#parcels of pesto

[genericamentegiuseppe]

somebodyparts - Texas Anime

Si può tracciare una nuova linea nell’ambito della ricerca musicale, che attraversi processi marginali quasi non-musicali, ma puramente digressivi? Quando premiare lo sforzo compositivo, e quando invece quello puramente creativo? somebodypartsTexas Animeautopubblicatobedroom musicUSA2024

[shepherds-of-haven]

please i need to know--how would the shepherds fare in a bakery AU?

Hmm, interesting question!

Blade: don't hire him. he would drive the customers away with his very presence. just imagine some dour black-clothed man looming in your charming bakery amidst the smells of custard buns like

truly disgusting stuff

Trouble: I think this would be manageable at first, but not ideal! he's really game to try any line of work for as long as it can hold his interest, and baking could appeal to him if you pointed out its scientific/chemical qualities! Aesthetically his cakes and desserts would look like this

...but his bread would be the absolute bomb! and he'd have such a friendly and casual attitude when you walked in that I feel like people around the neighborhood would fall in love with him lol. imagine him working a wood-fire oven!

Tallys: she would be an efficient worker who made delicious pastries with homegrown or foraged ingredients--very Great British Bakeoff in essence, where they're always talking about making their own pestos or growing their own tomatoes for things or whatever--but her personality is cool and courteous enough that people would feel slightly intimidated by her, like you can't just go to her and ask for your a Shrek cake for your son's 5th birthday party, she's an artisan and you have to treat her as such! (even if she never says so explicitly herself)

Shery: this is my dream for her. She's thriving, she has her own cozy bakery with all of the pastel sweets and cute little character macarons you could ever ask for, she constantly smells of sugar and vanilla and smiles warmly when you walk inside! she is the most successful in this AU of them all and eventually goes on to go viral once people discover her quaint little bakeshop!

Riel: he's an angel investor. he gave shery seed money to pursue her dream of being a baker. she parcels him up treats and petit fours and cookies and sends them to his house once a week, or he'll stop in on his way home from work (or send his butler to go get it when he gets a craving). but in no universe are you getting him to work in a bakery, lol. and nor would you want to! the man has no instinct for cooking or baking. all of his food ends up looking like this

the best you'll get out of him is that he makes every display in the bakery extremely, painfully symmetrical...

Chase: you're probably better off hiring him as, like, the greeter or sign spinner or flyer-distributor to get people into the bakery. like, he'd be great at charming customers into your store, but I highly doubt you'd want to trust him to do anything else in the bakery. he doesn't have the patience to be cooped up behind the register all day. he'd get distracted by all the fun ingredients in the kitchen if you tried to get him to follow a recipe and bake some cakes. heck, he'd probably be distracted thirty minutes into the whole venture and would just wander out of the shop, never to return! he might accidentally turn out something tasty now and then, but it's not enough to justify having him in your bakery lol

Red: i feel like he could have helped out in a family's friend bakery for a summer as, like, a favor and a seasonal high school job, lol. would he have enjoyed it? probably not, he'd rather be doing other things, but he'd be competent and attentive enough to keep things running at a decent clip! he'd be great at running the register and service end of things, or doing the numbers or deliveries, but only so-so at the baking/kitchen end of things. he'd make great coffee!

Ayla: she'd be fairly decent at this! I think if you put her in the kitchen and gave her detailed instructions on what to do, she'd resist it at first--scowl, scowl, this is dumb, this is boring, why am I cooped up back here like a slave??--but once she got into the rhythm of things, I could see Ayla enjoying slinging dough and cranking out simple things like cookies, biscuits, and bread. No finicky decorating or delicate stuff like frosting cakes--that's how you get cakes being smashed in fits of temper--but "one-and-done" products would be great for her!

Briony: she's brilliant behind the register, cheerily calling out greetings and wrapping up your pastries in their nice little boxes while making chitchat with you. she'd be a sunny presence that made everyone feel happy and welcome in the bakery. she might be able to help out in the kitchen as an assistant now and again, but it's probably not worth the trouble... she's just as likely to trip and knock over an entire shelf of flour, or accidentally squash a cake under her elbow when going to lean on a table, that it's probably just safer to keep her out of the kitchen altogether...

Lavinet: naur... maybe if you want her to be your hot cashieress, but even in an AU, I feel like there are a lot of jobs she'd take over working in a bakery or any kind of food service! flour? in her hair? i don't think so, darling! while she enjoys food and sweets, she has absolutely zero interest in how it's made or selling it, so this would not be a good fit for her at all!

Halek: baking isn't his passion, but he's obviously second-best at this bakery thing after Shery! I think he'd be one of those weird, elusive, sort of temperamental artist-bakers, the ones who are only open from like 4 AM-9 AM, you have to line up outside and stand on the sidewalk for like 20 minutes before you're allowed to buy up to 3 bagels because he only makes exactly 200 every two days, but once you finally get the damn thing, it's the best bagel you've ever had in your life! oh and he only offers plain and veggie cream cheese or an egg and sausage sandwich, no other options!

[fisheito]

how would you eat/cook each nukani character

oh noooooooooo (holds my face in great contemplative agony) u can't do this to me

Eiden: oh mein gotTtTtt getting my hands on eiden would be like receiving an entire cart of summer fresh-from-farm produce. or an entire cow carcass . i would have SO MANY PARTS and SO MANY WAYS to prepare him and every part of him would taste delicious in its own way. there's no way i can ONLY cook eiden one way. i'd have to put him thru every process possible (true to his versatility). i thought about spitroasting him (for the joke) but that's too much eiden for one method. i need to covet him like the king tuna at the fish market as i take him apart piece by piece look. i am frying him like egg for a fast breakfast. i am meticulously grinding him to a paste in a traditional mortar and pestle. i am using him as pesto AND as dipping sauce. i will dehydrate him and drink him as tea. he will be roasted . braised. devoured raw in ceviche. i'll infuse him with vinegars! syrups! oils!! is there a way to make a sourdough starter but it's eidough starter so i can just keep him on my shelf and feed him every day and pass him down for generations? i want eiden for every meal of the day prepared 1000 ways

Aster: would aster taste like blood or the absence of it? hmmmm..... i guess it depends on when he feeds! maybe if i bite into him after a feeding session, he'll burst like a cherry tomato. but otherwise i feel like giving aster the sashimi treatment. put him all fancy on the plate with some garnishes after i treat him with a light citrus wash or smth. a fresh cool flavour!! i'm tempted to make some sort of beverage out of him. dilute him into a fancy mocktail of strange spirits and woody spices. aster juice?!?! looks like pink wine???! i have to treat this one like i'm spoiling him with gifts. he'll probably end up on the artisanal charcuterie board with the fusion jams and marmalades...

Morvay: i feel like he would have a very...particular aroma. he eats a very specialised diet so of everyone in the clan, he has to follow "you are what you eat", right?? my first instinct for some reason is to cure him. like, turn him into prosciutto. if he's gonna have a funky smell, might as well turn up the salt and cure him. tie him up and lock him in the carefully controlled environment of the curing basement. dark... surrounded by other meatbags... slap him around every now and then. slice him up thin and put him on that fancy cheese board with a bunch of other strong smelling foods. slurp him down him with a glass of astringent aster juice to balance out the richness of the morv

Yakumo: soup. he's getting souped. it's only right. might split him half and half into one soup and one stew. maybe the soup will just be a concentrated essence of snek-style broth. like a clear, warming bowl of pho that is DISTILLED YAKUMO and doesn't need much else besides some fave spices to accompany the flavour. as for the stew? i just straight up like stew and it can be so nutritionally complete. so he's going in the classic comfort stew. chunks of yakumo and seasonal vegetables simmered to make a thick hearty pot of glorp. maybe add some alcohol to it if i want to live dangerously. he will sustain me for days to come. anything that i do not turn into soup? i'm going to steam him. a mild little parcel of wrapped yakumo, gently steamed for a hot minute. yakumo tastes best to me when a little wet.

