2019-10-13 - Live Your Best Life

It is a brisk autumn day, and of course it's raining. Despite this, Corey has been out in the back yard harvesting some of his autumn fruit and veg, and has just wandered back into the house with a mind to clean his produce before cleaning the mud and soil from himself and getting changed. Then he gets a text from Alexander.

Looks like there's going to be a houseguest in maybe ten minutes, so the student chef stows his produce in the kitchen and runs upstairs for a very quick shower and change, just about making it back down to the ground floor by the time his guest arrives.

Alexander shows up! He's walking from the direction of Elm, with a basket of plums and a few other things on his arm. He looks a bit thinner than before, a touch gaunt - the flu that's been going around probably did a number on him. He's dressed in an oversized army jacket, t-shirt, and faded black jeans. He stops outside the house, sizing it up with interest, before finally wandering up to the door and knocking sharply: three knocks, a pause, and three more.

Dressed in basic black jeans, black and white converse and a gray t-shirt with 'Bitchin' in the Kitchen' written on it in a cursive font, hair still damp and it's usual level of messy, Corey answers the door. "Hey, Mr. Clayton," he greets his plum-carrying guest with a cheerful smile, waving the older man in. "C'mon in." Simply assuming his guest will follow (and hopefully close the door behind), he turns and heads through the living room and around to the right, through the nook, to the kitchen.

"Mr. Jones," Alexander says, inclining his head. He hesitates at the doorway, looking through and around as if someone might ambush him just as he walks through. Of course, no one does, so he has the faintest suggestion of a smile as he follows the student. "It's good to see you again. How have you been?" He does, in fact, close and lock and deadbolt the door behind him - a casualty of living on Elm, where one does not leave doors open. He studies the house with an almost rude sort of frankness.

"Yeah pretty good, thanks. Have you been okay? You look like you could use a good meal, my man," Corey responds as he leads the way through, largely oblivious to the open study of his home - or if not, really uncaring about it. Sure, Alexander could be sizing up whether the place is worth robbing - it really isn't, given most of the furniture is second or third hand - but that's just not how Corey thinks.

"Can I get you a drink? Water, beer, fruit juice, soda..?" he calls backwards, waving a hand at the kitchen table in suggestion, heading to the fridge to fetch himself a glass of OJ at least.

"Had the flu. Food became less of a priority for a while," Alexander admits, with a grimace. "Feeling much better now." There's a hesitation at the offer, before he nods. "Water would be nice. Thank you." He looks around, then puts the basket of plums on the table and tentatively takes a seat. "And I was housesitting for a friend, so once I started feeling better, I did a lot of yardwork." He raises his hands, which have fresh callouses and a couple of blisters that have been treated and band-aided. "A lot. Any of you or yours get sick?"

"Oh man, yeah. All of our neighbours had it. I stayed the fuck away for the most part," Corey acknowledges sheepishly. "I can't afford not to work and I can't miss the study time, so I got like.. zealous about antibacterial hand-wash and not hanging around with sick people." He drags a pitcher of cold water from the fridge, pours some out into a glass for Alexander and hands it over, then puts the jug and the OJ away.

"Sorry you got sick, though, and I'm glad you're doing better. What do you want for dinner?" It seems to be a simple assumption that his guest will be staying for a meal as well as dessert, the chef's gaze then shifting to the basket, approaching it cautiously.

Alexander makes a sympathetic noise. "You're lucky - and diligent. It's not something you want to trifle with. I'm surprised that we haven't had a death or two from this go around." He watches Corey move around the kitchen, murmuring a brief thanks when the glass is offered. It's taken, and he takes a tentative, paranoid sort of sip, lets it settle, then drinks more normally. "Dinner? I, um." He blinks. "I don't want to put you out. I just noticed that some of the plums were getting overripe, and wanted to make sure they had a good home." He gestures to the basket. It is, indeed, filled with plums! And there are a few other things - some random veggies from a garden somewhere. They all look rather magnificent.

"You bring ingredients, you get fed. Them's the rules, man; I don't make them, I just follow them," Corey replies with a lazy smile towards the twitchy sipper, before rummaging a bit in that basket. He is exceptionally careful with the plums, not wanting to break skins and get sticky juice all over everything, setting them out one by one on the kitchen tabletop. They don't just go in any order however, there are some put to the left and some put to the right. "Anything you fancy or shall I just cook something and surprise you?"

