we_bring_hell | (no subject)

"Do you think that has changed?" she says gently. "Or that he feels it has?"

"How could it not?" He laughs a little, without humor. "He wanted to play Clarity. He wished to exorcise me. All he could talk about for a time was the harm the resentful energy would do to me."

Swiftly, he pinches the bridge of his nose to swipe the gathering tears from his eyes.

"I told you we had drifted apart before I died, but in truth, Harrow, I pushed him away. Because I thought I could not trust him. And now -- "

Now, he doesn't know what to do. Only that his chest burns with raw feeling, so intense he fears he will never be able to ignore it.

"Then before you ask him about his feelings" she says, just as delicately, "you must decide if you can forgive him that, and trust it will not happen again, yes?"

"That seems to me the far more important question than anything--carnal."

What he thinks of now, of everything that happened the night before, is not the moments his mind went blank, or Lan Zhan looked at him strangely, or he tripped so hard over his own words that all he wished were to snatch them back out of the air.

What he thinks of is sitting curled up on the floor of the washroom, wracked by so much pain he could only breathe enough to sob the air right back out of his lungs. The small sliver of light on the other side of the door. Lan Zhan's voice, quiet and calm: You are not fine, but you will be.

How he did not hide forever, as he thought he might, but instead chose to walk back out into the light. To the softness of a shared bed; to music, hummed softly against his hair.

To Lan Zhan.

Oh, he thinks. Maybe this is why.

"I do trust him," he whispers. Soft wonder unfurls through the words like a flower blossoming. "I forgive him."

"That is precious indeed," she says quietly. "To be forgiven is all I hope for, anymore. And more precious by far than being told I did nothing wrong."

"I must tread carefully," she says. "For I hold more than just your confidences. But... I think, if you do forgive him, that there is nothing you can lose by telling him of your feelings. Not truly. Only the risk of embarrassment, weighed against the possibility of..."

Her face grows warm. "Of possibility."

He nods, slowly. At last he manages to look up from the bar and meet Harrow's eye.

"I have survived worse than embarrassment, I suppose." His mouth quirks, wryly. "I have not survived everything, but I have still survived worse. Though I apologize in advance if I am miserable for several more days after making a fool of myself again. I'll get over it."

"One thing you must consider," she says--and again she is choosing her words with obvious care-- "Is that those of us who guard our composure sometimes take comfort in others who are more free. They can say and feel things we forbid ourselves."

"Your apology is accepted."

The now-thoroughly-cooled porridge vanishes and is replaced with a thick slice of bread. It is slathered in jam, but for whatever reason the Bar has been moved to compromise.

The crooked half-smile softens. "I will keep that in mind," he says, quietly. "And I thank you."

He catches movement at the corner of his eye, and glances to the slice of bread Madam Bar has seen fit to provide. "She seems to be fussing over you this morning."

Harrow picks up the bread and nibbles at the crust. "She is proving exceptionally recalcitrant on subject of my morning meal," Harrow says sharply, her tone directed at the wood.

The Bar responds to this by producing a piece of paper--not a napkin, as is usual, but something narrower and flimsier; a receipt. Harrow reaches to crumple it up.

He frowns, slightly. "Is it not what you wish to eat? Or do you have no appetite at all?"

"I requested bread and water to break my fast, as is customary." She crumples up the receipt and flicks it aside. "I believe she would like me to expand my palate."

There is something tight and uncomfortable in the way Harrow discusses this topic.

Wei Wuxian sighs -- but it is good-natured this time, not the woeful (and, to be honest, often melodramatic) sighs of the past fifteen minutes.

"Madam Bar," he says, as he places his palm flat against the wood and inclines his head in a small bow. "You would not switch my meals with Lan Zhan's with no warning, would you? Show mercy to Harrow."

The Bar surface warms against his hand, in a communication that could mean anything. Harrow frowns at the red jam on the bread and continues to nibble along the edge. "How do your meals differ from Lan Wangji's?" she asks.

"Ah, Gusu Lan's food is very bland compared to what I like," he explains, but without any judgement to his tone. "Here, I will not ask you to eat it, but -- Madam Bar? May I have a pot of chili oil?"

