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Entry tags:
KHR Rarepair Week - Sun - Immortal AU
"It doesn't have to be you," Cervello says. "Give me time. I can find a different way to keep the heartbeat of this world and all its flames going."
But Sepira has always been particularly stubborn. It's funny how not a lot of their compatriots ever realized it, didn't look past her patience and her smiles. Regardless, it's the truth. Cervello is never sure if it's because that's what happens when you can see the way the future sprawls out before you, all its branching roots leading to a different tangled tree, or if she would always have been like that.
Actually, no, she's very sure of the answer. Flames as powerful and brilliant and shining as Sepira's aren't the kind of thing that burst forth from anything less than pure undiluted stubbornness.
As if she hasn't dug her heels into the earth in determination to bloom where she stands, Sepira smiles over at her, like she always does. "You're going to put yourself into an early grave, with all the worrying that you do," she tells her. "And then who else would I have with me?" Who else, when more of their number keep fading away with every passing day? Ignoring the way that Cervello hesitates, Sepira keeps talking. "Now come over here, and help me make something that will take your mind off of all of that."
With that said, she dumps a giant pile of white there onto the counter of the home that has been constructed for them. Cervello recalls its name - flour, that's right, one of the main stays of this planet's people when it comes to food. At least, in this particular region, and more than a few others.
"I'm not hungry," she tells her, even as Sepira begins to gently move her fingers through the flour, makes a small little well right there in the center.
Sepira hums. "You always say that. Now, hand me some eggs."
Is this something that she's learned from the people in this region, or something she's seen by gazing far past what all others see? Cervello tries to say it doesn't really matter, but sometimes she gets curious, despite herself, which is no doubt how she fell in with Sepira in the first pace. She hands her three eggs.
"If you decide there's nowhere left in this world for you, then there won't be anything for me, either," she tells Sepira, even as her eyes watch those delicate fingers pluck up a clay bottle of some sort. There's a distinct sensation to the smell her nose picks up as the pale liquid is poured down in with the eggs, followed by some salt. "I think you know that I couldn't be able to stand it." It'd be a world with just her, and one other, and it wouldn't even be someone that she cares for. It's the nature of their flames; they can't stand one another, or trust one another, not in a way that would be satisfying. And who else would she have to deal with but herself?
Picking up a couple of carved smooth sticks which fit perfectly in her hands, Sepira begins to mix the egg and olive oil and salt all together. "I know," she says, flicking some more flower from the inner walls into the mix. "But you won't have to worry, Cervello. We can be together for as long as you want. Now help add in a little more flour, won't you?"
It's a little difficult, for some people, to work in tandem for another. But Sepira is the sun, and Cervello shimmers as mist, reflecting every little bit of light, and, together, their hands add more and more into the little well.
They add and add, until many things become one, and that one thing becomes something else entirely.
The fork gets discarded, eventually, when there's no more liquid there, and then it's just their hands, kneading and working and brushing up against each other. "You remember it like this, right?" Yuni asks her.
And Cervello does, of course. Even if she is no longer in the exact same form as the Cervello of so many centuries ago, and her arms are that of a twelve year old, still weak and skinny as they both do their best to knead the pasta dough. But she knows the steps. Knows exactly how long she should knead the dough there, together with Yuni, and how long they should let it rest, rising up and becoming firm.
The knife cuts it in two neatly, when they've waited patiently enough. It separates nice and neat, just like she separated so neatly - first that time centuries ago, and then over and over again throughout the decades. It had hurt less than she thought it would. Didn't hurt at all, mist twisting around, becoming firm, finding home in a multitude of bodies that were different but still hers, would always be hers. Would always be the same and grow up the same.
With their strength combined, her and Yuni manage to be enough to press the rolling pin down, and the dough flattens out. Becomes manageable, no matter how many times they roll it and then refold it.
And when they finally take the knife to it again, make strips of pasta for the meal they will have that night, it all happens so simply.
"This would be easier for you if you got a machine for this," Cervello reminds her. It would be easy enough to do, with the Giglio Nero's finances. In fact, they might already have a pasta machine, because what self respecting Family wouldn't in the heart of Italy? "They make nice ones, I hear."
Yuni just grins, cheeks flushed pink underneath all the flour which had fluttered up onto her face. "I know," she says, which she has always said, no matter her age, no matter her name. "And I think Gamma will probably throw a fuss, when he hears that I've been getting so exhausted like this over just a little pasta. But this is how I wanted to do it."
And maybe there's a point to doing it this way. To watching all their hard work heat up quickly in a boiling pot of water, seeing it brighten up when it gets added to the pan with a simple tomato sauce. Something that doesn't need to be fancy, elaborate, none of that, to swell up with flavor and the sweetness that comes with just living. A little green is added, as though the point needs to be driven in any harder, but Yuni likes the way it changes up the texture, just a little, and Cervello likes the tang of parmesan that gets added with it, and together, they are content, eating pasta and covered in flour.
How many times have they made pasta like this? Under how many different names has the girl besides her had? How many different versions of herself has been there to roll dough?
"How many times will we roll dough together, do you think?" Yuni asks her, tomato sauce smeared across the corner of her lips, up against her cheek where it clumps just a little with sprinklings of flour. Where it hides away the same mark that blossoms on her skin, every single lifetime.
