After a handful of sleepless and terrifying nights, to wake up in the arms of a kind new friend is nothing short of blissful. The local rabbit hunt and bird-viewing that follows is, naturally, also very refreshing in a very different kind of way— Huaisang is not unfamiliar with, you know, blood, but his purpose here is just to catch the little animals and let Nighteyes have his rabbit breakfast in relative privacy. It's the best early morning Huaisang has had since washing up on Trench's shores, and since he's spent many of those mornings awash in the Red's luxury, well, it doesn't take a genius to determine what the missing it factor of his mornings must be.
So: it's nice. Everyone is very impressed with his bird-catching (and the bird is likely impressed he lets it go instead of throwing it to the wolf), and then they stop to wash up and give Huaisang ten minutes to correct his hair, and then: breakfast in a real inn, that serves more than two foods. It's still more cramped and rustic than Huaisang is accustomed to, but it has a menu, which is leagues above the dusty place they'd spent the night in. He is content! Even more content to order wine at, like, seven in the morning, and a few things off that menu that don't sound like breakfast at all (where are the steamed buns? unbelievable), and to watch Fitz explore the mysteries of the menu in turn with the fondness only earned after spending a night in bed with the man and the early morning catching songbirds to impress him with.
Very good morning. Very ordinary and free of terrors, for this city.
"Do you hunt bigger creatures with the ax?" he asks, as he has been wondering about that thing. It's certainly not a gentlemanly night-hunting sword... "Deer? ...Bears?"
That's the word that has been eluding Fitz all morning, he realizes. He's happy because he slept the whole night through with nary a nightmare nor hallucination in sight, and woke with the predawn light to find that Nighteyes had relocated to the end of his--their--bed at some point while he slept to keep his and Huaisang's feet warm with his fur. (He hopes his shoulder had not been too uncomfortable a pillow for Huaisang to sleep upon, though his new friend had seemed no worse for wear upon waking, his eyes shining bright in his face after a full night of rest and clearly for no other reason.)
Their hunt had left him flush with adrenaline and joy that had always seemed to defy his attempts to describe it either aloud or through the written word, and he is glad that the connection Nighteyes has forged with Huaisang the previous night remains in place this morning so that some of that delight to be shared amongst them. Winded and smiling, he is effusive in his praise both over Huaisang's skill at catching prey for the wolf, and for how deftly he manages to capture the little songbird without even bending a single one of its delicate pinions. When they release it into the canopy of the trees, he looks up after it with a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning light, and almost laughs at the scolding it gives them from its perch. Some of it reaches him through his Wit senses, too, but he lets it roll off his shoulders.
And then there is the washing up, and a moment, however brief, when Fitz catches himself watching Huaisang's fingers working through his long black hair, and he isn't sure where the errant thought comes from that suggests, 'touch it,' but he is very glad that he doesn't listen to it.
Now here they sit in a far less disreputable inn in a nicer part of the city, at a table that does not rock and list unsteadily every time he rests his elbows upon it and chairs that don't sport questionable stains. It's perfectly charming by Fitz's estimation, and he makes note of the name of it as they get themselves settled by an open window, and he takes tea in addition to a glass of water to start--a strong black tea, which he promptly pours whole milk into once it arrives. Let's see if that staggers Huaisang's sensibilities or not.
"Hm?" He looks up at the question, blinks, and then grimaces and shakes his head. "Ah, no. No, the ax is... For fending off other men, like as not. Occasionally feral boar, if I were to encounter any in the hills. When I hunt with Nighteyes, usually I just--" he makes a vague gesture, "--flush out the game, and let him take it to ground. On my own I'll use a bow, for deer. Or rabbits."
He adds a drop of honey into his tea and stirs it, then gives Huaisang a sideways glance, grinning a little. "Where'd you learn to catch songbirds out of thin air like that?" He's absolutely impressed.
Good gracious, what is the man doing to that tea. Huaisang watches this in mild shock, wondering briefly if Fitz doesn't know that he's drinking tea...? Maybe he thinks it's something else, some plebian drink that necessitates milk or anything else being put in it? How strange.
