Gloria
Amelie was making macarons. It was a rather time consuming process. Amelie dosent remember anytime she has had a macaron so she's basing this entirely from another person's memory. She's stress baking again, and this wouldn't be the last or first time. She's like a damn factory. Whatever sweets arnt taken immediately get put aside the coffee machine for that weird blonde girl she sees walk around like a computer. 

Why is she so stressed, why is it so easy to be stressed? Amelie will never know such is the questions of the universe. She overworks herself constantly to feel exhausted when she just feels like she's not doing enough. Amelie slaps the palm of her hand against the counter. The macarons stand on top of the stove, sitting there before Amelie puts them together. 

Amelie grabs a piping back she has filled with a tart lemon filling, can't have anything too sweet after all. Who was this random shadow, what the hell was going on anymore. First the angels and now the deepest cretin from hell shows up? 
Amelie accidentally puts too much filling in one and, when she puts the top on this macaron it spills over and leaks onto her thumb.

"Scheiße." She curses in her native tongue, venom meant for herself spills onto that word like a hex. She wipes her thumb with a paper towel, and after puts it in the trash. 

Everything felt like it was spinning too fast and Amelie was in no shape to keep up. She leans on one of her crutches as she fills another macaron. At least she's doing something, rather than festering she's doing something. Got she hated the feeling of rot cracking at her mind. She puts the macaron together and puts it in a small basket with parchment paper, with the one she messed up on. Ah, somebody will enjoy it at least. That's good enough.
Shannon
Noodle is blissfully unaware of practically everything going on around him. Big picture, that is. There seem to be a lot of things going on making people stressed, which makes Noodle feel like he probably should be stressed, but he really strongly dislikes being stressed, so he decides not to. Instead, he draws. 

He goes to the common room to draw. He likes all of the things in there. There are a lot of things people often overlook—a coaster on the table, a desk lamp, a corner of peeling paint on the wall, but Noodle likes to draw them all. He thinks more people should pay attention to them, lest they get lonely.

He's sitting on the couch, half upside-down, head against the armrest but legs awkwardly kicked up against the seat back. It doesn't look very comfortable, and that's because it isn't, but it's the way he fell, so it's the way he'll stay. He pushed up his pink sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. He wore them though he was indoors—they made him look whimsical, and he liked to look whimsical. Looking whimsical made his art more whimsical, and whimsy was his whole artistic brand. He was like Willy Wonka, but for art.

Willy Wonka was really kind of an artist on his own. *Very poignant thought, Noodle,* He thought to himself. *Good job. I like it.*

Speaking of Willy Wonka, someone is making sweets in the common room. They hadn't been paying attention to her, because they don't know who she is, but to be fair they don't know who a lot of people are. Noodle is very closed-off. Lost in their own world. Sometimes it feels like they hadn't left their room in months, but obviously that isn't true.

Anyway, the point is, someone is making macarons, and all this talk about Willy Wonka is making Noodle really want a macaron, so they stand up swiftly, teetering a bit concerningly on their too-high heels, and struts over.

Noodle comes to sit on the counter, head tilted slightly to the side, legs kicking out idly under him. "Can I have a macaron?" Is what he is planning on asking, but he gets a closer look at Willy Wonka's face, and is momentarily distracted.

What comes out instead is, "Wow, you would be really easy to carve. Can I sculpt you?" He holds up his pencil uncomfortably close to her personal space, gesturing at the line of her jaw with the eraser end. "I can totally see where I'd make the first cut and everything. You have a very nice brow ridge, by the way. Good amount of depth. Oh, also, I'm quite hungry, can i have a macaron? Oh, unless they're for a party or something, then you can keep them, though i'd be very sad if it was for a party—not because I wouldn't get one, I mean, well, partially that. But also because I haven't gotten an invite. By the way, have you seen Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?"
Gloria
Amelie was filling a macaron, she finished making it and put it in the basket. Three. Amelie was reaching to take another cookie to fill when she heard a voice. There was a still moment before before something violently kicked at Amelie. Before she knew it she was holding a knife made of bone close to this person. Her breathing was quick and almost labored and her hand shook, bones jutted from her face and hand as she looked at this odd person. 

Amelie immediately flinches and forces the offending knife back quickly, there's an awful snap and a noise that sounds uncomfortably moist as it moves back into her arm. Amelie's hand shakes as she tries to take a hold of her breathing. Amelie puts her head on the stove bowing to whatever god stopped her immediately. Amelie felt awful her entire arm felt numb and disgusting. She felt hollow. These days of exhaustion and random things happening were getting to her. She inches away from the person, her arms shaking with the unfair amount of will she's putting into them to remotely move. Amelie look a long moment so long that it was uncomfortable. She was wrapping her arm with a bandage, her arm was shaking as she did so and her breathing wasn't quite stable yet. She ripped the bandage and tucked it tightly so it would stay. 

