2019-11-19 - Abuelita's Remedies

It's been a hell of an ordeal, this flu. Dante hasn't been sick like that in years. There are entire days that are a vague blur, but the nightmares were chillingly in-focus. But one must return to regular life at some point, and he's long since exhausted anything edible in his apartment. He actually only lasted this long without a restock because, well, he wasn't eating.

It's about 10 PM at night and he's in the pasta aisle, staring vaguely at the arious shapes. For once (!) he is not in a suit. His hair, which is normally straightened, is curly and messy. He wears tortoiseshell wayfarer glasses, slim cut jeans, a heather gray thin sweater, and a navy sport coat. The only truly stylish touch are his brown antique leather brogues and a handsome wrist watch.

It no real news, given his occupation, that Cristobal is a bit of a night owl so prowling the aisles at 10 pm isn't out of character for him. Dressed in his standard low slung jeans, white tank and a red and blue flannel, this Texas boy would be nailing the Seattle grunge look if he just had a faded band t-shirt on instead of the tank.

Effectively the definition of bachelor, he doesn't require a full buggy for his shopping, just using a hand basket that's currently hanging from a loose curl of fingers. He already has eggs, some sad looking avacados, and packages of salmon, chicken, and steak along with some leafy greens and herbs crammed in there. Now he's on turning down the pasta aisle and already frowning and the jars and cans of tomato product.

It's be hard not to notice the tall, dark and Dante already perusing the shelves but it takes a second for it to click just who that actually is standing there in glasses with curly hair. "Well, you look like shit." Cristobal says to Dante, though his attention is on a can of tomatillos that he's spinning around on the stack to eye the ingredients of. It will become a well guarded secret that Cris doesn't in fact think anything of the sort, actually finding the look terribly adorable.

Dante has one of those small carts, not because he needs a lot of food but because holding a basket is a bit too much work right now. His own cart is populated with gentle food items - bread, butter, herbal tea, rice, chicken breasts, canned soup, juice, carrots, bananas, a squash, eggs of his own. He's got a box of elbow macaroni in each hand. It takes him a good long moment to realize he's being addressed. He looks over, slow blinks, then eyebrows raise. "Well hello to you too. I've been quite ill, if it's important for you to know. Transitioning back to solid foods slowly."

Cristobal's gaze flicks aside at Dante's answer, sweeping from the spectacled man down to noting what's in his basket and then back up. "Sweet mother of Christ, English, do all you Brits equate 'easy on the stomach' with tasteless? I mean, look at what you've got in there..." He abandons his pursuit of canned tomato travesties for more pleasant activities. "You know the BRAT diet was meant for five year olds, right?"

"I'm not a great cook at the best of times. Even worse when I've got no energy and a stomach that still threatens to expel everything I put in it." Dante drops one of the boxes into his basket and slips the other back on the shelf. "That's not fair. We also equate our gourmet cuisine with 'tasteless.'" Despite his weakened state, he does manage a cheeky grin.

It's almost in irritation that Cristobal reaches right into Dante's basket and removes that box of elbow noodles and clunks them back onto the shelf. "What you need is some warm milk and turmeric, not this shit. Then you're going to want to cut an onion in half, stick each half to the bottom of your feet and pull on a pair of socks when you go to bed." Juice? "Do you know how much acid this stuff has in it?" That gets returned to the shelf too, even if it's not the right section.

Dante just looks at Cristobal for a moment like he's grown a second head. "An...?" he blinks. Then, the juice goes on the pasta shelf. "Yes, but I also need liquids and I happen to like pineapple juice. And it's got vitamins in." Vitta-mins. He reaches for the carton to put it back in his cart.

And the juice comes right back out again, "Then you drink tea with locally sourced honey, unless you want both your throat and your asshole burning when this shit starts coming out both ends. C'mon. Leave that." Cristobal reaches for Dante's elbow, looking to steer him away from, and thus abandon, his cart altogether. "It's amazing Gringos survive flu season at all without a proper Abuelita. You're coming with me."

"Yes, as we know, shit should only come out one end." Cheeky grin again, verging on sharky. Dante must be feeling better. "Look, I'm not...certain why the sudden concern for my health. But I'm a grown man and I'm capable of taking care of myself." He grabs hold of his cart.

"A grown man who just admitted he doesn't know how to cook, and has zero energy right now to even attempt it." Cris locks a hand on the buggy's handle as well and is about to jimmy it out of the Brit's grip when he realizes how absurd this suddenly is. With a little guff of laughter, he shakes his head. "Look man, I have a pot of tortilla soup on the stove, I only popped over for some fresh cilantro." And picked up a few other things on the trip. "It'll make you feel better than any of this shit combined. Guaranteed."