Edmond: to honour his thick sugary ass, i have to turn edmond into some sorta dessert. turn the defrosted ice queen into ice cream? now i could just put edmond in a pot and reduce him until he turns into a syrup but then i would waste all the extra good bits that make up edomon. u need the tsun with the dere and reducing him to pure dere is NOT balanced. he can withstand quite a bit of punishment so maybe i'll whip him up like a custard (by hand FIRST. if that's not strong enough, i'll use an electric hand mixer). turn him into an earl grey creme brulee where u can set him on fire then smack that caramelised crust before spooning out the goopy insides.

Olivine: i feel like i'd wanna enjoy olivine in his least processed form. just enjoy the pure marbled goodness of well-exercised, tender oli. so why not a steak? medium rare to rare? just a little pan-sear and we can chew on him all we want. (i considered searing on a grill, but it's easier around here to get a pan instead of a grill. and oli is all about being accessible to the greatest number of people.) on the other hand, that might not honour oli's nature. he, too, can stand up to a lot of punishment. he might even like it. so part of him can be the relatively unprocessed slab and the other can be a cutlet. that way i can beat him with a hammer, dredge and bread him, then toss him into the deep fryer. to be served with a variety of heavy or creamy sauces.

Quincy: this man is OLD and TOUGH and he probably tastes like every bit of wildlife in the forest combined. then again, he's also always sleeping so does that mean his meat is quite relaxed and i don't have to tenderise forever to be able to chew it? quincy probably eats the simplest diet (no processed microwave preservative type cocktails in here) so he'd be best appreciated in an equally simple dish?? i'd like to skewer him. make him bite-size and cook him over a campfire. alternating with simple salt vs. intricate dry rubs bc i'm not sure which i'd prefer. if he ends up being tough, i'll let him hang out in a savoury marinade for however many days he needs (do NOT make me put a pineapple in there, mister).

Kuya: i lied. **THIS** man is OLD and TOUGH and SINEWY and A BITCHASS to deal with and i bet if i cut him at *just slightly near the wrong spot* then some mystery sac of foul gunk will explode all over me like a punk'd prank. i will take any excuse during the cooking process to abuse this one. grate his rind to infuse in the sauce. mince him for the physical satisfaction then throw him into the blender anyway. toss him violently into a fiery wok and start saute-ing him with every other ingredient ever. i hope you get stabbed by a bunch of pointy carrots. i'll broil him as if he's not already crispy. and I BET at the end of all this work, i'll have somehow have messed up and made him inedible. skill issue. at this point i give up, toss the entire kuya into the pressure cooker, and turn him into stew.

G/Karu: i wanna toss them like a salad (i think they'll have fun with that). i could go the traditional way and make wolf jerky. bring it on the road for a durable snack! if i could somehow chop these two up and turn them into furikake, they could become my convenient, reliable flavour injector for a quick bowl of rice. it's tricky because there are two distinct flavours and they gotta be treated differently to bring out their full potential. but they're also inseparable. what do i do??? i might just put them into my party-type foods where flavours are supposed to mix and it's the wildness of the combos that make it all fun. he's going on the 12-topping pizza!! he's being melted onto the giant tray of nachos!!!

Blade: CAN I EAT THIS? WILL I DIE? WILL MY TEETH BREAK OFF? i have to debone him. i bet there are pointy bits hiding everywhere. get my special tools out and pluck at him for over an hour (i must be thorough). might just put him in the microwave (he'd probably enjoy that). i feel like essence of Blade would also do well as a bubbly drink. mix a simple edroid syrup with some club soda and some edible flowers to look pretty (low calories too!). if the legends are true and blade can adapt to any flavour, i might just turn him into a condiment or special spice mix. grind him to dust and put him in a nice glass container near my stove so i can add him to various foods (the weirder the combo, the better). keep the spirit of experimentation alive with Blade popcorn seasoning!!

Dante: i am gonna make him fragrant as hell. gonna smoke him over intricate spice combos or tea leaves and impart him with the most alluring lung-punchiest sniffs. i don't wanna be too harsh with him but i trust that he'll at least stand up to heat well. he'd probably complain about wasting time, but i'm not rushing the process. u will sit in the smoker and steadily break down over time. maybe after the smoke, i can tuck the odds and ends into a savoury saucy pie. bake him for an hour surrounded by a flaky buttery crust? i might also experiment with some fermentation, like a dante kimchi. i'm curious as to how he'd change flavours given time to age (and just relax for a bit, really).

Rei: i am pickling him. he's gonna become that sour salty lil accompaniment to every meal i have. he'll last forever and somehow never mould and no matter how long i leave him chillin in the fridge, when the time comes to put him on a bun, i know i can rely on him to not suddenly go limp. i still gotta be careful with him tho. can't just stick my fingers in the jar and introduce contaminants all the day because it IS possible to Spoil the Goods idk i just feel like i'd have to let him sit in SOME sort of marinade or brine. if i try to eat him raw i might turn 14 shades of purple before dissolving into radioactive bile

[microloop]

A Comprehensive Guide to Different Types of Pasta: Exploring the Best Pasta in Surat

Introduction:

In the vibrant culinary landscape of Surat, pasta holds a special place among food enthusiasts. Whether you're a fan of traditional Italian cuisine or seeking a fusion experience, Surat offers a delightful array of pasta dishes to tantalize your taste buds. And what pairs better with pasta than good company? Join us as we explore the best pasta in Surat, along with a side of pizza and friends.

Types of Pasta:

Spaghetti:

Thin, long strands of pasta, ideal for classic dishes like Spaghetti Aglio e Olio or Spaghetti Carbonara.

Available at many Italian eateries in Surat, including Pizza and Friends, where it's often served with a variety of sauces.

Penne:

Short, tube-shaped pasta with angled ends, perfect for capturing creamy sauces or chunky vegetable mixtures.

Enjoy Penne Arrabbiata or Penne alla Vodka at Surat's top pasta destinations, such as Pizza and Friends, for a flavorful experience.

Fusilli:

Corkscrew-shaped pasta that holds sauces exceptionally well, making it a versatile choice for both cold salads and hot dishes.

At Pizza and Friends, Fusilli Primavera is a popular choice, featuring seasonal vegetables and a light olive oil dressing.

Ravioli:

Square parcels of pasta filled with various ingredients such as cheese, meat, or vegetables, served with a rich sauce.

Indulge in homemade Ravioli di Ricotta e Spinaci at authentic Italian restaurants in Surat, like Pizza and Friends, for an exquisite dining experience.

Linguine:

Similar to spaghetti but slightly wider and flatter, linguine pairs beautifully with seafood or pesto sauces.

Treat yourself to Linguine alle Vongole at Pizza and Friends, featuring tender clams in a garlic-infused white wine sauce.

Best Pasta in Surat:

When it comes to finding the best pasta in Surat, Pizza and Friends consistently ranks at the top of the list. With its commitment to authentic Italian flavors and high-quality ingredients, Pizza and Friends offers an extensive pasta menu that caters to every palate. Whether you prefer classic favorites like Spaghetti Bolognese or innovative creations like Gnocchi Gorgonzola, Pizza and Friends ensures a memorable dining experience.

Pizza and Friends: A Destination for Pasta and More:

While renowned for its exceptional pasta dishes, Pizza and Friends is more than just a pasta destination. As the name suggests, this establishment also serves delectable pizzas crafted with care and expertise. From traditional Margherita pizza to gourmet specialties like Quattro Formaggi, Pizza and Friends delivers an authentic Italian pizza experience that keeps customers coming back for more.

Conclusion:

In Surat, pasta lovers are spoiled for choice, with a wide selection of pasta varieties available at top-notch eateries like Pizza and Friends. Whether you're craving a classic Spaghetti Carbonara or a contemporary Fusilli Primavera, Surat's culinary scene has something to satisfy every pasta craving. So gather your friends, head to Pizza and Friends, and indulge in the best pasta and pizza Surat has to offer. Buon appetito!