Well, nobody's perfect. He can imagine the look on the face of any reasonable cultivator when Fitz puts his elbows on the table and desecrates his tea, and he files that private amusement away for himself, so as not to interrupt a lovely morning. And it is lovely; the crisp morning air, the sunshine on their table giving Fitz a particularly handsome glow that Huaisang is fairly certain is at least somewhat the leftover rush of, well, the hunt. It must be, because he feels some kind of lingering electricity himself, and he is not the type to regularly get up at dawn and run around outdoors. There's a pull he's felt towards Fitz since the previous evening, and it's relieving to feel it still, without the misery of sleeplessness or the terror of things-not-there.
But the poor tea, still. Huaisang blinks and comes back to the conversation, about- using the ax on other men, and this news fazes him not at all, although he would have preferred it to be the one about deer and bears. Instead he hums, nodding along, and indulging briefly in the mental image of Fitz with a proper bow out in the forest, still as stone with bow drawn, save for the breeze in his hair...
Hmm. Yes. Alright. Birds-- "My family is from Qinghe, which is mainly forests and ridges... My brother-" mmph- "told me once that I couldn't keep a bird for a pet unless I caught it myself. I spent four days watching a finch go about its business, until I could scoop it up and take it home."
He shrugs, like, serves da-ge right for doubting exactly how badly Huaisang wanted a pet bird, huh! But the short version is he's self-taught, and only a little bit to prove a point. "Birds are like people, you know— if you put in the time, they'll come."
Qinghe. The sound and cadence of the name does match the shape and feel of Huaisang's name. They're unlike any names that Fitz has heard in his world, and he does what he can to commit the sound of them to his memory so that he can practice saying them aloud when he is next on his own, rather than botch it and make a fool of himself in front of his new friend. Though he expects that, rather like the Fool, any laughter Huaisang might send his way at his mistakes will largely be without malice. Even his mockery had felt like a joke shared between just the two of them. And then--
"Birds are like people, you know— if you put in the time, they'll come."
He smiles warmly at that behind the teacup, before sipping from it. "That's been true of most animals, in my experience, though mine has been mostly with horses. And the wolf, of course."
His expression only dims when he considers the subtle shift in Huaisang's expression when he speaks of his brother. It is all too easy for him to recall the fright on Huaisang's face at the sound of the distant, metallic clang of steel. How should he reconcile that fear with the idea of an elder brother who might reasonably challenge a younger sibling to test his skills, to earn something that he wants?
"Your brother," he starts cautiously--but at that moment, a cheery server arrives to take their breakfast order, and Fitz startles a moment before shelving the question. Shit, what was it he'd decided on--oh, yes--"ah, the poached eggs and sausage, thank you."
"And the wolf, of course," Fitz says, and Huaisang keenly wants to know that particular story, expression a mix of fond and curious as he wonders about it here and now. How does one get a wolf as a brother? There's a good story in there, but perhaps one best saved for when Nighteyes is also present to add, Huaisang assumes, very valuable and affectionately sarcastic commentary. Later, then, when Nighteyes is back with them, and Huaisang isn't at all devastated to find that their hastily patched-together connection has faded.
He's eager to pick up the menu and turn to the server for a short but animated flurry of questions about the various breakfast items complete with a lot of excitable pointing, once Fitz has placed his very sedate eggs and sausage order; the server is pleased enough that Huaisang seems to want several different types of breakfast pastry, and explains them in that distinct Server Voice before trotting away with the order. None of this abrupt swing into chatting with the server is to avoid Fitz's half-formed question about da-ge, no, not at all-- mostly. Some of it.
As always, he'd have chattered away at the server anyway, but it gives him a moment to do a hasty mental sort through what he wants to actually say. On some level, while he knows no explanation of what Fitz had heard with the echo of the saber is owed, his new friend's willingness to come to his defense so readily makes an explanation... earned? Earned in a way that no one else who'd ever began a sentence with a carefully sympathetic "your brother" has ever earned.