"And that's less acidic than pineapple juice? Or do its magic restorative properties outweigh the acid content of the tomatoes?" Dante pauses, then takes a moment to really search Cris' face. "At the risk of you suddenly walking away and saying 'forget it, man' or something equally dismissive. Why the offer? As I recall, we met because you were looking for, and I quote, the 'douchiest looking person in that club.'"

Cris looks a little chagrined about the dismissive exit comment, mouth twisted to the side as he bites the inner pad of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly. "What can I say, you look a little less douchie with the glasses." But then he suddenly is walking away as predicted, but he does manage to call back, "You comin' or what?" Back to the writer.

Dante stands there for a moment looking perplexed. He watches Cris, like he's trying to figure out if it's all a deliberate put-on. The other man will get a step or two further before he calls out, "Is it a deal breaker if I say I hate cilantro?"

"You're killing me, English."

They both check out with their respective groceries, and Cris gives him the address before loading up the trunk of his '66 Ford Fairlane.

Having a B in the address proves to be a garage apartment, It looks like what should be a quaint mother-in-law style place, with access stairs on the side and a porch/balcony that runs along front of the two and a half car garage. The whole of the apartment is just one fat L-shaped room, with a bathroom at the inner elbow and his bed set up at the opposite corner. The base of the L, at the entrance, is the living room area, which currently only houses an open closeting system, his clothes hung on rustic piping a small dresser beneath to store the folding clothes and unmentionables. It's severely lacking furniture there, but he just moved in. At the far top of the letter is the kitchen, a peninsula providing two bar height stools as well as square kitchen table with two steel form chairs that provides seating in lieu of a proper living room so far.

There's a few times on the trip over when Dante nearly turns and goes on his merry way. But that would be rude, and he is so very English. So he does pull up, parking his car on the street. Well, rental car since his is in the shop. He stands just inside the door, hands in his pockets. He looks a little awkward, like he's not sure exactly what to think, or what to say. "Are you new to town as well?" he asks, making note of the lack of furnishing.

Cristobal doesn't have to flick on a light when they arrive, every single one in the small apartment is already lit. Walking in to put his grocery bag on the counter, he stops to shuck off his flannel looking from Dante to the empty living area. "Didn't mean to stay." He says at first, flipping his exterior shirt over the back of a chair, leaving him just in a tank with a hint of a tattoo peaking out form the collar, but none others are visible. "I got that chair you suggested on special order. Just hasn't been delivered yet."

"Yes, neither did I." Intend to stay. "Funny how that happens, mhmm? This town is a trap of sorts." Dante steps a little bit further in. "The Le Corbusier? Well well, we're nesting, aren't we?" A grin. "If you're special ordering chairs, you must have a gig here in town."

"Mm." Cristobal gives a sort of a grunt in reply to the sort of town this is, pulling out a drawer and withdrawing a Very Large Knife that might be unsettling for a virtual stranger in his apartment. "I'm a bouncer down at the Platinum Club." Which doesn't quite explain how he can afford a Corbusier, and an authentic one by the sounds of it being special ordered. "Consider this a thanks for the decorating advice." He holds up an avocado in one palm and with a quick thunk, buries the edge of the knife in the side and buries it until it hits pit.

"That was one of the first places I ended up when I arrived. Not because it's my sort of place..." Dante holds up a hand, "...no offense. But it was late and this town doesn't have much going on for the night owls." He eyes the knife, but more out of concern for Cristobal's hand. Though he does linger back a bit, but that's more because he's not sure where he should go.

There is a bit of a nod to one of the stools at the counter, silently inviting Dante to sit while he finishes preparing the soup. Alas, with no cilantro. "Glitter titties aren't for everyone." No offense apparently taken. He runs the blade around the avocado and sets down the knife to twist the two halves apart. "Shit. Tea. You want something to drink, yeah?" He scrubs his palms off on his jeans. "You never did tell me what it is you do, that makes you a night owl like the rest of us delinquents."

"Ah, I'm a writer. So aside from calls with my agent, editor or publicist, I make my own hours." And Dante really does look more like a writer now than he normally does. There's no elbow patches on his suit coat, but there could be. He crosses and takes a seat. He looks a bit uncomfortable, but well, the protocol isn't clear. And Brits don't do well when there isn't protocol. At least, this Brit doesn't. "Ah, just water is fine. Trying to keep my liquids up. The flu put me on my arse for over a week."

"Uh-huh." Cris goes to the fridge to remove a carton of milk, pouring it into the tea kettle and setting it to warm on the stove next to the pot of soup. He does at least get Dante a glass of water, straight from the kitchen tap before he goes back to preparing the avocado with another knife strike to bury it in the pit and pry it out of the center, spooning out the contents of the meat onto a cutting board. "Fancy writer boy, huh. Gay erotic web series?" He flashes up a grin.