Pizza and Frends: Pizza Restaurant | Authentic Italian Restaurant | Michelin Star Experieince

Contact number: 09978735000

Address: Ground Floor, Pizza & Frends, Union Heights, 6 & 7, Dumas Rd, near Rahul Raj Mall, Piplod, Surat, Gujarat 395007

Menu: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1erZwidQ786XJX_pDAm3Chq3dkgMleF7I/view

[joshuasearing]

Friday 16th June 2023

Hey journal so yesterday started of but me relaxing for a little bit before my driving lesson. I had an hour driving lesson that started at 11am. The driving lesson ended up being ok however kept on forgetting to drop into first gear when I came to a stop which is a thing I always keep on doing and especially yesterday I did it a lot. After my lesson I beat myself up a lot about it but Caitlin supported me after the lesson as I met up with her in town. Once we met up we went round a few shops and then went to Maccies after this we met up with Harry and Alyssa and then we went Maccies with them again as them two wanted to get some food. Then after this we went to sainsburys as we needed to get food and drinks as we were having a picnic at this massive park. Anyways after getting the items we made are way to the park once we got to the park we played some football together had some food and also did a drinking game as we had alcohol with us. After this we went on this boat thingy with peddles I forgot what you call it and we went in the lake for about 30 minutes together. This was nice and enjoyable. After this me and Caitlin made are way fo her house and walked to her house. Once we got to her house we made pesto pasta together and we also watched some tv together, then after a while she came round my house and slept round. Now for today I started the day of by struggling to get out of bed as I felt like utter shit. Then once I got up I got ready for work and made my way to work. Work was ok today however it was busy to be honest and it wasn’t even a weekend so I don’t understand. After work today my mum picked me up and she helped me get a parcel that I needed which was shoes for my work. Then she dropped me of to the gym. The gym session was good but I only went for about 45 minutes. After this I walked home. On the way home I went into tescos and got my dad a Father’s Day card. Then once I got home I’ve just had dinner and played my pc. Oh and I’ve done my documenting my mental health video. Anyways speak to you later journal! Bye journal!

[tastesoftamriel]

The Merchants Inn

The Market District's best place to eat and drink!

To start

Spinach and feta parcels, with sweet onion chutney

Nibenay tomato salad, with beefsteak tomatoes, basil, and fresh buffalo mozzarella

Nettle soup, with fresh cream and homemade sourdough croutons

Arancini bites, with portobello mushrooms, pecorino, and basil

Mains

House panini, with crispy bacon, garden salad, smoked provolone, sundried tomatoes, and pesto

Poached eggs, with smoked trout, capers, bearnaise sauce, and homemade sourdough

Fish and chips, with Rumare slaughterfish, lemon tartare sauce, and jumbo potato chips

Leyawiin-style jambalaya, with chorizo, prawns, arborio rice, and our secret blend of spices

Dessert

Homemade apple pie, with whipped cream or rum and raisin gelato

Cheydinhal trifle, with brandy custard, amaretto sponge, and chocolate custard

Cinnamon and cardamom buns, with walnuts and a sticky caramel swirl

Lemon ricotta torte, with limoncello glaze and sliced almonds

[today-only-happens-once]

missing from here, missing from me

Fic title: missing from here, missing from me

word count: 3347

summary: Alberto goes missing. Luca manages as best he can, which is not very well at all. Alberto/Luca, Luca and Giulia as close friends, and some dad!Massimo angst in the background. 

warnings: angst with a happy ending, crying, tension in friendships and family dynamics at times, missing person, mentions of/allusions to experimentation, reckless decision making. Please let me know if I missed anything. 

A/N: First time writing for Luca and it’s an absolute angst fest. Would love to know what you think! Played with structure and style here too, so I hope you enjoy it! <3

--

Luca knows before Giulia’s mother has hung up the phone that something is very wrong. Alberto is the first thought in his head, and it’s the one that does not let go.

He stands up so fast that he knocks back the chair he’d been sitting in as Giulia’s mother gasps. It clatters against the wooden floor and he should probably pick it up but his feet are rooted to the ground and his hands cannot let go of the edge of the table.  Giulia says something, but she sounds like she’s in a faraway tunnel. Her touch on his arm is the only thing that keeps Luca from bolting out the door.

Giulia’s mother says little. “How long ago?” she asks into the reciever, followed by a “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Luca’s stomach has a lead weight as Giulia’s mother turns brown eyes onto her daughter, and then to Luca.

“It’s Alberto,” she confirms. “He’s missing.”

--

The train ride is long. The Italian countryside passes by in a rush of greens and blues and grays. Luca looks out the window and thinks that it would be more beautiful if he was on a Vespa, with Alberto’s chest vibrating beneath his arms as he shouts with eurphoria.

Missing.

Alberto has been missing for 13 hours and Luca feels like there’s a part of him that’s missing too.

--

His own mother and father, in their human forms, are there at the Marcovaldos’ place when Luca opens the door. Giulia runs straight into her father’s embrace, pressing her tear-stained face to his broad shoulders. His rumbling voice offers words of reassurance that Luca doesn’t hear.

Luca stands in the doorway and feels lost.

His mother takes a step towards him, says his name. Luca cannot bring himself to move.

“Where is Alberto?”

--

The police had already come, Giulia’s father explains as the adults drink coffee and Giulia drinks water and Luca tries not to throw up. What if he’s dead? Luca thinks and then immediately: Silenzio, Bruno.

There’s a crease between Signor Marcovaldo’s thick brows and a hunch to his shoulders. He is gripping his mug of coffee so tightly Luca wonders briefly it if might break apart in his hand.

“We’ll find him,” Luca’s father says. Luca opens his mouth to respond when he realizes that his father is looking at Signor Marcovaldo. That the words of reassurance were not meant for his son, but for the other father in the room.

Giulia’s dad sets his cup on the table in front of him and walks out of the room without responding. Luca sees the way he about to slam the door before he stops it, and closes it softly.

--

His parents offer to take him home. Luca uses as few words as possible to explain that he would rather stay here. In case there’s news. Luca expects a fight that is parents don’t give him.

His mother hugs him extra long before they leave. Luca returns it, if only because he knows it will help his mom feel better.

They promise to come back in the morning. Luca nods. He bites his tongue from asking them to stay, too. What if they disappear like Alberto?

--

Giulia is quiet that night. Luca sleeps out on the hideout and tries not to feel like the weight of Alberto’s absence will send him tumbling through the floor and crashing to the ground. Giulia leaves the window open and for that, Luca is grateful.

“Luca?”

“Hm?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“Do you think Alberto… ran away?”

“No.”

“I’m scared for him.”

Luca knows that he should offer some words of reassurance. That’s what friends do. But he cannot speak past the hardening lump in his throat and he stares at the lights above him that Alberto once insisted were anchovies and can feel his chest pulse with an ache he cannot name.

Alberto was always the one to quiet the fear inside of him. Silenzio, Bruno, Luca thinks fiercely, and swallows when he realizes that voice sounds an awful lot like Alberto.

--

Luca smooths his hand over the poster to adhere it to the wall. His hand does not linger no matter how much he wants it to. Neither does his gaze. If he does either for too long, he will begin to cry.

“C’mon,” Luca tells Giulia when he can feel her worried stare boring into the side of his face. “We have more posters to hang up.”

“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs out from under her grip. “I’m fine.”

He knows that he is a terrible liar. He knows that Giulia can read him better than anyone. He waits for Giulia to call him out on it, unsure of what he will say in response.

She says nothing. She can, after all, read him better than anyone. So she hands him the next poster, and they get back to work.  

--

I’m gonna fix this. That was his promise to Alberto a year ago. He wants that to be his promise now. He wants to say it—wants to scream it—wants it to be true.

Luca doesn’t know if he can. He thinks of the clock at the bottom of the ocean and wonders if it is still counting the seconds. Luca is.

He makes it to noon before he cries.

--

Signor Marcovaldo starts to make Trenette al Pesto and stops halfway through. Luca watches from the dining room table as his parents and Giulia’s mother have a hushed conversation in the next room over. Signor Marcovaldo’s hand wavers as he reaches for the garlic cloves, then drops to his side.

“Perhaps we should… order something instead,” he says.

“Papa—”

He leaves. Giulia sighs. When she starts chopping the garlic, Luca busies himself by draining the pasta. He pretends he doesn’t see Giulia wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her striped shirt, and he decides to return her watery smile.

--

“Maybe he ran away,” the police say the next day. Early afternoon sun filters through the open windows, the salty ocean air tickling Luca’s nose.

“He didn’t,” Luca interrupts. He has spent most of his life not knowing things, but he knows this. Alberto didn’t run away.

