Skylar De Visser

To the first person to come up to the table, the main thing that's been drilled into his head to avoid is what comes out his mouth: "No strawberries."

It had been an ordeal. Well, that’s maybe a stretch but y'know. It wasn’t worse than everything else before, so that was a big win. Nothing major happened, it came, it beat him up, it went. And now they’re just wrapping it up with a red carpet, and Tomas would probably find this just as if not more stressful than the shoots itself. Everything was too loud, blinding lights flashing from cameras, paps yelling and vying for each person’s attention. It was hard to hide the fact that he might’ve been griping Juno’s hand a little too tightly, which just made more people want to ask about the two of them. But Juno carried himself well for the both of them, helping Tomas get through the interviews, before they finally made it inside.

It was less hectic while they waited with canapés being served, but people were still socialising, hustling, trying to make connections for their next job. It helps that somehow, both his siblings were also here as a great distraction, even if he lost them in the midst of the red carpet frenzy. Losing hold of Juno however made him scramble a bit more, to find people to anchor back down, to find something to do to look busy. Anything to stop the spotlight from going back onto him. Glasses, yes, there were plenty of empty champagne glasses lying around, the servers must be swamp. Tomas pushed off as he finally found something to busy himself. At least until they moved into the actual theatre and darkness envelopes them and he’s sitting beside people he know.

And before he knew it he was bumping into a similar people that found themselves in the same predicament, “oh- sorry.. I didn’t..” Tomas thought it was an actual staff until he looked up to see Skylar before he finally let out a soft laugh, “pfft.. you too huh?” Just two brothers, picking up empty glasses because they didn’t know what else to do.

Skylar was used to a kitchen by himself, not plenty of space, but enough and manageable, knowing every turn, blindfolded through and through. This was not the bakery, though. This was the wilderness of the great outdoors lined with red carpets and flashing lights, littered with emptied champagne glasses and dirtied saucers. He should have paid attention to the space, could have said 'behind' sooner than what he had, sooner than impact, the wide eyes shifting up from his full hands to thankfully the face of his brother.

"Deurknop," he breathed out, relief ensnared in every molecule before nodding. "Als haringen in een ton zitten," he went on, mother tongue the kind of crutch he needed while looking around at the swarm of people off to the side, keeping safe to the abandoned table, playing busboy with his actor brother. "Why don't they need you?" he asked, raising his head again from the work he adopted for himself. "What is your problem?"

It was exactly that that made him tentative about coming to the premiere of Dunkirk. He didn't belong, not really. Ade had convinced him, was technically her date, convinced him that it had been her that had gotten invited, even when Tomas' name was on the envelope. Typo was the answer. He didn't know how the system worked, and computers were an equal mystery; it sounded... possible. And so there he was, in a blazer made of cornflower blue tartan with very unlikely matching pants of off-yellow, too much hue to be considered beige by anyone that wasn't the baker. It was impossible to stay out of view, and yet he tried, reverting to the only role he knew.

"The kitchen needs help," he explained, caught picking up the empty champagne glasses that littered the table he had been found at. "...Where is the kitchen?"

Full Name: Skylar de Visser

Birthday: Jan. 15th

Age: 33

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

Religion: Born atheist, swayed to agnostic 

–Religious Level (1-10): 1

Birthplace: Rotterdam, The Netherlands

Current Residence: Loft above the bakery in L.A.

Height: 6′ 5′’

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Blue hazel

Sexuality: Demisexual

Love/Romantic Preference: Panromantic

Relationship Status: Single

Languages Known: Dutch, English (75% proficiency, please don’t use big words on him or lesser known sayings.)

Details

Car: Used 2017 MITSUBISHI FUSO FE Reefer Truck  [x] Skylar got a banner made for the business to be put on the truck, but it wound up being ordered too small. It’s the size of a bumper sticker, carefully put on the side. No one can read it.

Phone: Samsung Jitterbug Flip (graphite grey)

Music Genres: Old-school folk [x] [x]

Wardrobe: Since Skylar is colorblind, he’s most likely not going to pair colors that look right. Good thing he’ll usually be in the bakery, where he wears short-sleeved cotton tees that are usually white, black and red grey striped chef’s pants [x], black rubber slip-on shoes [x], white apron. For any special occasion, he’s going to use his father’s clothes, which includes a sky-blue checkered blazer with a 50/50 chance of being paired with red checkered pants.