One of Alexander's eyebrows rises skeptically. "And who made this rule? It seems suspect." Although he sounds dubious, there's a glimmer of humor in his eyes - he might just be teasing Corey. His hands fidget with his glass as he watches. "I'm not allergic to anything, and I'll eat just about anything except Jell-O, so surprise me. If you want." He tilts his head to one side. "You're very odd, you know. Inviting strange people over and feeding them."

"One surprise coming up," Corey promises, taking out the aubergines and courgettes, holding them up with a thoughtful look and then nodding. Those and the tomatoes and some mushrooms get moved to the sink and given a quick scrub. "I'll make some for you to take back home too. Is that chick still living with you? Isolde?" he checks, before selecting a knife from his collection and beginning to peel and chop with a deft efficiency that doubtless comes from hours upon hours of practice. "Yeah, well, it's what I do. People are always happier when they're fed, and that makes me happy."

"Isolde?" Alexander looks surprised. "Yes. She's still staying with me for a bit. You know Isolde?" He frowns, just slightly. "I didn't realize. She also had the flu, so bringing something back for her to eat would, I think, be greatly appreciated." He listens to the last, and smiles. "You've said that before. It's not the sort of thing that a lot of people are into, these days. How are your studies going? Learned any new and thrilling recipes?"

"Yeah, I cooked breakfast crepes for her a couple months ago after meeting her while she was walking past the house. And she invited me to visit, to pick up some vegetables, not long after that," Corey explains cheerfully, continuing to peel and chop, making a sizable mound of finely sliced vegetables in not very long at all, adding onions to the pile as well. Then he fetches some garlic from his own supplies, peeling and crushing a full head of it. "Experimenting with citrus flavours right now. Orange cremé pat in an eclair works really well; lemon and rosemary cookies, not so much."

Alexander studies the technique Corey uses to peel and chop the vegetables. "I'm glad. Isolde is a good person - I'm happy she's making friends." He takes a sip of his water, shifts in his seat like he's almost about to jump up and start doing things, but restrains himself. "Citrus flavors. Hm. But lemon and rosemary on chicken work together fairly well. Why not in a cookie?" His head tilts to one side; he looks genuinely curious.

"Not strong enough, I don't think. If I'd used more it would've been unpleasant, but using less didn't cut through the inherent flavour of the cookie itself." Preparing a large flat-bottomed pan, Corey adds a dash of oil and lets it heat on the gas hob, turning to face Alexander after washing his hands again. "So other than being super ill, what've you been up to these last months? No more hospital visits, I hope?"

Alexander hums thoughtfully. "Interesting. So it was impossible to get the right balance for that particular medium. That makes sense. I didn't much think about it before." He rubs his jawline. At the question, his eyebrows go up. He takes a moment, hesitating. "I saw how you reacted when Mister Sumpter began to talk about some of the less savory truths of Gray Harbor, Mister Jones. I don't want to cause you distress. Not when you've been kind. But I've been caught up with some of those issues for a bit. It's over now, I think. I could elaborate, but only if you wish." A sip of water. "Other than that? There have been a few murder investigations I've been looking into. That's always fun. And I got actually paid for a job, for once." A flicker of a smile.

Nodding thoughtfully, Corey muses, "Might require the use of different lemons, or a more subtle cookie mix. It's still on the list to keep fiddling with." With the pan up to heat, he adds the garlic to the oil, along with the onion and some torn up basil leaves, stirring idly with a wooden spatula. As Alexander makes reference to the Less Savoury Truths(tm), his shoulders sag slightly. "It.. I. Um, yeah. I just.. wasn't expecting it, and I'd..um. Had a bad experience, not long before that." Though the words are stilted and strained, he sounds like he's being honest.

"Good luck with it. If you ever want a test subject who will be entirely honest, you apparently know where I live." A quick, but warm, smile from Alexander, that fades into something more serious as Corey continues. He sniffs appreciatively at the air, but says, "You got lost?" A pause. "What I mean is...did you find yourself somewhere that wasn't the world as you knew it, where things were twisted and dangerous?"