“Sweetheart,” his mom begins, and Luca’s stomach rolls. He steps back when she reaches for him.

“He didn’t.”

“I know he’s your friend, kid,” one of the officers tells him, “but we found plans and maps at that island you said he used to spend his free time at.”

“That’s different,” Luca says, his throat tightening. “That was before. He wouldn’t run away! The life he has here is important to him. I know it.”

“Luca—”

“No! I know Alberto! He didn’t just run away.” Luca can feel his heartbeat pounding in against his ribs, like it wants to break free of his confines of his chest. As desperate to reach Alberto as the rest of him is. Luca’s eyes flit over the room to settle squarely on Signor Marcovaldo, who stands in the corner and stares at the floor.

“He wouldn’t abandon the people he loves,” Luca insists.

Signor Marcovaldo’s gaze rises and steadfastly meet’s Luca’s own. “And we won’t abandon him.”

--

“You’re going to collapse if you keep going like this,” Giulia tells him quietly the afternoon of the following day, in the middle of the town square. Luca can feel the rain against his scales and dripping off his fins.

“I’m fine.”

“Luca, you’re not yourself—”

“What do you want from me, Guilia?” Luca snaps. “I’m trying to find Alberto, and I don’t know where to look, and I don’t know who took him or why and I can’t sleep at night because I don’t know that he’s safe and I never got to tell him—”

Luca’s voice fails him when Guilia grabs him and pulls him into a hug. She doesn’t let go for a long time. And when she feels Luca’s shoulders jerk with an aborted sob, she just squeezes tighter.

--

Luca sleeps for a few hours the third night. He wakes up when the door opens and Signor Marcovaldo’s broad frame is silhouetted against the light form inside the house. He is wearing his hat and has a lamp in his hand. Luca slides down the ladder and calls out to him.

“Luca. You should be asleep.”

“Are you going to look for Alberto?”

There’s a beat, and Luca wonders if he’s going to lie to him. “Yes.”

“I want to come with you.”

“It is late—”

“Please, Signor.”

Luca looks up at him. He can sense, more than see, the way Signor Marcovaldo looks at him. Close and studying, as if trying to parcel something out. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, as he looks in the direction of the town, and then back.

“Alberto cares very much for you, Luca.”

Luca’s heart stutters a little. His lungs squeeze. “And I for him, sir.”

A heavy hand lands in his hair and ruffles it. “I know. Come. Walk with me.”

--

Luca had learned much in his year at school. He learned about stars, and spelling, and addition.

He did not learn how to deal with this.

He did not learn how to count the hours when the days bleed into sleepless nights and time itself starts to lose meaning. He did not learn how to stop counting the minutes, as if counting to sixty a million times will stave off the way his vision blurs on the edges if he stands in one place for too long.

Luca throws a tarp over the rusting Vespa and wishes that the hole in his heart could be covered as easily.

--

When Luca becomes too exhausted, he sleeps. When he sleeps, he dreams of Alberto.

The dreams are a patchwork quilt in memories. Alberto’s sun-warmed shoulder brushing against Luca’s, the teasing quirk of his eyebrow, the stretch of his spine when he planned to put himself firmly in the way of danger. Then the echo of take me, gravity as he disappears down the edge of a cliff to dive into the water below.

Luca follows, every time.

Alberto disappears.

Every.

Time.

--

Luca stares at the anchovies (stars, he knows, hot balls of gas lightyears away from here but Alberto is not here and Luca wants to hold on to the parts of Alberto that he can with both hands) when he hears the phone ring.

Signor Marcovaldo picks up on the first ring. Luca realizes he must have been waiting. He wonders how many nights he spent at the kitchen table, also unable to sleep. Luca glances at the still-open window to Giulia’s room, sees her light immediately click on, and wonders if maybe nobody in this house has slept since Alberto went missing.

Luca sits up when he hears Signor Marcovaldo knock on her door.

--

They have a lead. Signor Marcovaldo sits on the edge of Giulia’s bed. Looks at Luca through the window. Found some fabric that matched his shirt a few miles north.

Luca slides down the ladder to the ground so fast he feels his palms rubbed raw from the rope burn.

Luca tears the tarp off the Vespa and kicks it into gear. He hears his name being called from the house, the thundering of footsteps down the stairs after him.

“Wait!” Signor Marcovaldo calls to him, but all Luca has done for the past week is wait.

He feels a sudden weight on the back of the Vespa and sees Giulia yanking on a helmet.

“Go!” she shouts in his ear.

He turns the Vespa north and goes as fast as he can.

--

Luca races the moon. Portorosso gives way to a tree line, thick with the scent of dew and dirt. He thinks he can feel Giulia’s hands shaking around him, but he does not know if that is the thrum of the Vespa beneath them or if her anxiety is an echo of his own.

All he knows is that Alberto is north. So that’s where Luca wants to be.

--

“STOP!”

Luca sees it at the same time Giulia does and brings the Vespa to a lurching halt against the dirt trail they had been following. Giulia tightens her grip on Luca to keep them both from careening off the vehicle.

Luca blinks at the figure in the road, clearing the spray of dust from his eyes.

The moonlight filters weakly through the leaves of the canopy above them. Luca can barely see, but the headlight from the Vespa offers enough of a glow to make out the form that stands on the path. Just far enough away from the light to be a shadow in the darkness.

Luca tentatively climbs off the Vespa and takes a step forward. It has been over a year, but Luca has seen that same silhouette in his dreams every day for a week.

“Alberto?”

The answering voice is raspy and hoarse, but its familiarity thunders in Luca’s head. “L…Luca?”

And then Alberto collapses.

--

Luca does not reach him before he hits the ground but it’s a close thing. “Alberto!”

The bottom of Alberto’s tank top is torn, he cheeks gaunt. Parts of him are blue scales. The base of his skull has purple fins that fade up into his soft tower of curly hair. Almost like he had gone for a swim, and not fully dried off.

“He’s bleeding. And I think he has a fever,” Giulia says quietly, and only now does Luca realize that she is kneeling on the other side of him. Luca hears her voice as if he’s underwater. There’s something off about it, he knows, but he cannot place it.

“C’mon, Luca. We have to get him home.”

--

The trip home is quiet. They sandwich Alberto between them and Luca drives even faster on the way back.

Alberto’s weight and heat against him is a reminder of his presence—heavy and warm and here—but it’s not as comforting as Luca had thought it would be. He’s hurt. He’s sick.

I’m gonna fix this, Luca thinks, and guns it even faster as Portorosso comes into view again.

--

Luca does not know what he expects when he pulls up to the Marcovaldo’s home. He had not thought about it. Giulia is pulled aside by her mother, hushed and harsh words shading the concern from which they originate.

Signor Marcovaldo says nothing. He pulls Alberto up in his arm and disappears into the house. The churning in Luca’s gut spikes the moment Alberto disappears from his view, so Luca follows.

Giulia’s father takes Alberto back to his room, ducking into the small doorway. Luca lingers at the threshold and watches.

“Never do that again,” Signor Marcovaldo says as he lays Alberto down in his bed. It’s not until he turns to look at Luca in the doorway that Luca realizes he was speaking to him, not Alberto.

It is not a promise Luca can make. Not when he can see the rise and fall of Alberto’s chest for his own eyes.

“I had to, sir.” Luca takes a step into the room. “Is… Alberto going to be okay?”

Signor Marcovaldo turns to him, then sighs. He wordlessly places his hand on top of Luca’s head as he passes by.

“I need to make some phone calls,” he says in lieu of an answer. “Watch him for me, Luca.”

--

In the hours that follow, Luca does not leave the room.

Giulia’s mother comes in and lectures him about running off. Giulia tries to come to his defense—“we found Alberto, Mamma! Can’t you just leave him alone?”—but Luca shakes his head and apologizes, even though he is not sorry.

Signor Marcovaldo has a doctor attend to Alberto. Infected, the doctor says. But treatable. I believe he will make a full recovery.

Luca pretends he does not hear the relieved tremble to Signor Marcovaldo’s breath in response.

--

Luca is alone with Alberto and the sun is just barely peeking over the ocean’s horizon line when Alberto wakes up.

