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[thefirstemperor]

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

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[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.