"Sort of," Corey acknowledges, having nodded to the test subject comment, turning away to add more things to the pan. Then to the fridge, pulling out a reasonably sized chorizo, beginning to dice it slowly. Apparently, this stuff is easier to talk about when he's keeping his hands busy. "I was visiting a friend. Her office.. the exits got all twisty, and some weird creatures came down from her apartment above. Tall, thin, grey but with lava-like glowing splits in their skin. They kept talking about wanting her to heal them." There's a shudder, and his voice is strained, the memory clearly not a pleasant one.

"Ah." Alexander listens, for the most part, dark eyes bright with interest. And with sympathy, as he picks up on that strain. "It sounds as if it was a frightening experience. Was it your first time getting lost? Was anyone injured?" A pause. "Your friend...did she have the healing abilities?"

"Mmhm." A quiet affirmative to the first time question, and then Corey shakes his head. "No. She destroyed them before either of us got hurt," he replies softly, his words underscored with the consistent thnk-thnk-thnk of his knife against the chopping board as he continues to cut the sausage into small chunks. He doesn't answer the question about healing abilities. "Is.. is it so common?"

"That's a relief, at least," Alexander murmurs, to neither of them getting hurt. To the last question, he makes a low noise. "I...it depends. Some people never get lost, I think. Especially if they don't stand out like you or I do. But there are...things? On the other side of what we call reality, and some of them feed on our pain, fear, and I think, our use of our abilities. So the more you use it, the more attention you attract. The more likely you are to get lost." He gives a little half-shrug. "I've gotten lost all of my life. But I know lots of people who it never happened to. Until one day, it did."

The chorizo is added to the mix, along with some of the other vegetables, the pan hissing as cold plant flesh meets hot metal. After a brief stir, Corey turns his attention back to Alexander in full. Well, almost in full; one ear remains tuned to the sound of the cooking food of course. "So if I don't use it, it won't happen again?" he asks, almost childlike in his hope for a simple answer.

Alexander's face goes blank at that childlike hope. He looks down, studying his water. "I can't guarantee that," he says, quietly. "I'm sorry. I wish I could. If I knew how to stop it, I would have long since done so. If you don't use your abilities, you will attract less attention. But," he looks up again, "you'll be less prepared to deal with the attention you do attract. Like your flavors, there's a balance I've tried to find. Because the lost places can kill."

Expression falling a little, Corey nods, blue eyes dulling for a moment. "Figures," he replies quietly. He'd hoped, but didn't expect it would be so simple. Back to the pan for a quick stir, and then he fills a pan with rice and water, putting it onto another ring of the hob to begin heating through. "One of my housemates got.. uh, moved. Woke up somewhere different to where he went to sleep. Went missing for a few hours. Is that common too?"

"I'm sorry," Alexander repeats, softly. "The only other practical advice I could lean on is - they're attracted to negative emotions. Hurting yourself, hurting others, giving in to despair or rage or fear? All of those are, um, tasty. To them. I don't mean to lie to yourself about being happy when you're not. But you've got passions. Things that bring you joy. I think that's important for protection." He clears his throat, takes a swallow of the water. "Speaking of - that smells amazing." A tentative smile, before he nods. "That's sort of the most common. For a regular dream to turn to a Dream. You don't have to be asleep, but it seems to be more common."

"So, live my best life and try not to dwell on it?" Corey's answer is somewhere between bitter and resigned, somewhat out of character for the chef. But he doesn't go on in that vein, instead staring down into the pans as he stirs and monitors. "Eh, it's basic. A ratatouille with some mushrooms and chorizo added, so it's a main rather than a side." There's no pride in his voice, and his shoulders sag again a little as well, before he starts busying himself getting out some bowls and some food containers. "Thank you for the information, though. It's more than anyone else has been able to impart."

"As much as that helps with anything, Mr. Jones." Alexander's eyes are fixed and unwavering, almost like they're trying to see into the other man's skull. "Maybe think of it like this: the world is not different than it was before you got lost. You just know more about what it really is. That can break you - and it does break people. But it can be a strength, too. Knowing what's possible." Alexander is very bad at reassuring people. He smiles at the explanation. "You underestimate yourself. I tried to make a ratatouille based on an internet recipe. It did not look, or smell, anything like that. Much less burning." His voice is dry. "And it's the least I can do for someone so damned determined to feed me. If you have any questions I can answer, just ask."