Alberto’s hand twitches in Luca’s. His green eyes crack open, and Luca leaps to his feet.

“Luca?” His name falling from Alberto’s mouth—dry and raspy as it sounds in this moment—is nearly enough to make Luca’s knees give out from under him.

“Sì, sì, sì.” Luca fumbles for the glass of water and straw on the table beside the bed. “Here.”

Alberto does not look away from Luca’s face as he drinks the water. Luca knows this because he, also, cannot bring himself to look away. As Luca pulls the cup away and turns to call for Signor Marcovaldo, Alberto’s grip on his hand tightens.

“Wait,” Alberto says.

In this moment, Luca does not believe himself capable of denying Alberto much of anything. So he stops, and turns back.

“You’re really here?”

Alberto has never sounded so small. When he touches Luca’s cheek, Luca goes very still.

“Sì,” Luca whispers.  

He watches as Alberto’s green eyes flood with tears, and then hears the creak of the floorboards behind him. When Luca glances over his shoulder, he sees Giulia’s father in the doorway.

“Alberto,” Signor Marcovaldo says, and Alberto breaks.

--

Luca has to leave the room when the police come to get Alberto’s statement, but he hears whispers of it amongst the adults late at night when he is supposed to be asleep.

Word of sea monsters is spreading, Giulia’s mother says. You said Alberto said they were talking of research? I do wonder if it may have been more about experimentation—

Signor Marcovaldo’s rumble interrupts her. He escaped, Giana, and they raided the warehouse. They are not a threat any longer. That, and Alberto’s forgiveness, is all I care about.

Massimo, it’s not your fault—

It is, came the firm disagreement. Dio mi perdoni, but it is.

--

Two days later, Alberto sits in the hideout beside Luca and watches the sunlight filter through the leaves above them.

The quiet between them is filled with the sounds of Portorosso around them: children playing soccer in the town square, fishermen calling to one another on passing boats, seagulls squaking as they pass by overhead. Giulia was working on selling what remained of the family’s stock of fish, so her idle chatter is nowhere to be heard. Luca closes his eyes and listens mostly to Alberto drumming his fingers against his own stomach.

Alberto had been quiet in the days since waking up. Luca didn’t press him on it. The sound of the breath passing through his lungs and his footsteps when he walked was enough for Luca.

“Hey,” Alberto says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I never thanked you for coming to find me. That night, in the woods?”

Luca frowns and looks over at him. Alberto is still staring at the sky. “You don’t have to thank me. Of course I’d come for you.”

“Yeah, I just…” Alberto trails off, then sits up suddenly. Startled, Luca sits up too. Alberto turns to look at him, his green eyes intense. “I… I feel like I knew that. When I was… there. I can’t explain why, I just… I just knew.” He grabs Luca’s face in both of his hands.

Luca swears his heartbeat stops all together, then starts thundering in his chest. “Alberto—"

“I…” Alberto swallows. His eyes search Luca’s face like he might vanish if he so much as blinks. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. I fought my way out for you, but even then, I… I wasn’t… I couldn’t be sure, but I kept thinking—”

“Silenzio, Bruno?” Luca supplies, and turns to kiss Alberto’s palm against his face.

Alberto’s answering laugh is watery and thin as he presses his forehead against Luca’s. It is the most beautiful thing Luca has ever heard in his life.

[pruchuttorecipes]

PROSCIUTTO WRAPPED CREAMY PESTO CHICKEN PARCELS PROSCIUTTO WRAPPED CREAMY PESTO CHICKEN PARCELS

[fascination-street-writing]

Jumping on Someone Else’s Train | Narancia Ghirga x GN!Reader

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again.

A Canon Divergence AU, in which Narancia does not follow Bucciarati on the boat in Venezia

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece I for @vergissmeinnnicht​ -

Content Warnings: Regret, Angst, Mentions of Alcoholism, & Mentions of Other Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Men and women clad in suits of varying styles and colors stand along the proscenium of the tracks, waiting for the first wave of commuter trains from Venezia. With thoughts of unfinished reports, soccer practices, and uncertainties of whether to have spaghetti alle vongole or ai ricci for dinner, no one pays heed to the three battered teenagers seated just behind the line – who, mind you, certainly ought to be in school.

To your left, Fugo fumes; and yet, despite his ever-apparent anger, there is unbounded despondency in his violet eyes. Despondency indeed, perhaps for the mutual decision of yours and his, or otherwise, because of Bucciarati’s blasphemy. Although, you suppose that you cannot fault your former Capo. He has always had a proclivity for saving undesirables – yourselves, included. But his kindness is not your own.

To your right, Narancia leans over and slouches, clutching his head between two hands that have not yet healed from his scuffle with the first man of the assassination team. You cannot help but to notice that several of the crackling scabs have been picked open. You regret deeply that you had not offered to run Trish’s errands with the black-haired boy. And, though he will not admit it, as does Fugo.

The sound of a shoe tapping against the concrete flooring would be irksome to you if it were anyone other than Narancia’s doing. You cannot decide if he is merely growing impatient for the train to arrive, or rather, unequivocally conflicted about what has transpired within the past hour. A shuddering breath slips past his lips, expelling as his shoulders begin to quake. He might never forgive you for letting him snivel in public.

Gently, you place your hand on his back. Narancia stills at your touch and allows his own to fall from his reddened cheeks. Reluctantly so, he meets your concerned gaze. He fears he might disintegrate into nothing more than bones if you keep looking at him this way – like you adore and loathe him all the same.

You speak his name softly, reminiscent of some kind of lullaby that his mother might have sung to him during his early adolescence. “We need you to be here,” you tell him.

His nod is an automatic response. He contemplates the bluntness of your words, understanding well enough that they have sprung from a good heart. You have become more like Bucciarati, he thinks; your pension for austerity in love rivals his, to be sure. Narancia swallows and nods once more. “I’m here,” he insists.

He would wince at the cracking of his voice if you had turned away sooner. You pull your hand back and rest it atop your leg, curling your fingers into the threadwork of your pants. “Stay with us, then.”

The rotors of the train squeal as the machinery lulls to a stop. In truth, you would never like to board another train for as long as you should live. But this is not a luxury you can afford.

“Now boarding from Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia to Napoli Centrale. Total travel time – seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. First stop: Ferrara.”

Within the compartment of the train, Fugo sits beside you and pours over a bit of reading that he had swiped from a kiosk before embarking. Narancia determines that the book the younger boy reads must be painfully dreadful, or implausibly wonderful. His brow furrows, as if deeply embedded in his own thoughts, but his fingers never bend to turn the page.

A quivery sigh escapes as you stare from the window, appearing to be as bored as ever. The Italian countryside passes by in blurs of likewise colored landscapes. Narancia wonders how it is that you can tell the difference between a vineyard and a farm against the speed of travel. Or maybe you cannot, though you try to anyways.

You stifle a yawn, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that has accumulated over the past several days. And yet, despite it all, you are still living. Narancia feels his own jaw beginning to twitch, and his mind drifts elsewhere, to the interlude of youth before life with Bucciarati became quite so complicated; good thoughts to keep him grounded amidst the unrest of divided loss.

As it were, he remembers the day when he first met you as if it were yesterday. Before Mista, Abbacchio, and certainly Giorno – back when the two of you, Fugo, and Bucciarati made for the greatest family whom he had ever known. The only other time Narancia has ever seen such strain upon your face was when Bucciarati took you into his home, still clothed in street-rags and muddied shoes. You had not even joined Passione yet; their then eighteen-year-old leader had acted of his own volition to take you in. He always has had a way of saving people.

Narancia knows your strife as if it is his own. Your mother died and your father neglected you; you took to thievery and pickpocketing to find whatever you needed to spend a night without an empty stomach. It was only a matter of time until, provoked by the unfortunate solidarity of utter hurt, you had clicked with the two boys.

But it was not always this way.

In truth, your eagerness to snub the boy is, of some emotional gravity, debilitating. He has always believed friendship to be deserving of the highest value of any other virtue in life. When you observe his struggles to solve seemingly simple math equations during tutoring sessions, with such an unreadable look on your face, he dreads that your hesitation has born itself from an aura of superiority that you harbor against him. The moment you turn away as Fugo’s chastisement rains upon him, he wonders how he might ever be good enough to earn your favor when he cannot be good enough for himself.