She raised herself up after a second, taking a macaron and the piping bag and resuming her task. Her face neutral but her fingers betraying a slight shake she has yet to calm. 

"You can have one." She says with that hardened scowl. 
"I wasn't going to eat them or plan on giving them to anybody, they're free to have." 
Amelie has made another macaron. Four. She repeats the process. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Why is she counting how many she's making.

.

"Also, don't get close to me if you value yourself not getting hurt." 
She says her tone dipping into a louder more hostile sounding area. As if she couldn't sound more pissed. She messed up another macaron. The filling slides down her pointer finger. 

"*Scheiße.*" 
She mutters, refocused on her task at hand. This uninvited party guess is in the way of the napkins. She makes a noise of irritation before going to fill another macaron. She dosent answer the willy Wonka question because she dosent know who this Willy Wonka bastard is. 
He sounds like a prick. 

Did this kid say they wanted to sculpt her? That'd be odd, she isn't worthy of that anymore. More struggles with unknown solutions flutter across her mind. She's unfocused again. She messed up.

"*Was zum Teufel.*" 
Messing up so quickly was just completely unfair. She needs to focus again, why does it take one person getting close to shift her off her delicate balance. She was going to have a few words with this person after she finished doing what she needed to do. But, it isn't their fault right? Amelie dosent talk to many people much less interaction with them. 

This could be a misunderstanding. Amelie was overthinking again. She dosent really want to talk anymore. She just wanted to have some time for herself but it seems everyone is so keen on intruding on everything she does. It's not very funny anymore. She hates this place, she really does.
Shannon
Willy Wonka threatens them, but Noodle isn't really all that pissed, just startled. They figure that she seems more hurt than they are, so they're all even. They lean over slightly as she bandages herself to watch, curious.

"Oh, that's scary," They comment, tone absentminded and neutral rather than judgmental. "Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts." They guessed she probably wouldn't have done it if it hurt, but maybe it was an unconscious thing. Noodle did things that hurt all the time on accident. Sometimes on purpose—some shoes were just worth the pain.

Noodle leans back again once she straightens up, plucking a defective macaron from the tray and popping it gleefully into his mouth. He uses the back of his hand to shove his glasses up his face, coming to rest on his forehead, nestled in his hair. "It's okay," He says while chewing, completely oblivious to the implied threat, "I don't get hurt real easy. I should maybe try baking. Cause, I mean, I wouldn't have to use the mittens and all that." He flexes his stone fingers, hand held out in front of him.

Noodle takes out his sketchbook again, crossing his legs on the counter and leaning back to begin drawing his newfound model. He talks the whole time he sketches, filling in the silence while she fills macarons. "I might have another one, then, if you don't mind and they're not for anyone. Why wouldn't you eat them? They're delicious! Everyone likes macarons. I guess you could just be making them for the process. I bet that's what Willy Wonka does, now that I think about it."

He draws her eyes, then gets distracted and draws more eyes for a while, before going back to the rest of her face. Then he gets distracted again and starts drawing macarons in the corner. He glances up periodically to watch her progress.

"Why do you care so much about making them perfect if they're not for anything? It's not like anyone will see them, or like if the filling spills out the side a little anyone will care. It's okay if they're a little strange looking, most things in life are. Like marsupials. And me! Well, they're delicious anyway—the macarons, not marsupials, though I guess marsupials could be delicious, I don't know. I'd feel bad eating them. It doesn't really matter how they look." Realization dawns upon Noodle. His eyes widen, and he snaps the notebook shut.

"Unless they're art!" He says, excitedly, "You're like an artist! Doing it for the craft! So, Willy Wonka, therefore, is also an artist. Because he makes confections. That's a bit of a funny word."

Noodle smiles, plucking another fresh macaron from the tray and taking a much smaller bite. "I really think you should eat them. Revel in the act of creation and all that. They're quite good. I like the way they stick to my teeth. I wonder if I can get cavities... I mean, if I could, it probably would have happened already. Can you get cavities? Do your teeth do that thing that you did earlier? Don't try it, I think it would be quite unpleasant. But, you know, if it happened in the past."

