A kitchen is exactly where they expect Asriel to be, honestly.
The sealed-off underground had never had a copy of the book they once loved, so they couldn't really impart that series of associations when they thought of the word "Kitchen" through anything but secondhand quotes, but Chara and Asriel had something in common far more important than a book about loving kitchens and their cosiness.
They had the actual experience of them.
The warm, tidy kitchen of Home, New Home. The whole room snug with the residual warmth of an oven powered by fire magic, illuminated by soft light streaming through the parted curtains. A fridge with the good kind of chocolate bars stocked within it, spacious clean counters, gleaming tile. The comforting aroma of browning butter and crisp cinnamon, of tender pastry, of bubbling pots of homemade soup or sauteing snails. The whistle of a kettle, like a beacon calling everyone to gather round.
None of those things are in this kitchen, except maybe for counters and tile.
And, of course, Asriel himself.
The pot he kicked skitters across the floor, clinging and clanging as it bounces along. It comes to a stop near their feet, so... they stomp it. Their foot completely fails to dent it, only really succeeding in producing a dull tunk sound.
"Yeah, it sucks," they agree wholeheartedly, utterly willing to be mad at the cookware for no better reason than because Asriel is. "Get wrecked, pot."
no subject
The sealed-off underground had never had a copy of the book they once loved, so they couldn't really impart that series of associations when they thought of the word "Kitchen" through anything but secondhand quotes, but Chara and Asriel had something in common far more important than a book about loving kitchens and their cosiness.
They had the actual experience of them.
The warm, tidy kitchen of Home, New Home. The whole room snug with the residual warmth of an oven powered by fire magic, illuminated by soft light streaming through the parted curtains. A fridge with the good kind of chocolate bars stocked within it, spacious clean counters, gleaming tile. The comforting aroma of browning butter and crisp cinnamon, of tender pastry, of bubbling pots of homemade soup or sauteing snails. The whistle of a kettle, like a beacon calling everyone to gather round.
None of those things are in this kitchen, except maybe for counters and tile.
And, of course, Asriel himself.
The pot he kicked skitters across the floor, clinging and clanging as it bounces along. It comes to a stop near their feet, so... they stomp it. Their foot completely fails to dent it, only really succeeding in producing a dull tunk sound.
"Yeah, it sucks," they agree wholeheartedly, utterly willing to be mad at the cookware for no better reason than because Asriel is. "Get wrecked, pot."