Welcome to Gaia! ::

that nice oaf

Every time he saw that labeled portion, Dawson couldn't help but smile to himself. He made sure to let Kostya know he was appreciative of the gesture and offered to bring snacks of his own if not outright cook as well. Acceptance came in various degrees and many forms. Sometimes it was the lack of an insult when he'd left himself open to it by being an idiot. Sometimes it was pat on the shoulder as a nonverbal thank you. And sometimes it was food set aside just for him, labeled with his own special title: that nice oaf.

< Like a pet, > Syn pointed out, affronted. But he honestly didn't care, because even that would be better than "accidental third wheel" as he sometimes felt whenever Kostya or Taym was over at the same time. There was a synchrony between them and America he was keenly aware of at times, even if each relationship was different. It was just like when he hung out with Chris and Chel.

At least he didn't feel a small twinge of regret around them like he did around the cousins, though.

chores

Sometimes, it was just time to do the simple things in life. The maintaining of a life, housekeeping for the heart and for the hearth. Laundry was one of those things, done in batches, neatly organized and sorted by colour and materials.

"Please," Kostya asked, "if have time. Fold socks? Have to start getting dinner ready."

digging holes

He caught the shovel and looked like the most eager overgrown dwarf in the world. If only Maebe was there to braid his hair again...Dawson tucked it into his hat as best he could and followed Kostya's lead.

After one stab at the ground, however, he paused. "Uh, y'mind if I put music on?" he asked. "Kinda helps pass the time."

you know

Taters taters taters.

He fumbled with the peeler at first but slowly found his rhythm. "Georgia," Dawson replied with great pride. "Peach State. Well, sorta. We're supposed t'be, but South Carolina's got more farms. Taym's from Atlanta, I'm 'bout forty-five minutes r' so away over in Milton. You?"

chores

Kostya surveyed the kitchen as if it were his lab. He kept strict paperwork on the state of his inventory, as much as any shopkeeper might. "Vegetarian chili, and deep fry oreo for dessert. Just got new stock of peanut oil for frying."

He looked at Dawson-- well, as much as Kostya could, with his tendency to stare vacantly through people-- and nodded his head once. "I vould like to see recipe book. And maybe make copy."

There were several boxes of index cards in the kitchen, decorated with smiling faces and little doodles that were far from Kostya's own. There were upwards of five or ten cards for a single recipe: his own version of source control for fine tuning recipes to be just the way he liked them.

digging holes

"Electronic like, uh, dubstep? House techno? Ol' sounds a'robots grindin' on each other?" he joked. "M'alright with whatever s'long s'it's got a pep in the step when workin'. They don' like extra noise on the job, though, s'a shame."

you know

"Tyumen," he echoed, trying to mimic the accent. Dawson did this occasionally around him, not to mock but to try and fit the different sounds in his mouth. Tyumen, da..." The key to good impressions was listening and learning from a bonafide source.

Tossing it into the peeled pile, Dawson grabbed another potato. "Good stuff, though. What was it like there? Never travelled outta the States 'cept fer once." One very disastrous once.