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[Firo's shooting for a pizza--or the Temple equivalent--if they can get it. But he's not confident that they'll find all the ingredients, so he ignores Hank's question about what it is they're making, instead busying himself inspecting some jars that seem to hold spices.]

It's what people do if they wanna eat. Do you guys not do that in the future anymore?

[He knows full well that most men in his time subsist on restaurant and street fare or whatever their wife/mother/sister/closest female relative is making. He just feels compelled to try to get in another dig, to slip into that almost comfortable pattern.

It's hard to be too nice.]

Come on, you can't tell me they still had stoves like this even a hundred years ago.

[He digs halfheartedly through some stuff, finds a potato, and tosses it over. Who knows where it's going to land. Not on Firo, hopefully, but other than that Hank didn't really aim it anywhere.]

Wait, did they? Don't tell me you used to cook like this every day.

[Firo sees the flying potato at the last moment and nearly dives to catch it before it hits the ground. Not quite what he'd had in mind...]

Not everybody. People can get one that uses gas or electricity, these days. But once you get it started, it's really not that different from this.

[Speaking of which... he should probably focus on those matches to make sure they can actually get anything cooked. He reaches into the back of one of the drawers, potato still in his hand.]

...You know what a tomato is, right?

No one puts tomatoes in the pantry.

[As proof, Hank hefts a couple stalks of celery and hurls them out into the kitchen like badly balanced, wilting javelins. He may or may not actually know what a pantry is for. He has a sort of vague sense that it’s where rich people keep their bread, instead of just shoving it in a cabinet.]

What, you don’t think starting it’s enough of a pain in the ass? You cut wood for it every day too?

[Firo won't argue with Hank on pantry habits just now; he's forming an opinion that Hank probably isn't the kind of guy who's too much of a kitchen wizard.

He fishes the matches out of the back of the drawer--bingo. He makes a noncommittal grunt as he strikes one and tosses it in on the stove kindling.]

It is a pain, but it's what we've got to work with.

It's not gonna be quite right, but I can make something like pizza with all this. Have you had that before?

[It's still a bit of a niche food in his time, so who knows. Not that it would change his mind if Hank hadn't tried it.]

[Hank leans back against the doorway, tilting his head back, expression tight and uncomfortable. He can answer just fine, just give him a couple seconds to push past his body's bullshit.]

Nah, we don't have pizza in the future. Not after the uh, Great Pizza Incident of '22. I mighta forgotten how it goes, do they put this on it?

[The thing he was going to toss into the kitchen - weird, lumpy, mostly green, maybe or maybe not native to Earth - slips out of his hand early and just rolls slowly along the floor. Well. He could have sworn he was holding it tighter, but that's close enough to throwing it, right?

[Firo's washing his hands in preparation but turns sharply to Hank. The what--

Oh. He's being mocked.]

Come on. I figured I'd at least ask. I don't usually see that stuff outside of the neighborhood.

[You try to be sort of nice to people and this is what happens. Firo sighs as he flicks the water from his hands and turns to see what Hank is throwing around this time.]

Can you quit dropping shit on the floor? We can try putting that thing on it--just try it and see how it tastes first.

[In the meantime, Firo'll start mixing up the ingredients for the dough.]

Shit no, you try it first.

[He leans to the side to sort through some more stuff. From the pantry comes the noise of things being knocked over which, while unintentional, Hank doesn't really try to avoid. He's still looking for fruit, or vegetables, or some shit.]

So, what, did people just not eat pizza back then, except in Italian neighborhoods? Did anyone really just not even know what it was?

You're the one who put it there...

[So on the floor it stays for now. Firo's assembled the dough and is doing his best to knead it on the floured counter. It's a strange sensation--well, lack of--when he can't actually feel it, but he at least has the visual cues to go off of.]

It doesn't seem that common, from what I've seen. I'm guessing it's different where you're from? If there's something you wanna put on it, just say so.

Before you destroy whatever's left in that pantry.

['Whatever he wants to put in', apparently, includes raisins. A slow, clumsy rain of them, flying - or sometimes rolling - out from the pantry at different speeds, in wildly different heights and directions. Hank feels like shit, and just wants to watch the world burn. Or drink until he passes out. And the pizza guy here won't let him do the latter.]

Yeah, I mean, everyone knows pizza. Give it a hundred years - or, hell, fifty. Fastfood chains will be disrespecting the memory of your cultural dish left and right. What do you put on it? What did they even have in the early nineteen-hundreds? Cheese? Sawdust?

You'd better use all this stuff you're throwing around...

[He'd hate for anything to go to waste, but he'd also hate to clean up Hank's mess for him.]

Nah, sawdust is just for the kinda bars people like you go to. If you can find cheese here, that'd be great.

[After he says it, he wonders if the reference to a seedy joint that covers the floor in sawdust makes sense to someone from the future. Will they still do that?]

[Hank's mess is absolutely going to waste. Fuck these raisins.]

Are you just saying that because the kind of place with sawdust on the floor is the only place that'd serve the shit you got in your room? Come on. You underestimate my class.