Noodle is quite silent for a moment. "I think Willy Wonka probably has a lot of cavities. Unless he's like you, and never eats his own candy. Which might be a smart business practice, although I think maybe that advice only extends to drug lords. Hey, would you describe yourself as better suited for the medium of marble, or clay?"
Gloria
"Of course it hurts." 
Amelie says with annoyance snapping at her throat. She dosent mean it. She dosent mean it to hurt she dosent mean to be so vile. 
Eh, it's not like anybody she knows will show up. Amelie frowns she has gotten some blood on their cheek. 
Amelie took a napkin and motioned them to take it, tapping the side of her face where the blood was on theirs. 
"I don't mean for it to happen, it's disgusting and painful. But, I can't necessarily control it. " 
Amelie places the napkin on the counter. 
"You have blood on your face, please wipe it off." 

Amelie hums, going back to the baked goods. She picks up a cookie and examines it. Watching as one of her macarons disappeared from the small basket. 
"That dosent mean you don't need act with caution. I will force you to use oven mittens." 
Amelie says pointing at them with her piping bag before going back to making the macarons themselves. 

Amelie looks confused or weary, who knows there isn't a lot you can do with half a face and torn tendons. 
"You don't need to ask." 
She says while putting another macaron on the basket. 
"I can't eat sweets. I just make them because I want to."
Who in the world is this Willy Wonka fellow. Why is his name so annoying. She absolutely dosent understand most of the words flying from this person, it's like an awful quiz. She dosent know any answers and she hasn't been told anything about it. Who the fuck are they talking about. Amelie has never had a macaron, she's just making them.

Amelie is turned away and not paying attention to whatever this person is doing, her brow is furrowed as she thinks about her own plight. Ignorant of the noise the scraping against paper has created, she fills another macaron. She just likes making things for people, they bart feed themselves anyway. Speak as they may they're all quite bad at cooking at least from her standpoint, and don't quite have the determination nor gall to actually make something all they really do is yell at eachother.

.

It's a little entertaining to watch. 

Amelie looks at this person like they had a rat for their brain. They're speaking like they're Plato, and this is the question of life itself. Which is frankly a bullshit thing to constantly think about. Back to the conversation Amelie. Which she still wasn't understanding a word which this person was saying. It's like not knowing English all over again. This kid spoke in tongues. 
"I..."
She was about to speak when this person loudly blurted their answer of choice to their own question. She flinched. Just a little it's easy to ignore.

"Sure." 
Amelie really thinks they'd judge her for not making them perfect, she barely knows these people so she'll never know. The confections are art... Somehow a nice way to refer to it. 

Amelie purses her lips and makes a noise of disgust. Her teeth do in fact sometimes act like the bones that rip through her body. It took a long moment of standing in the bathroom and staring at the blood that fell from her mouth to know that. It was horrible, she thought she'd never have teeth again and it was quite the detrimental thing for a child alone in a house and fresh from the hospital. She had to clean the floor spotless after that. She couldn't have the police thinking she did something. They were already too involved in her life in the first place at that point. 

Amelie shook herself from thought and stared. 
"Isn't the artist supposed to decide that?" 
Was she being insensitive, she understands music well enough. She decides such things for herself extremely well. She didn't want to seem high-strung and pompous. Even though everyone thought of her that way. That's a little funny. 
"Perhaps... Expiriment?"
Shannon
Noodle looks slightly shocked. They rub at their face with the offered napkin, squinting suspiciously at the streak of blood that rubs off. They pull a face, crumple the napkin up, and take a second bite of macaron to comfort themself.

"It's sad that you can't have sweets," Noodle says. "But I'll just eat them all for you. And then I can describe what they taste like. But that's not really the same, it might just make you jealous, so actually, never mind. I support your artwork." They open their notebook again and sets it in their lap.

Even though the invitation has been opened to take macarons, he's still conservative with his pickings. He feels like it would be rude to take too many.

He nods at her very wise observation, frowning in thought. "Hmmm... Maybe you're right. But really, we're all the artists. Artists of ourselves. You're a soul inhabiting a sculpture of yourself." Noodle smiles, seemingly pleased with himself. "I think your soul is probably marble, but I only have clay right now, because it's hard to convince the faculty to ship in marble blocks. Which I guess makes sense, but I wish they would. Maybe if I broke off my arm and said I needed to replace it they would order me some. No, that's probably ethically incorrect."

