunch of photographs and drawings hung up by colorful alphabet magnets, spelling silly things like "FORZA," "ALBERTO," "VESPA," "MIAO! CIAO!" — y'know, key 'Alberto'-y words; and though he has to climb up to stand on the countertop to reach it, he even has a big glass jar on top of the fridge with more back-up letter magnets in it. It's a thoroughly well-stocked kitchen, obviously. He's made use of every inch of limited space he has in this kitchen, but everything is accessible, visible, decorative even in its utility. A rather nice kitchen scene for an independent fourteen-year-old child, though, really.In the corner, there's a beat-up wooden stool (did he just "find" all his furniture...?) with some random pots and pans piled high atop it as some makeshift storage in his limited space, plus two pet bowls on the floor beside it, both painted on with horrible chicken-scratch handwriting, completely becoming of their owner: ᑕꪖᖇᒪօ and ᦓOꟻιᗩ. So— Sofia's returned, it seems. Unless he's really such a hopeless, schmaltzy romantic that he's kept her bowl for sentimental value. But somehow that doesn't seem quite his vibe.
It's all an overwhelming sight, surely especially for someone walking in with no clue whose home this is... but just the immediate sight of it, well... is probably a clue it's Alberto's, if Chara hadn't already guessed before even arriving. Chara's a smart kid. And Alberto's— well... Alberto's got a distinct style. He needn't even shut the door yet to expose himself for Chara to realize who their host is, more than likely. But as he does, he's wearing a lazy-lidded, smug smirk, a look they've seen on camera many times already at least, one hand on his hip, standing contraposto, as he slings the rubber chicken across his shoulder casually, a soft, raspy squeak escaping it as he does. He musters all the nonchalance he can as he welcomes Chara in for the first time and reveals himself, letting the other kid take the whole scene all in. ]
Ciao, mia cara~ Benvenuto~
[ See what he did there... Chara... cara... "My dear..." He's been waiting for the right time to use that pun for a while, truth be told. The linguistic magic of Avalon is a wonderful thing, making it so that even deliberate use of language is still understood like it might fall on the ear of a polyglot but still be recognized as distinct; likewise, it works best for music, like the energetic Italian music Alberto has on in the background of this chaotic scene, because really, art cannot be properly translated or truly appreciated outside its own context, can it? And... th-that could really be said of this whole night already, of Alberto's whole room, and, well— of Alberto, himself... ...Did Chara really expect it to be anyone else? C'mon. A rubber chicken answered the door after it gave an anonymous operatic serenade. Out of all this overwhelming nonsense, it's probably more of a surprise that Alberto listens to opera and apparently can cook, all things considered. ]
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They say nothing about the state of the room, or the music, instead more focused on Alberto and his words. They get an eye roll from Chara, even with the weird way words get translated they have a hunch that Alberto only said it to be funny and they will not give him the pleasure of having them find it funny.]
So, rubber chickens then? Seems a bit unclassy for you, considering what you're listening to.
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And... he didn't know what a rubber chicken even was until earlier today when he saw Sokka's post online. So the comment is totally lost on him. He shrugs it off with a roll of his eyes, and tosses the chicken unceremoniously over his shoulder without a care; it hits the wall with a loud squawk and a crash, knocking over some pile of miscellaneous somethings, including a harpoon that clatters to the ground... Wh-Why does Alberto own a harpoon?! Where'd he even get half this crap?!
He slings an arm over Chara's shoulder casually and guides them along toward the kitchenette lightly, waving his other hand. ]
Eh! C'mon, let's get cooking.
[ Like... Alberto expects Chara to help? To cook? Because he does. He didn't mention that part in this weird-ass invitation...
They're quickly released, at least, as Alberto makes a beeline toward the stove, taking the coffee off along with a couple tiny cups from his surprisingly tidy stack. ]
Here— you ever had espresso?
[ Chara has about ten seconds to object before Alberto pours a second cup automatically... ]
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Considering the only time they made food they poisoned their adopted dad, that's a good enough reason to never want to let them cook. At the offer of coffee though...]
No thanks, I like sweet things.
[They even make a face as they refuse, that kind of stuff is gross to them.]
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Ooookaaayyy...
