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[thefirstemperor]

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

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[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.