When he speculates his plan to befriend you, he thinks without fail that it must be the most brilliant little scheme in the world. Narancia begins by buying you a chocolate bar from the corner store down the street, because what peer of your age does not like chocolate? By the time he has returned home, it has begun to melt in his pocket. He hopes you will not mind, and if you do, he has already decided that he will go back and purchase a second one – cognizant to carry it instead, rather than stuffing it in his corduroys.

To his chagrin, you turn your nose up at the creased, seeping parcel. “I hate sweets,” you tell him with a heavy insistence and no succeeding explanation or defense. Never mind that he had caught you sneaking cake from the kitchen last night when you thought everyone else had gone to bed.

Alas, his resolve is strong. He supposes that it was wrong of him to assume that you would indulge in a chocolate bar, because it is simply not the same thing as cake. During an astronomy lesson with Fugo, a fetching optimism takes over. That evening, he forgoes dinner to sweep the terracotta roof of dead leaves and earthly dust. He rummages through his closet for the softest blanket he owns – blue gingham that had once belonged to his mother.

He runs into you in the hallway on his way to your bedroom; budding with courage, he asks if you would care to watch the stars with him on the rooftop, because the window in his room leads right to the widow’s walk. You roll your eyes and turn away, muttering, “Constellations make me dizzy.” But did you not tell Bucciarati in passing yesterday just how much you love searching for the little dipper when the night skies are forgiving?

Narancia’s spur is beginning to wane, though he cannot blame you. Perhaps he has been reading you wrong. He simply has not pinpointed your interests – that is all. Flipping through the channels of the television, he stumbles upon a culinary program of an older man demonstrating how to prepare bucatini alla carbonara. Struck with inspiration, the boy rushes to the market for pancetta, parmesan, and dried pasta; he has never quite had the patience for making fresh dough, so he settles for pre-packed bucatini. Surely, you will understand.

And so, he leads you into the kitchen with a grin on his face. While pointing to the array of ingredients on the counter, he asks you to lend a hand and to help him prepare dinner. You are all in need of a reprieve from Il Libeccio. “I don’t like cooking,” you say, disinterested. It surely must have been a ghost who prepared the rigatoni al pesto on this past domenica, then.

Narancia does not have high hopes when he extends to you the offer of catching the movie Panni Sporchi in the theater with Fugo and he. His crushed spirits know better by now. But it never hurts to try.

You set down whatever magazine you have snatched from the corner store and cock an eyebrow. “Comedies aren’t my thing,” you utter. “They’re not even that funny. Besides, they’re just poor imitations of life. So are romances. And dramas. Thrillers – horrors . . . Actually, I hate movies.”

He bears it with a curt nod, choosing to ignore that you had held a private viewing of Auguri Professore in the living room yesterday. His head tells him that you do not wish to be his friend, amongst other things – but his heart insists that one day, you will.

It is by chance that he should wake up this night with the irrepressible urge to use the bathroom. On his way back, skin still damp from the sink, Narancia tiptoes along the embroidered vines of the carpet. It is a solitary game he only partakes in when no one is around to question his antics. When he hears a hiccup, he surmises that he has been caught. His sock-clad feet sink into the floor as he stills and prepares himself for whatever beratement is sure to follow. Instead, there is only another gasp for breath.

No, not a hiccup, he notices: it is the sound of grief that came from your bedroom. With little regard to your privacy, he peaks his head through the cracked door.

“What are you doing, Narancia?” you demand as you wipe the back of your nose and hoist the blankets – wetted by your tears – up to your shoulders. “Get out of my room.”

In this moment, it is as if the clouds have parted and clarity canvases the sky. All this time, he truly was enough for you – it was you who was not adequate for yourself. And here you are, curled up in your bed with swollen eyes that beg him to stay even though you had told him otherwise. You are tormented by bad memories that ought to be shed like snakeskin.

Narancia steps forward. “I just wanted to tell you, uh, it’s okay to cry,” he says with a certain tenderness that seems so unfamiliar to you. He rubs the back of his neck, averting your gaze. “Even if you don’t think so.”

You gawk at him and say nothing, for words have failed you. The silence is deafening, all the same. It is an audacious move, but he smiles to you – a gesture of compassion – before turning to leave. He has overstayed his welcome, and your unrelenting stare does not make him feel any better.

“Wait.” He stops, anticipating your delayed retaliation. “Could you . . . Can you spend the night with me?”

As he lies in bed next to you, distance kept by a pillow wedged between your bodies, Narancia beams – but you cannot see outline of his grin in the darkness of the room. This night and many more will pass, and you slowly become something of a beacon. He is beholden to you, because you make him feel appreciated in the ways that not even Fugo or Bucciarati can. For this reason, he will always cherish you – a talisman encapsulated within a friend.

And now, though the seeds of regret have already begun to spring roots within him – hyacinths embedded in his heart –, he will stay strong, for you are like a pharos to him. If not resiliency for his own sake, then certainly yours.

At least, for as long as he can.

“Hey, Narancia.” Startled, he jumps in his seat and clasps his knees tightly. “Is there something on my face?” you ask.

“I – Huh?” he stumbles over any response that might have come to mind. “What do you mean?”

You chuckle. “Well, it’s just that you’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes.”

“Uh . . . I  . . .”

Fugo drags his gaze from his book to your face. “I don’t see anything,” he assures with a shrug. “Actually, come to think of it, I think your nose has gotten bigger.”

The banter of humor between you and Fugo is lost on the black-haired boy. Or rather, he is far too distracted to mimic it. He stands from his seat abruptly and reaches for the door to the compartment. “I have to piss,” he mutters.

He is gone before either of you can comment on his sudden brashness. In his absence, you nudge Fugo and gesture towards his book; just as Narancia had noted, you realize that your strawberry blonde friend has not gotten past the first page of the novel ever since you had departed. You left nearly an hour ago.

“My head is just elsewhere, I guess,” he confesses to your proclamation. He closes the book and sets it down on the seat. “I’m fine, though. As much as I can be. But Narancia isn’t.”

You hum in agreeance. “I’ll go check on him.”

Water rushes from the faucet and pools in the porcelain, ceramic bowl of the basin. Steam wafts towards the ceiling, blanketing the mirror in a cloud. Narancia’s fingers curl around the rim of the sink so tightly that the coloring flees from his knuckles. He feels like a phantom, for a part of him has surely died back in Venezia.

In another world, he imagines that he might have followed Bucciarati – as would have you and Fugo. But this is nothing more than a nonsensical thought that can never be anything more than an instance of intangible pondering. He does not wipe the fog from the mirror, because he cannot bear the sight of the boy who will greet him in return.

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again. His stomach churns and his head whirls with aches. He has never been the type of person to boast of his character; it takes a humble attitude to realize that there is nothing special about oneself – until there is. Truly, Narancia once believed that he was a proper man, because he worked for someone as virtuous as the young Capo, whose confidence bred itself and more.

“I guess I’m not much of one now,” Narancia mumbles aloud with a sigh of vexation. “Not like Mista, Abbacchio . . . or Giorno.”

He taps the tip of his shoe against the linoleum floor. As it were, his socialization into Passione – no, into Bucciarati’s squad – has taught him the moral necessities of defending the weak who cannot otherwise safeguard nor vindicate themselves. Betraying him is a dreadful regret. How can he ignore the voice in his head that affirms his folly and tells him that he is no better for abandoning Trish in all her temperamental, vain ways, either?

When the sound of knuckles rapping against the door startles him from his thoughts, his first impulse is to lash out at whoever has disrupted his mind chamber of self-reflection. “Hey, can’t you read, idiota?” he demands, angrily. “Bathroom’s occupied.”

“Narancia, it’s just me.” The scowl on his face falters as he recognizes your voice. He turns the squealing faucet until it has dried. He does not stop to catch his staggered breaths before opening the door, and perhaps he should have. Even though you have become such close companions, you still make him feel like a child under your anatomizing gaze – as if there is something particularly interesting about him after all, which takes him for a good subject of study.