"My brother died that day." Not the bird day, but he needn't specify something so obvious. He looks out the window for a moment without seeing the scenery outside, one hand lifted to cover his opposite arm, where the scar from Baxia is concealed under so much silk. "He was— His mind wasn't his own, anymore. Even so, he recognized me, in the end."
You see, he wants to add, My brother would never have hurt me if he knew what he was doing! But the words stick in his throat from even this much effort of talking about that day, and he looks away from the window at Fitz, a touch more helpless than when he'd been grabbing songbirds out of the air.
"Well, now you know!" Ack; he shakes his head. "Don't worry about my brother right now."
The cheery barrage of questions that Huaisang unleashes on the server is indication enough, to Fitz, that he's stepped in it. That isn't an unusual feeling for him--he's gone through most of his life tripping from one social gaffe straight into another--though it was always easier for him to recover from them when he cared less about the person whose feelings he'd inadvertently trod upon. That's the funny thing about emotional intimacy, isn't it, how much harder it is to find the right way to make amends with those we care about, when the words come so easily when dealing with strangers.
And he does care about Huaisang, because how could he not after the trial by fire they survived together last night? Some experiences forge bonds that are unshakeable. (To Fitz, anyway.)
He's absently chafing his hand over his beard, and the words, "Forgive me, I shouldn't have asked--" leave his mouth right at the same time Huaisang says, "My brother died that day," and so he dutifully shuts up and listens.
He's a quiet listener, if not always the most attentive, but he checks his mind's habitual meandering this time and focuses on hearing Huaisang's words, and the things that go unspoken beneath them. There is too much depth to this pain for any one conversation to lance and cauterize; it will likely always cause Huaisang pain, some days more than others, like when the cold gets into a joint that has badly healed. Such is the way of loss--moreso when that loss does not come with the catharsis of closure, and instead leaves behind only more questions that can never be answered.
(He does not let himself think of the Fool again. Not now.)
"That's a painful thing you've endured," he says quietly, not quite looking into Huaisang's eyes, but still taken in by the helplessness he reads on his face. "More painful still to endure such a thing from a brother."
He looks down into what he can see of his reflection in the milky surface of his tea, picks it up to sip from it again. "I oughtn't have asked you about it, I suppose I only," another pause, before he cracks a little smile and looks up again, "wanted to help. But some things can't be helped, can they, least of all through talking about them. Some things just are." Nighteyes taught him that much.
There it is again— something about the way Fitz talks about that brief moment of Nie Mingjue's last day that Huaisang can't quite put his finger on, like Fitz's limited view has somehow revealed to him a thing Huaisang is too close to see. The thing more painful to endure— the loss, surely, the removal of the last of his family and with Mingjue, the whole shape and structure of Huaisang's life.
That thing. Painful to endure.
He manages a smile, strained at the edges until he watches Fitz sip that awful tea again, and that is the thing that makes his smile turn genuine. Fitz drinks that tea that is an affront against the heavens, but! He wants to help, and it's been so long since someone has wanted to help who was not themselves muddled emotionally in the disaster of Nie Mingjue's demise, or who had things to gain from Huaisang putting aside his grief. Not for the first time Huaisang is touched, leaning his chin into his hand (and carefully pulling the pooling silk of his sleeve out of the way of this breakfast table, ah) and giving Fitz a look like he stepped in it, yes— but on his way to hasten in the sunlight past the clouds.
Which might be a bit much for breakfast, but Huaisang knows himself well enough to recognize that he's a sucker for a private smile, and so really, what could anyone expect of him right now? The trappings of grief still cling to him around the edges; a tension, a dimmed brightness in his gaze; but he'll grasp for being a sucker instead of a mess at breakfast.
"I want you to want to help," he says, before he can think about how ridiculous it sounds. It's true, cringe and all. "But— I don't know. Not... yet. There are too many pieces, I don't know, I don't know--"
He shakes his head, reaching for Fitz's hand around his teacup with a little sigh. "Is that alright?" Can they put a pin in that? His fingers brush the backs of Fitz's, undemanding, like the question. "I want to help you, too."