Estimated Net Worth: $90,000 (not counting the assets of the de Visser bakery)

Ransom Value: Don’t rescue him. He’s making friends.

Education: None. :/

Accent: Dutch (strength: 6/10)

Bloodlines + Connections

Tomas de Visser | Broer | Duerknop

Vera Adelaide ‘Ade’ de Visser | Zus 

Markus de Visser | Papa | Comatose | Will one day wake up

Francisca de Visser | Mam | Deceased

Yara Adelaide ‘Aleid’ de Visser | Zus

Isa de Visser | Zus

Julian Santiago | Patron

Levels

Drinking (1-10): 2. Not much of a drinker. He’ll take a beer or some apple cider.

Swearing: 4. Only when he’s frustrated and it will be in Dutch. Also, will typically veer off from the harsher side.

Smoking status: 0. Never liked the smell.

Drugs: 0. Can’t get high on yeast. 😔

Cooking proficiency: You mean baking. 10.

-Cooking: 8. He’s not as good as Tomas, but he’s not bad.

Intelligence: 5. He knows how to bake. Not much else!

Emotional/Social Intelligence: 6. He’s okay. he just won’t get any joke you tell him. A little awkward unintentionally.

Creativity: 2. He very rarely will have imagination. He’s struggling.

Tomas took the hit with the rag and the insult, though it’s not much of an insult anymore compared to a regular nickname, only never failing to bring back the light embarrassment of high school. As long as they never speak of it again. "Good morning to you too,” Tomas greeted back, despite the lost years they’ve been apart, it’s like the separate years never existed since he’s been back.

“Cursing someone with tuberculosis is pretty vulgar,” he pointed out as he paused his actions for just a second. Even if it’s English equivalent would be close to motherfucker. Their family was big on the cussing, but yet it’s interesting that they all cuss in their own way. “Sifts,” Tomas added on to Skylar’s descriptions, quiet, calm, helpful, amusing as it was, he didn’t laugh about it, unless it was truly ridiculous. How could he when the rest of the siblings had an education and Skylar did not? “That was fast though, it’s barely 3, thank you though,” Tomas certainly takes a little longer to deep clean, truly being in Skylar’s domain here. “Were you doing inventory too? I can put in an order if we need things,” he noticed the flour sacks Skylar moved, most likely counting stock, Tomas was just much better at just baking bread and pastries.

“Skylar..” Tomas shot him a glance of disapproval, “at least a nap, you can sleep till after we open, I’ll be here till the morning rush is over.” Thought the nagging of a younger brother didn’t sink in too long as the older brother was already moving topics of a different work, Tomas’. “Uh- yeah, they sent me a few more, -they’re in my bag,” he nodded his head in the direction of it as he started shaping the doughs. Skylar was always interested, concerned, always looking out for him, and he appreciated that. “I still don’t know what to be bidding for but they seem confident for me for the Dunkirk one.. I don’t know.”

There wasn't much of a defense to the accusation, the vulgarity to a word that Skylar tossed around just because it was handed down to him by papa, and probably had been handed down to him by his papa, and so on and so on. It was family tradition, some ancestral artifact, not something that he had ever sat down and really thought about. Good thing for Skylar it wasn't ever much of a concern, a cog in a wheel, passively churning to the next topic with a strong nod of the head. "Sifts," he repeated, tail-end of his voice as though questioning 'like that?' "These are siftsen," he added, a note to himself, as if Tomas was his personal Duolingo, as if Skylar had any knowledge that such a program existed.

He took a side step, just one move to be closer over the cabinet, sealed away in there a flour sack that Tomas didn't need to look into. It only took the mention of inventory for the invisible strings around the legs to be pulled like a marionette doll. Perhaps overall an unnatural gesture, but it was as natural as the eldest brother was capable of. "We don't need more flour." Silent pause filled between them, exchange of looks, before he finally went on. "Don't have a cow." The Simpsons, the little boy, very informative, always telling people not to worry. Funny way to put it, but it reminded him of something else, something that put what was being hidden out of mind. "We need milk."