Your look of concern is jarring. For a moment, it is difficult to breathe, and he wishes he had tried to calm himself first. So much for staying strong for them. You step forward and lock the sliding door behind you. If it were anyone else – even Fugo – the proximity of your body to his might have made him uneasy. You drag a finger through the film of steam on the mirror. “I’m going to ask you something,” you begin to say, “and I’d like you to answer me, honestly. Are you alright?”

He chokes up at your words, because yes – he is perfectly fine; healthy, albeit a bit battered still from his fracas with Formaggio. As soon as he manages to stop himself from instigating the scabs on his knuckles, they will heal, and he will be left with nothing more than pink scar-tissue as an everlasting memento of these past few days.

But, in other contingencies of prosperity, he is unequivocally not alright. Against his better sense of control, his eyes well up with tears, and his cognition scatters.

“Narancia?”

There are many things that a person indulges in as a means of coping, some safer than others. Men fall to the bottle, like Abbacchio – and men lash out in violent rages, such as Fugo. He could keep picking at his scabs, find an emptied compartment to scream in, or pull out his unkempt hair. Contrition moves through him like a venom, and he supposes he should find a way to suck it out before it kills him.

His hands meet your arms in a shockingly gentle, clammy grasp; he jerks himself closer and suddenly, his lips are on your own and he is kissing you. His teeth scrape against your own and he pulls you flush, as if he cannot get close enough to you already, desperate to suffocate the detrimental notions running through him. Stunned and too preoccupied with dwelling on the sweet taste of his mouth, you have forgotten how to reciprocate.

You break apart and shrug the grip on your arms, unsure of what to say as his desperate indigo ogling gauges you for a reaction – whether you should berate him or express your equal adoration, anything is preferable than the silence. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he finally says when you have not.

“It’s fine,” you insist, an unreadable poignancy sweeping your face. “You can do it again, if you need to. I don’t mind.”

He must have heard you wrong; surely, you did not give him such a blessing as this. And yet, when he cups your jaw and meets your lips halfway, you do not shove him off. Instead, you repay the gesture and swipe your tongue along his own. His heart sings for you, like a schoolboy’s choir: thank you, thank you, thank you. You swear that your legs have become melting gold, for they quiver and you can no longer stand on your own.

Or maybe it is because the train has lurched forward. Despite the separation of your lips, Narancia catches you in arms that harbor unassuming strength, but make you feel guarded, all the same. It is strange, you reflect: he has always been something of a haven to you, ever since the night when you had cast aside all hesitations of welcoming him into your circle and did exactly that.

“I just want you to know that everything will be okay,” you tell him – about the kiss, about the train, or about your shared regrets, he does not know. No matter the intent, he enjoys listening to your voice. “You aren’t alone in this, Nara. We both made the decision to leave. You don’t have to suffer on your own, because I feel just as guilty, too.”

He frowns.

“Besides, we have all we need. You, me, and Fugo. I’m glad you’re here, you know; I couldn’t do this without you.” He hastily wipes away the tears that trickle down his cheeks. Stop crying, he sneers to himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. You pull his frantic hand away from his reddened face and lace your fingers with his, so that he might not try it again. “It’s okay to cry, even if you don’t think so.”

He blooms and comes undone, sobbing into the crook of your neck and clasping your shirt so tightly that the spooling contorts and wrinkles. You trace shapes against his back, creasing the leather with your nails. Slow, tentative, and soft. He wishes to stay like this forever, bathroom or not – just so long as he has you.

While Narancia straightens himself and splashes fresh water upon his face, you wait for him at the door. He hesitates to follow you back to the compartment, because he can lose himself to grief exactly where he is without repercussion. You know this well, and so you extend your arm for him to take with a sense of hushed encouragement. His fingers meet yours, only this time, it is not to stop him from swiping at his face until his skin is raw. “We should check on Fugo, yeah?” you suggest.

“Yeah . . .”

Down the corridor, he trails behind you like a lost stray to his savior. In a way, that is exactly what you are, he thinks. And he will forever be grateful for it. It is not until you have returned to the strawberry blonde that Narancia lets his grasp fall from yours. You return to your seats, and Fugo offers his own attempt at a smile to you each. His book lies in his lap, untouched and unmoved.

“So, Fugo.” You drag out his name, as if deep in thought. “Did you get past the first page yet?”

| 3704 Words |

[lovemesomesurveys]

Name a song that brings back memories of your childhood when you hear it. I mean, songs by like BSB, NSYNC, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, etc. 

When was the last time you ate strawberries? It’s been awhile.

Is there anything you like to put on a sandwich, that some might find odd? Hm. No, I don’t think so.

When was the last time you were required to put on a mask? The last place I went was to the movies this past Saturday, and in California we’re back to having masks required in any public setting.

And what color was the last mask you wore? It was black.

Can you recall the last time you gave your mobile phone number to someone? Just when putting in an online order for something recently.

The last time you were in a queue, what were you waiting for? When we were in line at the movies to get our snacks.

Have you had your CoVid vaccine yet? Which one, if you have? No.

If you’ve had your vaccine, did you experience any side effects? --

Can you recall the last time you walked up or down a hill? Never.

Any idea what you were doing at 5:30PM last Saturday? I was at home eating pizza and watching Home Alone.

The last time you went to a supermarket, what were some of the items you bought? Just name a few. Some snack items.

When you were 13 years old, who was your closest friend? Do you still talk? I had 4 close friends in middle school. No, we haven’t talked since high school. I had a falling out with a few of them and the others we just grew apart.

Have you ever met anyone named Janine? Tell me a little bit about them. I don’t think so.

Have you ever written a song, or attempted writing one? How did it go? Yeah, back when I was 16 in my emo days I dabbled with poetry and tried writing some songs. I sucked at both, ha.

When was the last time you had a bottle of pop, or soda? What kind? I’m currently drinking a wild cherry Pepsi.

What was the last catchy song you heard? Did you sing along to it? I don’t recall at the moment. I don’t listen to music much anymore, which is so odd. Can any of your friends sing well? Which one has the nicest singing voice? I don’t have any friends.

When was the last time you wore make-up, if ever? What shades/colors? Back in June. I just wore black eyeliner and mascara. 

Do you have any accessories that you wear daily? Nope.

What brand of lip balm do you prefer? EOS.

What was the last thing you wrote down on paper? Hm. I don’t remember.

And what color was the pen you wrote with? Black.

When was the last time you had a parcel delivered? What was it? I’ve been receiving quite a few all month from doing online Christmas shopping.

What was the last thing you consumed, that had a strong flavor? Pesto.

If you wear nail varnish, do you have a favorite brand/shade? I always liked black the best.

What’s the next item of clothing that you intend to buy for yourself? *shrug*

What is something that seems popular, but doesn’t interest you personally? I don’t even know what’s popular anymore. I’m so out of the loop. 

How old is the device you’re currently using to access Bzoink? I didn’t get this from Bzoink, but anyway this laptop is 4 years old.

^Has that device ever malfunctioned? No, but I do think I need a new battery.

[babaengartsy]

12182021

Cavite. Umalis kami ng family ko para ihatid si lola sa isa kong auntie (nag-iikutan sila nang pag-aalaga), two months ulit siyang wala sa ‘min and tbh, sobrang gaan sa pakiramdam. Every time na nandito si lola sa ‘min, sobrang negative ng vibes lagi. Don’t get me wrong. May issue kasi between my lola & sa mga una niyang mga anak (which is kasama papa ko). Kaya ayon, free ulit dito sa bahay. TYL!

Mall. After ihatid si lola, pumunta kami sa Megamall. First time ko ro’n & ang daming tao. Haha!! Diretso agad kami sa Chili’s kasi gutom na kami. Kuya ordered cilantro pesto para sa ‘kin, natakot pa ako kung paano ko uubusin kasi hindi raw masarap. Pero it turned out great kaya ako lang nakaubos. Yum!!! Pinamili rin ni kuya si papa ng mga damit, kami nila mama pass muna kasi ang hirap kasama ni papa sa pamimili. Bukod sa hinihingal, ang impatient pa lagi. Lol!