Truthfully, he doubts his own ability to navigate these difficult subjects with much more grace than Fitz, but the companionship forged between them last night makes him want to try. How novel; he hasn't wandered outside his comfort zone in ages.
...And, alright. It needs asking, "How can you drink that?"
It is a painful thing to watch someone else suffer, too, even if their suffering is something that can't be avoided, even if that suffering is a necessary agony that must be endured before true healing can begin. Fitz feels that ache in his heart now, watching the myriad different ways Huaisang's pain manifests itself through his smile, the set of his jaw where it rests in his palm, his eyes (whether they meet Fitz's own or look away), and tries to reach for Nighteyes' acceptance of the moment as it is, rather than indulging in a human's futile effort to fix something that only time is properly equipped to mend.
Time, and perhaps gentleness, he thinks, and his thoughts travel backwards through time to present him with the picture perfect memory of Burrich in the Buckkeep Castle stables, speaking soothingly to a mare spooked by a clap of thunder.
Then Huaisang's touch settles around his hand and the teacup, and the connection grounds him in the present again. "Is that all right?" Huaisang asks him, as though not having the answers to all of these as-yet unasked questions is something he isn't even sure is allowed, and unthinkingly Fitz lifts his free hand to settle his own against the back of Huaisang's wrist.
"Of course, of course it's all right," he assures him, his smile warm and crooked, and if he is also, yet again, allowing himself to feel extraordinarily secure in his unambiguous and exclusive attraction to the ladies, to be so comfortable in touching another man's hand like this (so soft, so nice, this is very platonic), then let's just let him have this moment.
Then that last question, "How can you drink that?" and Fitz blinks, puzzled. wait what?
"What, the tea?" He peers down at it, sniffs it once--smells all right, milk isn't spoilt--then looks up at Huaisang with guileless confusion writ plainly across his features. "What's wrong with it?"
This is a moment, alright. Huaisang isn't used to vulnerability in the, hm, traditional sense— a vulnerability not cultivated (ha), not designed around an exaggeration meant to foster a certain response. To stumble indelicately through trying to talk about his brother and offer his clumsy efforts is different, a slightly more major-key reprise of falling into each other last night. It's a relief then to be told of course, to have Fitz's hand settle warm against his wrist. It's almost enough to make him blush, which is silly.
It's a moment. A good one no matter the uncertainty or the lingering despair, and Huaisang can't help but laugh when Fitz is so very earnest about the tea thing. Oh, no, no one has taught this man about the proper preparation of a fine tea, the poor thing...
"You put milk in it," he says, eyebrows raised, like it's obvious (it should be obvious). He taps the back of Fitz's hand in mock disapproval with a slight shake of his head. "I've never seen anything like it! If you were anyone else I'd ask the waiter for a new cup on your behalf."
Feel honored, Fitz, to receive the privilege of explaining this tea with milk monstrosity instead of having it publicly shamed with a fresh cup.
"Isn't it overwhelming?" It's milk. "How do you enjoy the flavor of the tea?"
His bewilderment gives way to another crooked smile when Huaisang laughs because ah, all right, there's nothing actually wrong with the tea--he's being teased, he realizes, and he likes it in a simple, uncomplicated way that brings a sudden brightness to his very dark eyes, a glimmer of something that might be mischief. He can be cheeky, just watch him.
"It's tea," he exclaims, smiling, and briefly releases Huaisang's wrist to spread his hand to one side, "how else would you drink it?" Then, "Here," he goes on and offers the cup out to Huaisang with raised eyebrows, "try it and then tell me what you think."
Well, call this not being totally prepared for the consequences of his actions, perhaps. Huaisang's teasing laughter gives way into a stuttering kind of giggle, glancing down at the cup like it might bite him if he takes it, let alone tries the mysterious milk tea. He's convinced this is an abomination, when it comes to teas, but he can see Fitz's smile and equally teasing offer for what they are (at least one of them can!), and— well! Has he not had worse drinks on a dare - certainly, absolutely.