"Horror," says Dante. "Mysteries with a supernatural tinge, but they shelve me in horror, and I've written a few things that fit neatly into that genre. And nonfiction books about creepy local legends, which is what brought me here." Dante tugs the glass towards him, but doesn't sip immediately. "Nothing erotic in any of them, hate to disappoint. Just gory and I hope, terrifying."

"Don't get your feelings hurt that I haven't heard of you." Cris starts dicing the green fruit into large cubes, not a chef by any means so his knife skills in the kitchen are just rudimentary. "I can't read."

"Not at all. A surprising number of people in this town have indeed heard of me. It's been surprising. But then, this town does have an understandable fascination with the macabre." Now Dante does sip, but it's a small one, and he does it like he's not sure his system will accept it. "You're pulling my leg."

Cristobal glances up from the tops of his eyes to Dante, pausing his chopping only long enough to give a wry grin. Pulling his leg indeed. He pulls the top off the pot of soup, letting up a puff of pleasant smelling steam before he ladles some into a bowl for the both of them and then adds a handful of crispy tortilla strips and avocado into his own, leaving Dante to doctor his own if he wishes. "Now try that, and if it doesn't make you feel better, my abuelita, may God tend her soul, will rise from the grave and beat my ass with a wooden spoon."

"That's your grandmother, yes? I haven't had much exposure to Spanish. Just...Welsh. And the colourful slang of Cornwall. And far too much Greek and Latin." He pulls the bowl towards him and gives it a sniff, then a cautious taste. Apparently he's going to have a bite before he decides if it needs anything else.

Cris stays standing on the opposite side of the counter from Dante, leaning over to rest his elbows down on it and keep the bowl within the cage of limbs he's created. "-ita implies small and feminine. So when you add it to abuela, it usually means a term of affection or endearment. Usually you call your favorite grandmother abuelita. I learned at a very young age that your favorite? Should be whoever is in the room with you at the time." He grins and spoons soup into his mouth.

"Ah, very wise. But what if they're both in the room? What then?" Dante reaches for the chips, but seems to be steering clear of the avocado for the moment. He's still eating very cautiously, and slowly. It's not a comment on Cris' cooking - more a product of over a week of nausea and vomiting.

Cristobal lowers his voice to conspiratorial levels. "Then you drop the grandma bit altogether and link cute sounding words together with terms of endearment. Chicks eat that shit up, grandmothers are no exception." He dips his spoon again, their two bowls barely making a dent in the pot he's made. "I'm sure you've found the same since coming over. Do women just immediately wet their panties when you say things like gar-ridge instead of garage?"

"Well, I was married when I came over, so I wouldn't know." The cheeky grin from Dante suggests that that's certainly a lie. He pokes at his soup with the spoon. "This is quite tasty. My slow pace of eating has entirely to do with the still-unpredictable state of my stomach. That's also why you won't see me hititng the bottom of the bowl."

"I'll send you home with left overs." Cristobal doesn't react about the compliment, studiously ignoring it. He pushes back from the counter at the reminder of his stomach issues, moving to pour the milk from the tea kettle into a mug and dig through a cabinet until he finds turmeric. "Look at that, the first thing we have in common." Maybe he just means accents.

"Making women need a change of underpants merely by speaking?" Dante drawls. "Or divorce?" His eyebrows arch up. He also eyes the milk situation dubiously. But, the soup seems to be settling all right, so that's a point in Cris' favour.

The concoction is mixed and set before Dante, with a little raise of eyebrows expectantly. "Yes." Cris responds simply, applying the answer to both before he goes back to his own soup bowl, the spoon knocking against the sides as he stirs the contents.

Dante unconsciously rubs a phantom ring with his thumb. Then he inhales slowly and looks at the milk. "I...hope you won't find it an excuse or rude if I depart soon. It's not a comment on your hosting, just on my flagging energy and lack of reserves." He smiles and inclines his head. "But the soup is quite tasty, thank you." The milk, he still hasn't tried.

"Was going to kick you out anyway." But not apparently before Cris is going to drag down some tupperware and fill it with more soup to take him. It's probably for the best anyways, as his mood has suddenly started to slag with the mention of divorce. "Not much used to me in this state." He slants a smirk as he slaps a top on the container and slides it across the counter. "Tastes better if you down that in one go. Well. Less like shit." A glance given to the milk.

"Not much used to anyone, I'm afraid. Least of all myself." Dante looks at the milk, looks at Cristobal, then picks it up, sniffs, downs in one go while trying not to make a face. "If I have yellow vomit later, I'm blaming you. And perhaps sending disturbing pictures." Then he slides off the stool. His energy has visibly flagged in the last few minutes. He's pushed it a little so soon after being sick, it seems.

Out a Sharpie comes and Cris pens his cell number on the top of the tupperware container. "Counting on it."