Body. My fam, esp. ate & kuya commented on my body. NA NAMAN. Naggain kasi ako ulit ng weight dahil sunud-sunod celeb tapos puro sweets din halos kinakain ko. Natatahimik na lang ako kapag pinapansin nila na naggain ako. Naconscious tuloy ako bigla kasi insecurity ko talaga ‘tong katawan ko. Hay. :——(

Gifts. Nareceive ko na rin gift ng boyf ko. Pinasuyo ko sa kapitbahay namin na kung pwede sila muna magreceive. Ang ganda!!! Bagay sa ‘kin chour. Binuksan na rin pala ng boyf ko lahat ng parcel na gift ko sa kanya. #titofinds mga binili. HAHAHAHA pero masaya naman ako na happy siya sa purchases niya.

Girl bestie. Nagreply ‘yong bestie ko sa myday na pinost ko sa fb. She said na si boyf na lang daw kulang sa picture. Tapos naaalaa ko na bibilhin ko nga pala siya ng necklace as a christmas gift din kaya nagtanong ako sa boyfriend niya nang patago. I ordered Belle inspired necklace since mahilig siya sa disney princesses. Excited na ako once na matanggap niya ‘yong parcel.

Happy ako kahapon pero ayon nga nakakapagod. Ngayon na lang kami naging complete kaya super saya sa puso. Hehehe! Good morning. 🤍

[124daisies]

Salmon parcels with pesto, wild rice and broccoli

[walnutsandhoney]

Hands up if you have ever had one of our savoury pastries. I post this today in true #throwbackthursday fashion! When I opened the shop about 2 years ago I had no intentions of doing anything but cake. Despite the great location, next to the station, my main goal was to not focus on teas or coffees and simply be a cake purist! I'm glad to say that I saw the light and realised that the beverages made the main star of the show (the cupcakes) shine even brighter. However, even with that revelation, I was still not prepared to do any savoury bakes. I wanted to focus on what I am good at and what I enjoy..... And I enjoy sweets and flavour exploration! Nevertheless, there was one factor that tilted me towards providing fresh savoury pastries..... @cpfc .... Or in laymens terms.... "the football crowd". 😂 Anyone who has been to the shop will know that it sits on a busy but fairly calm road with people constantly heading to and fro from the train station.... This also applies to a sea of people that appear once in a while with every home game that Crystal Palace football club play! And guess what.... These guys don't usually want cake 😂😂. So I toyed with the idea of sandwiches... But that was boring and uninspired! So I decided on something that stayed within the realms of baking but could be customised to keep me and the customers excited. And thus our pastry parcel was born! Light puff pastry filled with a creamy sun-dried tomato pesto sauce, seasonal herbs and ever changing roasted or grilled fillings. My personal favourite was the kimchi filling courtesy of @terraferment. I was happy and the customers were happy. You should try one when you are next in! I make them every morning in a small batch of half a dozen to a dozen. So be quick! 😍 (at Walnuts and Honey) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6PyEnqHrdo/?igshid=18cuwjckifgyg

[pearandpecorino]

Fusilli Pasta with Pesto

Fusilli Pasta with Pesto

Olive oil, pine nuts, Pecorino Romano, roasted garlic, salt, pepper, and lots of basil!

Growing up, our refrigerator was usually stocked with salami and cheese from the Italian market, small packages wrapped in white paper containing all of my favorite treats. I would unwrap each parcel, unidentified white butcher paper with just a price scribbled down, not knowing what I would find inside.…

[ofcoldguns]

Here's a terrible idea. Buy two parcels of land, one hundred fifty yards from each other. One lot has a full Italian kitchen, and the other, an open air dining area. Waiters would radio the orders from the patrons to the chefs, who cook it and load it into artillery batteries and fire it at special nets hanging above the patrons' heads. It would be the only restaurant where you have to check the windage before serving the meal. I think I'll call it "Mortar and Pesto."

“I predict you’d be closed down within a week.”

[theopenbookwigtown]

Day 7 - the staff go awol to explore the surrounds, and Basil gets just slightly out of hand

Sunday, we imagined, would be the busiest day of the week. Well. It wasn’t. But that wasn’t entirely Wigtown’s fault. We decided to lock the door of The Open Book after just an hour (three visitors, no sales) and head out into the Machars, which is what this fat peninsula is called.

We took note of an advisory on their website which warned that patrons should “bear in mind at the weekend we may be busy” and so booked ahead at The Pheasant in a village called Sorbie, then took a meander through the countryside north of Wigtown before swinging round and diving down through the peninsula to Sorbie. It’s all undulating country. Remarkably orderly green fields separated by well-tended dry-stone walls. Contented-looking cows and scatterings of intensely white sheep.

We were the only customers in The Pheasant, run by a Neapolitan who’d fallen for a Scottish girl, and set up shop offering carbanara, tagliolini and parmigiana etc. Nothing to write to Naples about, as it happened, but we weren’t bothered, sorry, bovvered, and after an exceedingly good espresso, headed back to Wigtown. There were still a few minutes of daylight remaining when we got there (after all, it wasn’t yet four in the afternoon) so we dashed down to the old harbour that once served the village and took a very short walk in wind so bitingly cold that we feared for the future of our extremities.

So home to our cosy flat and a glass or two of wine. Which always has an effect on my imagination…

Basil spooned out porridge into two bowls, squeezed honey in decreasing circles onto each soft mound, and then called for Bella. “Porridge,” he said.

They ate at the table. “That was really very surprising,” Bella said, sprinkling cinnamon onto her porridge.

“Something wrong with it?” he enquired mildly.

“No. I’m thinking about last night.” She added a few nuts to her oats. Basil thought nuts and porridge an unfortunate combination.

“It was the cloak and hood that confused us,” he agreed. “I couldn’t help thinking of Don’t Look Now” and the homicidal dwarf.”

“Liked the music though,” Bella said. “And her voice. Wow. She wasn’t at all homicidal. Just fairly petite.”

“And on her way to church.” Basil added a little more cream to his bowl.

In the shop, they considered the parcel again.

“What I don’t understand,” Bella began, “is how it got up to the flat. I didn’t take it – and you say you didn’t take it…”

“I didn’t take it,” Basil said. But he was developing theories about Wigtown. A town with so many books possessed… some strange qualities. He was not surprised, for instance, to find that books that he’d carefully shelved in alphabetical order reappeared in haphazard order on the desk… That prices that he’d carefully marked on the frontispieces of books changed from £5 to £3… That books that he’d earmarked for one category – Prime Ministers, for instance - transmigrated mysteriously into another – Moths and Butterflies, for example.

But now here it sat, as mysterious as anything else in the Machars.

“No one’s picked it up yet,” Bella said accusingly.

“That’s true. So perhaps we should open it.”

“No!” Bella was, sometimes, a believer in rules. On occasion she would insist that Basil get back in the car and adjust its position because one wheel – one wheel! – fell on the lines demarcating the parking bay. “We can’t possibly open the packet. What if whoever intends to pick it up came in then? It would be too embarrassing for words.”

They argued all the way to lunch at The Pheasant. There were admittedly many reasons for not opening the parcel. Basil basically only had one argument for opening it, but he thought it was a killer. It went more or less like this: Why the hell not?

“You are just so irresponsible,” Bella said, then added, “That wasn’t anything to write home about.” For a moment this confused him, until he realized she was talking about her gnocci. He’d thought that his chicken with pesto sauce was not at all bad. And the wine had been good.

“If you open the package,” she went on, “you risk trashing our reputation. They’ll probably complain to the festival committee and then where would we be.”

“We probably wouldn’t be able to return for three years,” he said.

“The waiting list’s three years long, Basil,” she said. Then, a moment later, added: “Oh. That was one of your jokes, I suppose. Ha ha.”

He’d had hardly any time to consider his story – which in his head was rather tending towards the spectral. The full moon shining through bare branches outside the church last night had been tinglingly spooky. And then the mysterious events in the book shop and the flat above had convinced him that if nothing else, Wigtown contained more than its fair share of the enigmatic.

Now there was the conundrum of the book. He felt like tossing it into the discards box but he knew Bella would find that an unacceptable solution. And then the answer occurred to him. He reached for the parcel and in a single movement ripped the paper from it.

“Basil!” Bella shrieked. But it was done.

They looked in astonishment at what he’d revealed.

“Well I never,” Basil said.