"Ah, I don't know," he says, but he's already lifting both hands to take the offered cup and consider it only a little faux-warily. It's kind of real-warily. He glances from it to Fitz's face once, twice, mouth curling in a smile that can't quite believe he's going to drink the milk tea—!! But he's doing it, taking a sip.
...It's just tea. This is the most surprising possibility. "It's... drinkable."
Fitz witnesses this moment with his chin in his palm, fingers curled to obscure his mouth from view, but his smile is all eyes anyway, little crow's feet at their corners and laugh lines in his cheeks. Huaisang's wary little glances his way, then down at the tea, then his way again, elicit silent laughter mostly visible in the way his shoulders shake, like he, too, has bought into the silly momentousness of this moment. Then Huaisang lifts the cup to his lips, and Fitz raises his eyebrows, too, and then--
"It's... drinkable."
It really is just tea.
Still, Fitz grins and suggests, "I could order you another cup, if you like." He's teasing. Mostly. (But there is nevertheless clear and transparent affection for Huaisang in his eyes, which he is infuriatingly unaware of, and which will surely not come back to bite him in the ass at a later date.)
Oh, but Fitz cannot be allowed to keep looking at Huaisang like that, or he will agree to all kinds of stupid things like drinking a whole cup of milk tea of his own. He can see it now— becoming a milk tea fan, all because of some clumsy flirting and a warm gaze... What would the others think??
(Like, that would be a Them Problem, but still!)
Huaisang puts the cup down and slides it back over to Fitz, shaking his head as he laughs again. "No, no, I don't think so. I'll take back what I said about your tea, but that's my limit." He pauses, makes a pursed-lip decision, and adds, "Whenever you'd like to have some proper tea, you come and find me— I'll take care of everything."
"Whenever you'd like to have some proper tea, you come and find me— I'll take care of everything."
"I'd like that," Fitz answers him without a shred of guile (or self-awareness) and accepts the teacup as Huaisang slides it back towards him. Picking it up, he lifts it in a little toast gesture, like saying 'it's a date' without actually saying the words out loud. Then, as though recalling something, he adds, "Though, it would help if I knew where to look for you in this city. Nighteyes and I have settled in Feed, for the time being." Risking the Trenchwood might be dangerous, but forcing Nighteyes to limit his range only to the city would be a different brand of cruelty.
The server returns with their meals at that point, and Fitz does what he can to clear off space on the table for their plates and the veritable mountain of pastries that Huaisang has ordered.
Oh, it's a date, yes indeed. Huaisang gives him an earnest smile, almost pleased enough to be giddy, and then - whaps the table with his hand, for forgetting the whole 'place of residence' business. For a minute there he lived in a world where just having egregiously warm, fluttering feelings was enough to convey all the less interesting details instantaneously.
"Do you know the Red? In Cellar Door? You won't be able to miss it, it has a massive red stone on the front." And a squid. He's lost interest in the big squid statue, somehow. "I have a room there. Ah, but I don't know where Feed is..."
Which they can chat about over breakfast, while he makes a valiant effort to dent this mountain of pastries. It's a date- both in the future and right now, as far as Huaisang is concerned- and it's a much better meal than last night's slim pickings of dry bread and room temperature cheese. If he quips that a place called Feed sounds like a place that would also serve bread-and-cheese and nothing else, well, is he wrong! Feed... of all names...
So: breakfast is good, and Huaisang skips them past the inevitable period of awkwardness at the end of a meal when the uncertainty of parting must come up - mostly by assuming that, no, Fitz is going to keep him company all day, and declaring that he would like to smuggle out some little sausages wrapped in flaky pastry for Nighteyes posthaste. That's that on that, and unfortunately he can feel it as soon as they sight Nighteyes again outside of the restaurant— or rather, he can't feel the background tug of connection any longer, and it's a keener loss than he expected, to not be able to chatter with Nighteyes about their spectacular breakfast.
He does still present the napkin full of sausage croissants like the spoils of some grand heist, though. Please enjoy this bounty, courtesy of did he steal these, maybe? Probably not? It's difficult to say, there were a lot of pastry-adjacent things happening.