Cervello reaches over to wipe it all away, save for that blossom, with the curve of her thumb.
"As much as you want."
But Sepira has always been particularly stubborn. It's funny how not a lot of their compatriots ever realized it, didn't look past her patience and her smiles. Regardless, it's the truth. Cervello is never sure if it's because that's what happens when you can see the way the future sprawls out before you, all its branching roots leading to a different tangled tree, or if she would always have been like that.
Actually, no, she's very sure of the answer. Flames as powerful and brilliant and shining as Sepira's aren't the kind of thing that burst forth from anything less than pure undiluted stubbornness.
As if she hasn't dug her heels into the earth in determination to bloom where she stands, Sepira smiles over at her, like she always does. "You're going to put yourself into an early grave, with all the worrying that you do," she tells her. "And then who else would I have with me?" Who else, when more of their number keep fading away with every passing day? Ignoring the way that Cervello hesitates, Sepira keeps talking. "Now come over here, and help me make something that will take your mind off of all of that."
With that said, she dumps a giant pile of white there onto the counter of the home that has been constructed for them. Cervello recalls its name - flour, that's right, one of the main stays of this planet's people when it comes to food. At least, in this particular region, and more than a few others.
"I'm not hungry," she tells her, even as Sepira begins to gently move her fingers through the flour, makes a small little well right there in the center.
Sepira hums. "You always say that. Now, hand me some eggs."
Is this something that she's learned from the people in this region, or something she's seen by gazing far past what all others see? Cervello tries to say it doesn't really matter, but sometimes she gets curious, despite herself, which is no doubt how she fell in with Sepira in the first pace. She hands her three eggs.
"If you decide there's nowhere left in this world for you, then there won't be anything for me, either," she tells Sepira, even as her eyes watch those delicate fingers pluck up a clay bottle of some sort. There's a distinct sensation to the smell her nose picks up as the pale liquid is poured down in with the eggs, followed by some salt. "I think you know that I couldn't be able to stand it." It'd be a world with just her, and one other, and it wouldn't even be someone that she cares for. It's the nature of their flames; they can't stand one another, or trust one another, not in a way that would be satisfying. And who else would she have to deal with but herself?
Picking up a couple of carved smooth sticks which fit perfectly in her hands, Sepira begins to mix the egg and olive oil and salt all together. "I know," she says, flicking some more flower from the inner walls into the mix. "But you won't have to worry, Cervello. We can be together for as long as you want. Now help add in a little more flour, won't you?"
It's a little difficult, for some people, to work in tandem for another. But Sepira is the sun, and Cervello shimmers as mist, reflecting every little bit of light, and, together, their hands add more and more into the little well.
They add and add, until many things become one, and that one thing becomes something else entirely.
The fork gets discarded, eventually, when there's no more liquid there, and then it's just their hands, kneading and working and brushing up against each other. "You remember it like this, right?" Yuni asks her.
And Cervello does, of course. Even if she is no longer in the exact same form as the Cervello of so many centuries ago, and her arms are that of a twelve year old, still weak and skinny as they both do their best to knead the pasta dough. But she knows the steps. Knows exactly how long she should knead the dough there, together with Yuni, and how long they should let it rest, rising up and becoming firm.
The knife cuts it in two neatly, when they've waited patiently enough. It separates nice and neat, just like she separated so neatly - first that time centuries ago, and then over and over again throughout the decades. It had hurt less than she thought it would. Didn't hurt at all, mist twisting around, becoming firm, finding home in a multitude of bodies that were different but still hers, would always be hers. Would always be the same and grow up the same.
With their strength combined, her and Yuni manage to be enough to press the rolling pin down, and the dough flattens out. Becomes manageable, no matter how many times they roll it and then refold it.
And when they finally take the knife to it again, make strips of pasta for the meal they will have that night, it all happens so simply.
"This would be easier for you if you got a machine for this," Cervello reminds her. It would be easy enough to do, with the Giglio Nero's finances. In fact, they might already have a pasta machine, because what self respecting Family wouldn't in the heart of Italy? "They make nice ones, I hear."
Yuni just grins, cheeks flushed pink underneath all the flour which had fluttered up onto her face. "I know," she says, which she has always said, no matter her age, no matter her name. "And I think Gamma will probably throw a fuss, when he hears that I've been getting so exhausted like this over just a little pasta. But this is how I wanted to do it."
And maybe there's a point to doing it this way. To watching all their hard work heat up quickly in a boiling pot of water, seeing it brighten up when it gets added to the pan with a simple tomato sauce. Something that doesn't need to be fancy, elaborate, none of that, to swell up with flavor and the sweetness that comes with just living. A little green is added, as though the point needs to be driven in any harder, but Yuni likes the way it changes up the texture, just a little, and Cervello likes the tang of parmesan that gets added with it, and together, they are content, eating pasta and covered in flour.
How many times have they made pasta like this? Under how many different names has the girl besides her had? How many different versions of herself has been there to roll dough?
"How many times will we roll dough together, do you think?" Yuni asks her, tomato sauce smeared across the corner of her lips, up against her cheek where it clumps just a little with sprinklings of flour. Where it hides away the same mark that blossoms on her skin, every single lifetime.
Cervello reaches over to wipe it all away, save for that blossom, with the curve of her thumb.
"As much as you want."