[for better or for worse, elias hasn't had the chance to discover a favorite food. he's okay at cooking in the sense he can grab any kind of meat and vegetables and put them together for a meal that'll hold him over, but he's no chef. he thinks about his mother, how she'd throw two pieces of white bread on a pan with american cheese and butter and call it a meal, how the pantry was more stocked than the fridge, how he'd watch her from the table in the kitchen because they didn't have a real living room, and see her in that ratty old apron, holding a tarnished spatula in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other.
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Can be
after hours I don't want people to watch
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[ It's not like she relishes having other people watch her getting flipped onto the mats, anyway.
Then, related, even if she doesn't bother explaining why: ]
do you have a favorite food?
[ Actually, recalibrating for Elias' Elias-nessβ ]
or stuff you really won't eat?
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he thinks about that grilled cheese.]
I'll eat whatever
[.....]
why
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you should still eat.
[ Offered with ease β a gesture, not a favor. ]
i was thinking of packing something.
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sandwiches
that good?
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[ Good in Elias-speak, anyway. An answer, not a roadblock. ]
let me know if you want anything in particular, otherwise i'll bring a few.
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[grilled cheese doesn't keep very well, anyway.]
you figure protein shakes out yet
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[ Then, a little peek under the curtain (a little honesty): ]
protein shakes taste like shit.
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[that gets a snort.]
You're not supposed to like them
gulp them down like they're water.
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π€’
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Don't be a baby
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at least babies don't have to drink wet sand.