Odd how the absence of a thing is what so often proves how important it has become. Once Fitz notices the lack in his bond with Nighteyes, in that newly created space of being where Huaisang had so quickly and so effortlessly insinuated himself into their gentle awareness of each other, he's taken aback by how much the loss stings. Uselessly, all he can do is stand next to Huaisang on the side of the lane while Nighteyes lopes over to them from where he'd been waiting patiently, and try not to let either his confusion or his dismay show too plainly on his face.
(He is not successful. But maybe that is some silver lining for all three of them, to know that the bond, while it was there, was something he cherished.)
Are we not here together, fed and content? Nighteyes chides him affectionately. Let that be enough, brother.
The wolf, as always, accepts the change to their dynamic with ease, because to do otherwise just isn't in his nature; today is chillier than yesterday, he can still taste rabbit on his tongue, and his mind no longer touches Huaisang's. But that absence doesn't change the effusive, wolfish affection that he greets Huaisang with, as he hoists himself up onto his hind quarters to put that cold nose right against Huaisang's cheek, tail lashing and ears flat with fondness, before he drops back down onto all fours and sniffs eagerly at the care package that has clearly been brought for his benefit. He brought me sausages?
"Yes, he did," Fitz answers him with a wry twist to his lips, some of the melancholy easing from his eyes. Then, glancing at Huaisang, he clarifies, "He can smell the sausages you brought for him. You know--" and this to Nighteyes again, "--I thought you'd had your fill of rabbit this morning. How is it that you're still so hungry?"
Nighteyes already has a mouthful of the cooked meat in his mouth and has dropped down onto his haunches to make short work of it. There's laughter dancing in his eyes when he looks back up. Shall I let it go to waste instead?
In response Fitz just scoffs and glances Huaisang's way out of habit as though to invite him to share his mild affront, and then remembers with a grimace that he can't. He frowns, apologetic, and rubs at his chin. "I'd wondered," he admits, "how long it would last."
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the cozy breakfast thread
So: it's nice. Everyone is very impressed with his bird-catching (and the bird is likely impressed he lets it go instead of throwing it to the wolf), and then they stop to wash up and give Huaisang ten minutes to correct his hair, and then: breakfast in a real inn, that serves more than two foods. It's still more cramped and rustic than Huaisang is accustomed to, but it has a menu, which is leagues above the dusty place they'd spent the night in. He is content! Even more content to order wine at, like, seven in the morning, and a few things off that menu that don't sound like breakfast at all (where are the steamed buns? unbelievable), and to watch Fitz explore the mysteries of the menu in turn with the fondness only earned after spending a night in bed with the man and the early morning catching songbirds to impress him with.
Very good morning. Very ordinary and free of terrors, for this city.
"Do you hunt bigger creatures with the ax?" he asks, as he has been wondering about that thing. It's certainly not a gentlemanly night-hunting sword... "Deer? ...Bears?"
no subject
That's the word that has been eluding Fitz all morning, he realizes. He's happy because he slept the whole night through with nary a nightmare nor hallucination in sight, and woke with the predawn light to find that Nighteyes had relocated to the end of his--their--bed at some point while he slept to keep his and Huaisang's feet warm with his fur. (He hopes his shoulder had not been too uncomfortable a pillow for Huaisang to sleep upon, though his new friend had seemed no worse for wear upon waking, his eyes shining bright in his face after a full night of rest
and clearly for no other reason.)Their hunt had left him flush with adrenaline and joy that had always seemed to defy his attempts to describe it either aloud or through the written word, and he is glad that the connection Nighteyes has forged with Huaisang the previous night remains in place this morning so that some of that delight to be shared amongst them. Winded and smiling, he is effusive in his praise both over Huaisang's skill at catching prey for the wolf, and for how deftly he manages to capture the little songbird without even bending a single one of its delicate pinions. When they release it into the canopy of the trees, he looks up after it with a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning light, and almost laughs at the scolding it gives them from its perch. Some of it reaches him through his Wit senses, too, but he lets it roll off his shoulders.
