(no subject)
Sena had been moping around for two days straight, once he'd finally figured out that Aya was gone and not coming back any time soon. It made Ken feel bad for the kid.
So he was in the kitchen, a stripe of flour on one cheek, hands busied with a mixer and measuring cup, making pie crust. (It made sense at the time. The kid's depressed, so bake a pie. A new book of recipes had shown up in one of the kitchen cupboards, and Ken wanted to try some of them out.) The apples had already been peeled and sliced, prepared as the recipe called for with lemon juice, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger.
The last time he'd checked on Sena, the kid had been sitting in the window seat, body folded nearly double as he stared out the window, a book forgotten on the cushion nearby. He hadn't changed position much in the last 45 minutes, at least. Ken sighed and pressed the crust into the pie pan. He thought he was bad, Sena was acting like someone had kicked his puppy and then hit it with a car. At 90 miles an hour. And the car was on fire. Or, y'know, acting like Aya had died instead of just...went somewhere.
Once the house was filled with the smell of baking pie, Ken finally ventured out of the kitchen, trying to brush the flour off his face but just managing to get more of it on there instead. (We won't go into the state of the kitchen.)
He wasn't very good at this cheering-up thing, it would be sort of hypocritical of him to be. But at least he was going to make an attempt at it. Just...in a minute.
So he was in the kitchen, a stripe of flour on one cheek, hands busied with a mixer and measuring cup, making pie crust. (It made sense at the time. The kid's depressed, so bake a pie. A new book of recipes had shown up in one of the kitchen cupboards, and Ken wanted to try some of them out.) The apples had already been peeled and sliced, prepared as the recipe called for with lemon juice, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger.
The last time he'd checked on Sena, the kid had been sitting in the window seat, body folded nearly double as he stared out the window, a book forgotten on the cushion nearby. He hadn't changed position much in the last 45 minutes, at least. Ken sighed and pressed the crust into the pie pan. He thought he was bad, Sena was acting like someone had kicked his puppy and then hit it with a car. At 90 miles an hour. And the car was on fire. Or, y'know, acting like Aya had died instead of just...went somewhere.
Once the house was filled with the smell of baking pie, Ken finally ventured out of the kitchen, trying to brush the flour off his face but just managing to get more of it on there instead. (We won't go into the state of the kitchen.)
He wasn't very good at this cheering-up thing, it would be sort of hypocritical of him to be. But at least he was going to make an attempt at it. Just...in a minute.