[ He files that fact away. He knows he has gelato in the freezer, but he figures he'll wait to reveal that fact until the real meal's already underway. Not that Alberto's opposed to dessert before dinner. Or dessert as dinner. He's just already determined here.
So, with another hearty sip of his own espresso, he sets it down on the counter and starts ripping off a bunch of bits from each of the bundles of dried herbs he has hanging, laying them together on a well-worn wooden cutting board, and grabs the mezzaluna from the knife rack, and hands it gracelessly to Chara. ]
All right, then. You chop herbs.
[ Oh... ]
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And oh boy, that is some kind of knife that has been handed to them. Or... A weird chopping thing, either way, a sharp blade.
If only Alberto knew that they have a knife on them already that they could use instead, but hey they're going to hold the mezzaluna awkwardly in one hand.]
... You've never seen me cook, have you.
[Said flatly, as if this is the worst idea ever.]
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[ He barks a laugh, putzing around in the fridge, before producing two small but still fully intact cod fish, one in each hand, with a wide, smug grin on his face... ]
Don't worry— I'm practically an expert. I'll teach you everything you need to know~
[ ... He's not an expert... But he isn't exactly lying otherwise. He can manage, since arriving in Avalon. A few months ago when he first got here? Ehhh... he might've been lying.
He slaps the two fish down on the counter, standing beside Chara, and grabs a plate from above, then a long, curved, thin fillet knife from the rack. He has... so many kinds of knives... it's really kind of excessive. He points at the herbs with it, flinging it carelessly in the air as he explains. ]
Bunch up the herbs tight with your fingers, to start... Hold the handles with both hands, and start rocking the mezzaluna back and forth, then do it the other way, and another way, pretty much every way, until they're all tiny. Got it? I'll get started on the fish.
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[Chara does not believe the claim of expertise, but hey they'll do what they're told. Bunching up the herbs and such before going to chop them up with the weird knife they were given. They can, at least, follow instructions.
Even if they find the whole thing kind of stupid.]
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Sooo~ Have you had branzino before? Or pasta? Asriel said he never had pasta before I made it for him. You guys grew up eating the same foods, yeah? Uh— snail pies or something, right?
[ He's actually genuinely curious about it, what monsters in their world eat, not just making idle chit-chat to be polite, as he makes fast work of slicing his fish. ]
I ate snails as a kid, too, but— y'know— water... fire... They were just, uh, heh— snails. No pies.
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I've ate pasta before, I didn't always live with Asriel after all. And yeah I've had snail pie, mom makes it sometimes... Well, made it I should say.
[Chop, chop, chop.]
You're missing out, on the snail pie I mean. Sadly I don't know how to make it.
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[ A vague sort of tenderness about this suggestion as he continues butchering with well-taught care, a la his own adoptive dad-human. ]
So— you grew up with a human family first, then, uh— you died, and moved in with your monster family? Is that how it went?
[ It's a bit of a personal question, but delivered with some casualness, as Alberto removes the first fillet, flips the fish over, so its face is now facing Chara, and starts on removing the other half with the same deftness. ]
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[Chara has a hunch that no one around here would know how to make snail pie, but hey it couldn't hurt to ask.
As to the next question? It makes Chara laugh.]
No, no. I died after I lived with Asriel, I ran away from my human family and fell into the Underground where the Monsters live and that's how I met the Dreemurrs.
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[ No judgment in his tone as he finishes making his final slices. ]
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[It's not a nice reason, and one they prefer to keep to themselves. As they finish up with their own chopping of herbs.]
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[ He peels the second fillet off, placing it on a spare plate off to the side, and chuckles to himself a bit abruptly, breaking the tension, as he lifts the mangled fish into the air proudly. ]
Ehiii~! Finito!
[ He turns it sideways so the face is looking at Chara, holding it out toward them slightly, a smirk growing on his face. He breaks up the awkward transition with some awkward humor, naturally, putting on a silly voice and making the butchered fish's mouth move as if it were talking. ]
Ciao, Chara!
[ Yeah... "A kid like him." ]
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[Someone who doesn't know violence and bad stuff like Chara knows.
They can't help but roll their eyes at the fish shenanigans though.]
I draw the line at fish corpses, Alberto.
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