And then there is the washing up, and a moment, however brief, when Fitz catches himself watching Huaisang's fingers working through his long black hair, and he isn't sure where the errant thought comes from that suggests, 'touch it,' but he is very glad that he doesn't listen to it.
Now here they sit in a far less disreputable inn in a nicer part of the city, at a table that does not rock and list unsteadily every time he rests his elbows upon it and chairs that don't sport questionable stains. It's perfectly charming by Fitz's estimation, and he makes note of the name of it as they get themselves settled by an open window, and he takes tea in addition to a glass of water to start--a strong black tea, which he promptly pours whole milk into once it arrives. Let's see if that staggers Huaisang's sensibilities or not.
"Hm?" He looks up at the question, blinks, and then grimaces and shakes his head. "Ah, no. No, the ax is... For fending off other men, like as not. Occasionally feral boar, if I were to encounter any in the hills. When I hunt with Nighteyes, usually I just--" he makes a vague gesture, "--flush out the game, and let him take it to ground. On my own I'll use a bow, for deer. Or rabbits."
He adds a drop of honey into his tea and stirs it, then gives Huaisang a sideways glance, grinning a little. "Where'd you learn to catch songbirds out of thin air like that?" He's absolutely impressed.
no subject
Well, nobody's perfect. He can imagine the look on the face of any reasonable cultivator when Fitz puts his elbows on the table and desecrates his tea, and he files that private amusement away for himself, so as not to interrupt a lovely morning. And it is lovely; the crisp morning air, the sunshine on their table giving Fitz a particularly handsome glow that Huaisang is fairly certain is at least somewhat the leftover rush of, well, the hunt. It must be, because he feels some kind of lingering electricity himself, and he is not the type to regularly get up at dawn and run around outdoors. There's a pull he's felt towards Fitz since the previous evening, and it's relieving to feel it still, without the misery of sleeplessness or the terror of things-not-there.
But the poor tea, still. Huaisang blinks and comes back to the conversation, about- using the ax on other men, and this news fazes him not at all, although he would have preferred it to be the one about deer and bears. Instead he hums, nodding along, and indulging briefly in the mental image of Fitz with a proper bow out in the forest, still as stone with bow drawn, save for the breeze in his hair...
Hmm. Yes. Alright. Birds-- "My family is from Qinghe, which is mainly forests and ridges... My brother-" mmph- "told me once that I couldn't keep a bird for a pet unless I caught it myself. I spent four days watching a finch go about its business, until I could scoop it up and take it home."
He shrugs, like, serves da-ge right for doubting exactly how badly Huaisang wanted a pet bird, huh! But the short version is he's self-taught, and only a little bit to prove a point. "Birds are like people, you know— if you put in the time, they'll come."
no subject
"Birds are like people, you know— if you put in the time, they'll come."
He smiles warmly at that behind the teacup, before sipping from it. "That's been true of most animals, in my experience, though mine has been mostly with horses. And the wolf, of course."
His expression only dims when he considers the subtle shift in Huaisang's expression when he speaks of his brother. It is all too easy for him to recall the fright on Huaisang's face at the sound of the distant, metallic clang of steel. How should he reconcile that fear with the idea of an elder brother who might reasonably challenge a younger sibling to test his skills, to earn something that he wants?
"Your brother," he starts cautiously--but at that moment, a cheery server arrives to take their breakfast order, and Fitz startles a moment before shelving the question. Shit, what was it he'd decided on--oh, yes--"ah, the poached eggs and sausage, thank you."
no subject
He's eager to pick up the menu and turn to the server for a short but animated flurry of questions about the various breakfast items complete with a lot of excitable pointing, once Fitz has placed his very sedate eggs and sausage order; the server is pleased enough that Huaisang seems to want several different types of breakfast pastry, and explains them in that distinct Server Voice before trotting away with the order. None of this abrupt swing into chatting with the server is to avoid Fitz's half-formed question about da-ge, no, not at all-- mostly. Some of it.