"But you would make a good marble sculpture, if I could. You've got the right shapes for it," He commented idly, flipping the page and starting a new sketch of her, this time from a different angle. "Willy Wonka's soul is definitely made out of clay, so I guess you're not all that much like him. What's your name, anyway? Mine's Noodle. I mean, it's not, but it's what everyone calls me, so, functionally, it is. Really the definition of 'a name' is what everyone calls you, yeah? So if I'm everyone, and I'm calling you Willy, that's your name. But... I'm not everyone. So. Oh, you have a very nice nose bridge!"
Gloria
"I'm not jealous." Amelie says looking more defensive than she should. She makes another mistake yet says nothing about it. What artwork? She's just doing what she wants. It's like a reflex at this point. Something in the back of her mind standing so clearly but everytime she looks it's blurred and marred. 

"Ah." 
Amelie says and she stops what she's doing for a moment to give this person a stare. She looks disturbed, confused and conflicted at the same time. It's an odd mix that results in an uncomfortable stare. "What do you mean by marble." She asked but it came out quiet and unable to be heard.

Amelie didn't hear the rest of the conversation, she was busy staring at absolutely nothing. She was frowning, her skin looking like worms shifted and made their homes in her flesh. It was an ugly sight that Amelie found herself staring at so frequently. Would it be hard to... No no she's fine she can handle this. 
She took a moment but did catch their name. 

"....Amelie. That is my name."
Amelie cleared the baking sheet and started putting down more of the cookies to be baked with another piping bag. 
"Thank you. I'd say your soul is made of clay. If you'd ask me." 
She hummed a lullaby while she piped the soon-to-be macarons. After she put them in the oven she leaned against the counter beside her, giving noodle her full attention. If having one eye was full attention.
Shannon
"Ooh! Yeah, I think I'm clay too. Even though, you know," Noodle says, gesturing vaguely to the white side of his face. He's softer. More malleable.

"You're marble, because you're like..." He trails off, flipping over the page in his sketchbook and beginning a third sketch. The other two just didn't suit her right. He scoots around on the counter slightly to get a better angle.

"Firm," He finishes nonsensically. 

"You know, like, a little harder. Less squishy. You're carved from the outside in, not built from the inside out. Are you making more macarons? You should start selling them. Bake sale."
Gloria
"Sure." 
Amelie raised her brow, looking at noodle. She waved off the fact his face was indeed marble. 

Amelie narrows her eye. She leans to her left, there's a crack that edges itself out in her neck. She looks keenly to the patterned skirt she's wearing. Listing to noodle speak something nonsensical. 

Amelie's face scrunches. 
"I have enough money." 
She makes a noise of disgust when she again remembers where the money came from and how drenched in sin it is. She dosent want the cash. 

"In turn. Have you ever sold your sculptures? I assume that's what you do right?" 
It would be odd if he dosent. Maybe he's simply too rich, most likely not.
Shannon
Noodle shrugs. "Oh, I won a few contests, a ton of youth artist awards, but I never really got the chance," He said, idly jotting down details in her face. He wasn't particularly egotistical or said it particularly proudly, more like it was just part of his history. 

Publicity was hard as a school-child, and even harder when you were trying to keep yourself secret. He supposed he could sell them now—just do the whole faceless artist thing. Like Banksy. Sculptor Banksy. He's pretty sure the whole point of Banksy is the graffiti, though, and Noodle's not really into it. Spray paint doesn't like him.

"I think I might feel bad giving my sculptures away. I mean, sometimes they're made for someone, you know, and then they have to have it, and they'd be sad if they didn't. The sculpture would be sad. It's like keeping it from it's home, yeah? Even if it's never been there. But most of my sculptures end up just being for me, so. They're sad if they leave me."

He paused. "I'm pretty sure baked goods don't have feelings, though. That would suck if they do, because, i've like, eaten a ton. A *Ton*."
Gloria
Amelie shrugs, it's actually nice hearing that he dosent flaunt such a thing. She was a little surprised, they certainly looked like they'd flaunt something. She keeps reminding herself that looks certainly are not everything, for better or for worse. 
She hummed in acknowledgement. 

Art is something Amelie sort of strived for, to even be considered enough for her work to be considered as such. Nights spent staring at paper, picking that bandages and scabs while she falls into a hole of something. Amelie wants to feel like she's striving to something, it's kind of hard now. 

Amelie says nothing as noodle speaks. She's thinking about those hours of working at a desk while Tejal stood over her shoulder, she'd mumble something about Amelie needing a break and after a minute of struggling Amelie would be dragged into Tejals arms giggling like a maniac. It was nice, like the feeling of sitting by a fire in a almost tender autumn morning. 

Amelie frowned, choking on something for a second. 
"What made you think about zat? Did your brain pull something from hell for that? I??"
Amelie coughed, trying not to double over. She raised her finger for just a moment. 

"They don't have feelings, but sometimes there is feeling put into them? I'm very unsure of how to say that. It's something, I'm not elaborating."