flowersofhope:
He had been cleaning when she walked in, and for a few moments her presence disorientated him: perhaps he had been expecting the sweet chime of a bell, a warm tropical breeze, the rustle of beaded curtains. Blinking down at the cloth in his hands, he felt all at once flooded by an awareness of his surroundings - kitchen tiles, humming appliances, an unfamiliar brand of surface cleaner stringing his hands. He blinked again, and the swimming images in his mind’s eye merged and were gone. He folded the cloth, carefully, and placed it neatly over the handle of one of the lower cabinets by the sink. Belatedly, he realised that the coffee was done brewing. The cheap dark roast gurgled menacingly in the pot, bubbling like some B-movie sludge monster, a prehistoric swamp. “So are you,” he said as he poured himself a cup. His housemate’s rude greeting was comfortingly familiar. Why waste time with small talk, anyway? He turned to face her, leaning with his back against the counter, mug cupped in both hands as if he were scared he might drop it. The person in front of him looked quite young, though he could not guess her age - older than Monaka, thought the part of his brain that dreamed of red skies and carnage, while the part that dreamed of pink rabbits simultaneously thought: younger than me. Her eyes, deep red, gave her almost ethereal presence a certain abstract cruelty - impassive as a knife’s edge, cold metal. It was really kind of creepy. He thought that, were he to close his eyes, he might feel the gentle rocking of a ship at sea. “I made some coffee,” he said, smiling pleasantly, “I’m not great at making it, so it’s pretty substandard, but you’re welcome to a cup, if you want one.”
“Coffee.” Her gaze hovered between the wiry figure standing across the kitchen from her to the damp rag hanging limply from his hand, before resting on the machine bubbling ominously behind him. “I could smell it.” Ayanami added with a delayed nod, as if in helpful elaboration.
The man looked noticeably fatigued, a sort of raggedness around his edges she recognized in the faces of the Lilin of her own world. Eyes tinged pink around the edges, a slightly tremble in his movements, a tone of voice she had come to understand as “fraught”, although he seemed keen to hide it. Out of courtesy? Habit? Was that why older people liked to drink coffee?
There was a momentary twinge of pain behind her eyes, flickering images of a yellow-walled apartment that reeked of beer and instant coffee, of a desk covered in papers and cat toys and empty coffee mugs, of sitting at the window of an airship as someone beside her sipped at something her hazy memory labelled “ex-presso”. The man sipped his drink and she thought the steam rising off of it resembled the haphazard tufts of hair framing his face. Oh, he had offered her a cup hadn’t he?
After a moment of deliberation, one hand shifting to hold her arm - distantly aware of a dull throbbing that had accompanied her disjointed memories, Ayanami spoke up again, “Ikari-san...Rather, the people from the village never shared things like this if they had them. They would say ‘adults can’t survive a day without coffee, you’ll understand when you’re older’. Is that true?”