Maybe he did need sleep, a nap, but it was impossible, shown in the way his head shook. "You don't do tijgerbrood right," he reminded, a yawn at the back of his throat while he spoke, mouth opening a little wider at the end before his nose wrinkled to keep it at bay. "And there's Krentenwegge for Kerstmis." Several months away still, unlike the bidding process, where he watched his little brother talk. "You know how to speak French,” he voiced, as if it would be a major component, and how could it not if the movie was about Dunkirk? “When will you leave?”

While Tomas was moving with Juno, he still had bakery duties to fulfil and he hasn’t completely moved out yet, letting that be a slow process, easing over the habits - waking up earlier, riding to the bakery instead of simple waking up and going downstairs. Though on certain tough nights, he’s still more inclined to sleep right above the bakery for ease sake. Tonight was just those easier nights, - a la Skylar is up early morning to help - for Tomas ride cycle over, the quiet cool night was something comforting.

The kitchen lights had already been turned on as he parked his bicycle, deep cleaning day, this week was Skylar’s turn, Tomas almost forgot as his schedule shifts heavier into the Prometheus side once again. His footsteps had always been light, silent, no one would really hear him come in, and he simply walked into the kitchen leaning against the wall seeing Skylar on all fours scrubbing away, before tapping his older brother’s foot with his own. He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped at the sight, despite also jumping at the loud bang to Skylar’s head, “sorry.. it was pretty funny." 

He took off his jacket, wandering to wash his hands as he continued in that soft voice that fit the silence of the darkness still not due for sunrise, "you don’t have to be that vulgar this early in the morning, and- we aren’t at service,” he lightly rolled his eyes before he paused his automated chores that immediate begun the moment he stepped in, “I was wondering if you needed help. Deep cleaning day.” When you’ve stepped foot into this bakery almost everyday of your life growing up, everything was practically natural without hard thinking, the reason why he left in the first place. “And the breads and pastries are gonna proof and bake themselves,” Tomas pulled out the dough for the day to check on them, “did you get sleep?”

"Deurknop," he threw back at him, some little slugging, never a sucker punch, added to how Skylar's cleaning rag smacked his brother's ankle as he walked. Nothing was amiss, only from his perspective, rising up to take the bags of flour. There was no covert tactic on his part, as conspicuous as he normally was, making it paradoxically the most effective strategy to hiding them, stowing them back away in the cabinet one at a time.

"It's not vulgair. It's pleurislijer," he defended himself, same old even tone that coated everything said in it on a balanced scale, the normality to the whole world resting in a handful of syllables. It rarely was the reality. It was how he had announced that there was no money in the family business, the way papa's health had deteriorated, the exact inflection employed to inform Tomas that they were out of bagel seeds. It was all the same.

The last sack was put away, door closed up, his brother none the wiser. Ugly clogs turning to face him finally, able to finally breathe out now that the weight of discovery could melt off for another day, another hour, another minute. "I'm finish. Everything sparkles. Even the...," he paused, zoning out for a moment before his focus returned, "flour nets." Zifters. Tomas would know what he would mean. The whole family could at this point, minus the ones that were more obscure, the ones that Skylar made more on the fly than even attempting to think of in English, even if they were only one letter off.

He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. The first break he had for the very early day that could also count as a very late night. Had he already missed the sunset or the sunrise? "I have no clue," he answered finally, but didn't linger on it, moving unhurriedly to the next topic. "Do you have another script?"

“didn’t say behind! you’re not baking!” ade had come down from the family quarters to the kitchen, hoping to bypass the entirety of cleaning day in favor of turning the espresso machine on early and sitting in the cafe. it was the leftovers of a rotterdam sleep schedule, that she was now an early riser in los angeles. there was simply no point in adjusting when she was going to fly back next week, or perhaps the week after. she was supposed to meet with an investor for a new branch of the visser table. not a chain, but another call to home. the vissers in rotterdam, in los angeles, and one day paris if the momentum continued. aleid was convinced that it was the direction to go, and the kitchen only needed one of them to stay. when it was time for a new tasting menu ade would switch and leave aleid to the negotiations. until then, she was back under her brother’s roof. 

