his grin dissolves immediately, fizzling out and shortly replaced with an operatic display of frazzled nerves as he nearly slams the drawer on his right hand. narrowly dodging the fate of rapidly swelling fingers and a shameful trip to the er by the margin of a millimeter isn't half as bad as admitting he's got no chill whatsoever. at the moment, things are not Okay. they could be Okay eventually, given time and enough culinary exposure to the finer arts, but that's never been makoto's forte. he isn't balanced with delicate artistry and savory cuisine, never spent longer than forty-five minutes in the kitchen without breaking something (random utensils, random body parts, his equanimity, the list goes on and on).
she trusts him, enough that he's got performance anxiety as a bizarre form of recompense. even haru didn't demonstrate this much faith in his (mal)functioning talent for butchering recipes beyond recognition.
vietnam's always been unique like that. kind. inscrutably kind. in reciprocation, makoto's guilt complex comes on a little too strong. ]
Oh! Y-Yeah. Of course it was. Ehehe, I knew that, I just —
[ when his head soundly thunks against the granite counter as he wrenches himself back upright, he doesn't acknowledge it. there's a punctured grimace, but no sound, which takes emotional disconnect to a whole new level: petrifying whatever audible sound of pain in lieu of casually retrieving the whisk from her and taking a stab at haphazardly stirring the bowl.
granted, the cake batter has taken on the consistency of calcified goat cheese, reeking faintly of crushed dairy products and one too many eggs, but he's taken vietnam's advice to heart. slow, concentric circles, gentle as long as he concentrates and doesn't abruptly lose his mind from embarrassing himself several times in her presence. once it blends into a doughy, shapeless mass not fit for human or animal consumption, makoto turns to her by way of inquiry. ]
This is the last step before he put it in the mold and bake it, right? Does this look good to you?
[ he knows it looks bad. cake isn't supposed to clot up and smell like curdled milk.
so: the moment of truth presents itself. time to find out if vietnam values his feelings, being honest, or some unhallowed aggregation of the two aforementioned options more. ]
no subject
his grin dissolves immediately, fizzling out and shortly replaced with an operatic display of frazzled nerves as he nearly slams the drawer on his right hand. narrowly dodging the fate of rapidly swelling fingers and a shameful trip to the er by the margin of a millimeter isn't half as bad as admitting he's got no chill whatsoever. at the moment, things are not Okay. they could be Okay eventually, given time and enough culinary exposure to the finer arts, but that's never been makoto's forte. he isn't balanced with delicate artistry and savory cuisine, never spent longer than forty-five minutes in the kitchen without breaking something (random utensils, random body parts, his equanimity, the list goes on and on).
she trusts him, enough that he's got performance anxiety as a bizarre form of recompense. even haru didn't demonstrate this much faith in his (mal)functioning talent for butchering recipes beyond recognition.
vietnam's always been unique like that. kind. inscrutably kind. in reciprocation, makoto's guilt complex comes on a little too strong. ]
Oh! Y-Yeah. Of course it was. Ehehe, I knew that, I just —
[ when his head soundly thunks against the granite counter as he wrenches himself back upright, he doesn't acknowledge it. there's a punctured grimace, but no sound, which takes emotional disconnect to a whole new level: petrifying whatever audible sound of pain in lieu of casually retrieving the whisk from her and taking a stab at haphazardly stirring the bowl.
granted, the cake batter has taken on the consistency of calcified goat cheese, reeking faintly of crushed dairy products and one too many eggs, but he's taken vietnam's advice to heart. slow, concentric circles, gentle as long as he concentrates and doesn't abruptly lose his mind from embarrassing himself several times in her presence. once it blends into a doughy, shapeless mass not fit for human or animal consumption, makoto turns to her by way of inquiry. ]
This is the last step before he put it in the mold and bake it, right? Does this look good to you?
[ he knows it looks bad. cake isn't supposed to clot up and smell like curdled milk.
so: the moment of truth presents itself. time to find out if vietnam values his feelings, being honest, or some unhallowed aggregation of the two aforementioned options more. ]