It materializes, and he removes the lid before nudging it toward Harrow. Even from a handspan away, it smells strong enough to make the nose tickle.

"That is what I put in my congee every morning," he says. "Enough of it that some of my friends wondered how I tasted anything at all."

She winces away. "Urgh. Yes, I recall he advised me to drink the tea of Gusu Lan if I found the usual blends too strong."

"We had little variety or luxury on the Ninth; I am not accustomed to strong flavors or excessive sweetness. Lady Ingress tried to press a concoction called 'milk shake' on me. One spoonful was sufficient for a meal."

He laughs; gradually, in small increments, his good cheer seems to be returning. "She offered one to you as well?" he asks, reclaiming and recapping the chili oil. "I enjoyed mine, but they are rather sweet. I could not see myself drinking them for more than special occasions. Still, if you are not used to strong flavors, I think much of what Gusu Lan prepares would suit you -- though it does not have the simplicity of bread and water, I admit."

She nods. "I do not only eat bread," she says, still pointedly addressing the Bar. "But I find it sufficient to break my fast."

The Bar, incensed, conjures up the remains of Harrow's last several meals - an unfinished bowl of broth; a ration bar only nibbled at; a dish of roasted snow-leeks half-eaten; more bread, at most three-quarters consumed.

Her jaw tightens. "You may take it away," she says acerbically. "There is no need for these theatrics."

Wei Wuxian eyes the plates Madam Bar has set before them. He has known hunger, and he knows that when you have a belly used to little food, it does not take much to fill it. Still, that is... far less food than anyone should be eating, especially when spread over multiple days. Especially when Madam Bar will provide as much food as you'd like without question.

Cautiously, he asks, "Is that... usually how much you eat?"

"More or less," she says tersely. "I don't monitor it closely."

(A lie.)

As one of the inn's resident masters in brushing off any concern with a careless I'm fine, it's a lie he can recognize when he sees it. It's also a lie he is hesitant to break; sometimes, that I'm fine can be the only barrier to keep from losing yourself.

But it is so hard to look at that line of half-eaten meals, and how thin Harrow already is -- has always been, in the short time he has known her.

"I see," he says, and keeps his tone light. "Well, sometimes it is not easy to keep an appetite. Some food is better than none, Madam Bar, is it not? Even I have days where plain rice is the most I can stomach."

"It is only fuel," she says fiercely. "Just fuel for the body."

A wave of loathing for the meat that holds her spirit washes over her, and she sets down the lightly-toothed slice of bread. She remembers faithful Crux begging her to eat in the days after her parents' deaths, and can recognize the same kindness in the Bar's wordless attempts.

But she has lost control of so much since she came here--since she came to Canaan House--her composure gone to rags, her secrets on display, her future torn from her--and she cannot lose this.

"You must not let it trouble you."

He crooks a tiny, rueful smile. "I think I told you once that I worry too much," he says. "I will do my best not to let it trouble me, if you ask. But even if this is only fuel -- it is still fuel the body needs, so it can do whatever you may need to ask of it."

His gut twinges, remembering. He ignores it.

"Even necromancy still requires a living body to begin the work."

She smiles faintly. "I will make you a promise -- speak to Lan Wangji, and I shall join you for a meal, whether in condolence or congratulation. You may set the menu, and I will match you course for course."

He groans loudly, every ounce of melodrama returning, and throws his head back.

"Aiya, fine," he says to the ceiling -- but he's laughing through it, aware of how ridiculous he is being, how ridiculous all of this is. "You have a deal, Harrow. I promise I will not subject you to anything too strong, but I will speak my feelings to him, and we will eat when it is done."

"Then it is sealed," she says solemnly. Harrow is good at many thing, but laughing at herself is surely not one of them.

She looks at the accusing line of dishes. "I believe I still owe the Tomb a penitential walk outdoors."

(no subject)

acrookedpath - 2020-10-03 22:04 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

we_bring_hell - 2020-10-03 22:18 (UTC) - Expand