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[thefirstemperor]

[Absolute silence. Fou-Lu does not know what an inbox is.]

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[worthallthis]

B stops at the heavy door, taps in his code, and it slide open. That is, he thinks, the most words he's heard out of Fou-Lu at once in person. "Unique?" he asks, motioning for him to come in. The room is small but cozy, lots of blankets everywhere, the mattress on the floor rather than the bed frame (which is now a couch, kind of).

The doors slide shut behind them, and he drifts over to the little kitchen nook.

[thefirstemperor]

He has specific information to convey, and doing so efficiently seems like the best bet. "The Endless are not native to the world I hail from, but summoned by mortal need. Mine own summoning was botched. There are myriad unintended effects." He doesn't really react to his surroundings, standing as awkwardly here as he would anywhere else.

[worthallthis]

Probably a good thing B doesn't have a new cat yet, otherwise Fou-Lu would have to deal with that, too.

"Jesus. That. Sounds like it could've been pretty awful." And he hasn't missed the whole "I was summoned" thing, either. What the hell. He fills up the kettle with water and sets it to heat. "What were they trying to summon you for?"

[thefirstemperor]

"To bring an end to war." He knows it sounds absurd, open-ended like that, but that was his purpose and that became his nature, something that could be stopped only by shattering him entire, and even this extremity merely turned that nature poisonously inward.

[worthallthis]

That... sounds less absurd and, frankly, more chilling. Because B knows the ways human beings usually try to end wars. Fou-Lu is maybe a lot more like him than he'd thought, Jesus.

"Definitely pretty awful," he says, sounding a bit more grim. "Pretty sure that's not a thing that can be solved by a single person. Dragon or Endless or not."

[thefirstemperor]

"An emperor may accomplish something, but thou speakest true. 'Twas not a task that could be done. Too much of mortal nature stands opposed." As methods go, his weren't the worst.

[worthallthis]

The kettle whistles, and B takes it off to pour mugs and start mixing in the chocolate. "And you were stuck dealing with an impossible mission." Sounds like one of his less visceral nightmares. He's not exactly surprised he never knew this before, it's not like either of them did a lot of talking... but he kind of wishes he had known.

[thefirstemperor]

"The west was united, an empire born," he says guardedly, because he knows it was impossible, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel as though he failed. He did... something.

[worthallthis]

He might not speak court-ese, but he can still read people, and he can still imagine himself in an untenable situation. The poor guy tried. "It's a start," he agrees, though he doesn't like the idea of "empire" either. It's how humans would try to end wars, all right.

He finally brings over the mug, offers it to Fou-Lu. There's plenty of cocoa, and a little milk to thicken it up and make it a drinkable temperature. "Here. Try this and tell me what you think."

[thefirstemperor]

His relationship to food is a strange one. He doesn't need it, but can accept it just fine as a mortal gift. He's careful since he discovered alcohol seems to actually work on him now, but nothing about this suggests a drug. He sips carefully, surreptitiously cooling it some as it hits his tongue. It's sweeter than he expected, but complex enough that he's not put off.

But he has no vocabulary for tastes. Back when he sat at banquets, a shallow, approving nod would generally do. He looks slightly more than ordinarily perplexed for a moment before settling on, "'Tis good." Yeah, that's what he's got.

[worthallthis]

B is cradling his own mug, waiting for a verdict, and he gives a relieved little smile at the approval. "Good. It's my favorite drink, I think. Except maybe a mocha, which is basically mixing this and coffee. But this by itself is more. Comforting." And Fou-Lu might need that. B sure does, often enough.

[thefirstemperor]

He doesn't need to share the mortal food... thing to appreciate the intent. Comfort is intended. He doesn't think he needs it, and he's even partly right, if only because he is very unpracticed at having and handling his own feelings at all. He can still be grateful for the thought.

And he does remember what a mocha is, breach memories of coffee lessons lingering at the back of his mind. It's just that turning those thoughts into chat continues to be a struggle. At least he's pretty sure he shouldn't just nod again. "'Twould be bitter, then?" Absolutely inane. How do mortals do this.

[worthallthis]

"A little, but it just kinda. Enhances the sweet, in my opinion." B hitches a shoulder, half-smiles, not oblivious to Fou-Lu's awkward. Poor guy. B's had nine-slash-four years to get better at talking, and he's not even that great at it still. Fou-Lu hasn't even had that, though, has he?

So he gives him an out-- or, a partial out. He gestures to the bedframe piled high with pillows and blankets, made into a couch. "C'mon, siddown. I'll put on some music and you can drink your cocoa."

[thefirstemperor]

Like the cocoa, he takes this sort of mortal production in the spirit it's offered more than for its own sake. He sits just as stiffly here, as if he's made of ice and stone himself. He can, in fact, relax, in the right company and with a bit of prompting, but it's simply not an impulse with him. He has to be gentled into it. "My thanks."

[worthallthis]

B puts on some quieter jazz, and finds himself a seat on the armchair with his own cocoa. "Don't mention it. It's what friends do." Maybe Fou-Lu doesn't necessarily consider him a friend, but he does. And that's good enough for him.