“language like that! in our parent’s kitchen.” but she laughed, she knew of all of the siblings, it had always been isa with the mouth, and she was quick to follow. skylar was only startled and scared. oh where had he gone so wrong. “ tu es très chanceux i love you. i won’t tell tomas.” as if it were some conspiracy between them. she couldn’t have cared less about the cleaning he was trying to do, so long as she wasn’t suddenly going to be involved. “wil je koffie? i’m going to start the drip for the day if you don’t mind!”

"You couldn't know that." Because she never did. She never knew much. He loved his sister, but these were the facts he had faced on a daily basis since the twins had been born. He had resigned himself to her ways when they were done in her own bubble, but when it came to the bakery, there was no room for her and that bubble to exist, walls too close together for it to stay intact, squeezing to a fine point. Did it burst? Not exactly. More like reformed.

"It was Nederlands," he spoke back, a half-attentive focus to her to only understand half of what she had said, her laugh echoing behind him as he began to get back on the soles of his clogs. Of Ade's greatest benefits, he didn't worry as much when it came to hiding anything from her. Her distraction was her own doing, taking the flour sacks on his own free time while she continued on, only pausing when she spoke Tomas' name. "Won't tell what?" The connection hadn't been made, the languages hurtled at him, enough to lose their meaning, his brain only trained to process cooking times and measurements, not the craft of speaking in tongues. "Cafeïnevrije koffie," he answered eventually, scratching at the back of his head. "Making it early. Who is the holiday?"

gabriel boucher walks into the studio space that will be his set, pristine white counter tops and stainless steel appliances from top to bottom. never been touched before. why shouldn’t it be this way? he has done the same training that every other promising young chef has done. and he has paid for it just the same with the blood and sweat—though he refused the tears. cooking after all should be a joyful experience, not one marred by anxiety or overthinking. a kitchen in harmony needs no words, he has travelled the world to find one. and now he has his very own. teaching the american populace the stories of his travel with a charming grin and recipes to boot. 

his studio is gleaming and pure. it is the dawning of a new era as young gods go, the last of which he has to conquer is célébrité. he need only look in the mirror to be assure that such a task is possible. his agent has said as much. the heavy studio door swung open, someone else walking on the stage, the first to witness a king on new land. he turned around with a dazzling smile to greet them. “bonjour. you’ve intruded! but i promise i will forgive it, if you can think of a toast for me.” a bottle of champagne is sitting on the counter. flown in from champagne. there’s only one glass but he moves quickly to pull a second from the rack. it is only a display, but that doesn’t mean they should not be used. everything will be eventually, that’s the beautiful of a kitchen. “this is the dawning of a new era, as they say.”

The studio looks unoccupied at first glance. Skylar, holding onto the De Visser's catering binder, has only one mission for coming onto uncharted territory, and yet it begins to slide out of focus. A transition begins. That's the film terminology, isn't it? A shifting lens. Eyes catch hold of the camera still in place, little red light in standby position, spotless kitchen where it's centered on, where Skylar could maybe pick up a knife and chop, be filmed and reach a fuller potential---

Bonjour!

He's thrown back to earth, feet cemented into the tile floor. This is not Tomas. His hair is different. Fingers flex, as if mentally discarding the feeling of the handle of the knife he could be holding. "A toast?" Eyebrows draw together, hand rubbing at the back of his neck in strained thought, braincells scratching at each other, friction trying to ignite a thought. "Sourdough?"

The flour sacks were on the counter above. Every single one of them was from the spot where the bristles of the brush were scouring, even the ones shoved in the back for no one to find, the ones that were just a little heavier and not as malleable. 10,993 dollars, and somewhere rolling in the bottom of one was seventy-four cents. He counted once, and then broke one of the hundreds to buy a new whisk before Tomas won Masterchef. All of that for nothing when the answer was here all along.

BANG

“Pleurislijer!” Who was here? Whose footsteps were those? His hand rubbed at the top of his wounded head, eyes rounding at the visitor. “You saw me here and didn’t say behind!” His forehead creased, a weird concern that fought his words before he went on, tone adjusting. "What's the big idea?"