Hey, there's probably some cheese over here, but it's too far away. You want some you're gonna have to come over and get it.

[And step over Hank sitting int he doorway to do it. Have you ever felt too shitty to move? Well, Hank does. Fuck the raisins and fuck you, too.]

[Hank's barb is fair enough, so Firo sighs to himself instead of acknowledging that.

He has the dough laid out for his weird not-quite pizza flatbread, so he frowns, (unsuccessfully) dusts off his floury hands, and joins Hank at the pantry when requested. Not without grumbling first.]

But you're right there. How far gone are you?

[Firo's wishing he'd brought the alcohol with them, for his own sanity.

Even more when he gets to the pantry and sees the barrier that is Hank. He glares instead of trying to step over him. ]

Hey, I was either gonna get laid out by hunger or moonshine. I kinda wanted to go for that last one, but...

[He raises his eyebrows with a tight, pointed smile and a wave of his arm at the kitchen. He does move a leg over a little bit, and that will have to be enough for Firo to step over him because all he moves after that is his foot, pointing it over at a spot a foot or so out of his reach.]

‘S over there. Don’t know what kind you want but it’s probably all weird alien shit here anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter.

Edited (why phone) 2018-09-26 16:29 (UTC)

[Firo reaches over to grab the least weird cheese-like thing he can find, grumbling half to himself:]

You're about to get yourself laid out by me...

[He talks louder and more conversationally once he straightens up with his prize.]

Anyway, there'll be time for that still, if you manage to find a bottle.

[As he returns to his dough, he watches Hank out of the corner of his eye. Will mentioning the bottle get him to stir?

In the meantime, Firo'll sprinkle the cheese on the dough and pop it in the oven. Here goes nothing. ]

[After a few seconds of silence from the pantry, Hank groans, rolling himself toward the nearest bottle, then rolling the bottle out into the kitchen. It's probably some kind of oil; looks like vegetable oil, anyway.]

Here, use the rest of this up so I can just take that one. God, did you do all this when you were sick too, or am I the only one who was too fuckin out of it to remember to come get fucking dinner at the right time?

[Does he sound peeved? He's peeved. He was supposed to be halfway to passing out by now.]

Edited (forgot a word) 2018-09-26 22:37 (UTC)

[Firo wrinkles his nose at the bottle; he doesn't like the thought of wasting that oil, but he picks it up nevertheless. He'll figure out something to do with it.

He shrugs at Hank's question.]

I wasn't thinking much about this kinda thing when it got that bad.

[He wonders if he shouldn't have admitted the weakness once it's out of his mouth, but given that everybody was sick it's not a secret.

For want of something to do, he picks up that weird vegetable (?) Hank had thrown over earlier and starts washing it off.]

So when was the last time you ate? Before the sickness got bad?

Uh, probably. I think I tried partway into it, but uh, didn’t get there.

[He scoots far enough out of the doorway to watch Firo. Firo looks calm, competent - he looks just fucking fine.]

So if you were messed up too, why am I the only one feeling like shit? That’s not fucking fair.

Edited 2018-09-27 14:18 (UTC)

[Firo sets the veggie-or-not-to-be on a cutting board and saws into it, shaking his head all the while. With what Hank just said, he's glad that he pushed the food issue.

If there's a real answer to Hank's question, Firo doesn't know it. Well, if he had to guess, it's half because he made himself clean up when he started feeling better, which helped, and half that he can't let his guard down like that.

So Hank gets the un-serious answer instead.]

Not sure. I can tell you that I don't usually lie on the ground and throw food all over the place when I'm sick, so maybe that's just a fundamental difference between us.

[The answer to that comes in the form of a single perfect tomato punted in some random direction out the pantry door.]

So what, being more mature makes you some kinda stoic badass? I don't buy it.

["Mature"? "Stoic badass"? Firo likes the sound of that. Without thinking, he squares his shoulders and stands up a little straighter. Yes, he may still feel pretty weird from the sickness, but he won't let it phase him. Nothing will phase him, at least not in front of this guy.]

Well--

[...Nothing except more food being thrown around, food that happens to be the exact thing he needed just a few minutes ago.]

--We coulda' used that before I put it in the oven, idiot!

Well gee, silly me. Guess I'm just too sick and weak to look right. You think you could ever forgive me for havin to choke down shitty tomatoless pizza?

[Firo can't come up with a good response and so ignores the comment. He presses his hand to his forehead and debates if he should just go bring the booze here already. The scent of dough baking is already drifting through the room, but he knows they have several minutes to go before it's actually ready.

Best to wait. He's getting the sense that Hank isn't much for self control, and he'd rather not have puke in the kitchen either.]

If you're not gonna clean up after yourself, could you at least stop throwing things around like a kid?

[He turns to watch Hank in the pantry and leans back on the counter. His hands scrabble against the surface on either side of him like nervous spiders--briefly, until he reassures himself that he's not falling even though he can't actually sense the counter on his back or hands.]

Why, won’t the ghosts just pick it all up anyway?

[He looks from Firo’s face to his hands.]

Alright there?

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