As always, he'd have chattered away at the server anyway, but it gives him a moment to do a hasty mental sort through what he wants to actually say. On some level, while he knows no explanation of what Fitz had heard with the echo of the saber is owed, his new friend's willingness to come to his defense so readily makes an explanation... earned? Earned in a way that no one else who'd ever began a sentence with a carefully sympathetic "your brother" has ever earned.
"My brother died that day." Not the bird day, but he needn't specify something so obvious. He looks out the window for a moment without seeing the scenery outside, one hand lifted to cover his opposite arm, where the scar from Baxia is concealed under so much silk. "He was— His mind wasn't his own, anymore. Even so, he recognized me, in the end."
You see, he wants to add, My brother would never have hurt me if he knew what he was doing! But the words stick in his throat from even this much effort of talking about that day, and he looks away from the window at Fitz, a touch more helpless than when he'd been grabbing songbirds out of the air.
"Well, now you know!" Ack; he shakes his head. "Don't worry about my brother right now."
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And he does care about Huaisang, because how could he not after the trial by fire they survived together last night? Some experiences forge bonds that are unshakeable. (To Fitz, anyway.)
He's absently chafing his hand over his beard, and the words, "Forgive me, I shouldn't have asked--" leave his mouth right at the same time Huaisang says, "My brother died that day," and so he dutifully shuts up and listens.
He's a quiet listener, if not always the most attentive, but he checks his mind's habitual meandering this time and focuses on hearing Huaisang's words, and the things that go unspoken beneath them. There is too much depth to this pain for any one conversation to lance and cauterize; it will likely always cause Huaisang pain, some days more than others, like when the cold gets into a joint that has badly healed. Such is the way of loss--moreso when that loss does not come with the catharsis of closure, and instead leaves behind only more questions that can never be answered.
(He does not let himself think of the Fool again. Not now.)
"That's a painful thing you've endured," he says quietly, not quite looking into Huaisang's eyes, but still taken in by the helplessness he reads on his face. "More painful still to endure such a thing from a brother."
He looks down into what he can see of his reflection in the milky surface of his tea, picks it up to sip from it again. "I oughtn't have asked you about it, I suppose I only," another pause, before he cracks a little smile and looks up again, "wanted to help. But some things can't be helped, can they, least of all through talking about them. Some things just are." Nighteyes taught him that much.
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That thing. Painful to endure.
He manages a smile, strained at the edges until he watches Fitz sip that awful tea again, and that is the thing that makes his smile turn genuine. Fitz drinks that tea that is an affront against the heavens, but! He wants to help, and it's been so long since someone has wanted to help who was not themselves muddled emotionally in the disaster of Nie Mingjue's demise, or who had things to gain from Huaisang putting aside his grief. Not for the first time Huaisang is touched, leaning his chin into his hand (and carefully pulling the pooling silk of his sleeve out of the way of this breakfast table, ah) and giving Fitz a look like he stepped in it, yes— but on his way to hasten in the sunlight past the clouds.
Which might be a bit much for breakfast, but Huaisang knows himself well enough to recognize that he's a sucker for a private smile, and so really, what could anyone expect of him right now? The trappings of grief still cling to him around the edges; a tension, a dimmed brightness in his gaze; but he'll grasp for being a sucker instead of a mess at breakfast.
"I want you to want to help," he says, before he can think about how ridiculous it sounds. It's true, cringe and all. "But— I don't know. Not... yet. There are too many pieces, I don't know, I don't know--"
He shakes his head, reaching for Fitz's hand around his teacup with a little sigh. "Is that alright?" Can they put a pin in that? His fingers brush the backs of Fitz's, undemanding, like the question. "I want to help you, too."
Truthfully, he doubts his own ability to navigate these difficult subjects with much more grace than Fitz, but the companionship forged between them last night makes him want to try. How novel; he hasn't wandered outside his comfort zone in ages.
...And, alright. It needs asking, "How can you drink that?"
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Time, and perhaps gentleness, he thinks, and his thoughts travel backwards through time to present him with the picture perfect memory of Burrich in the Buckkeep Castle stables, speaking soothingly to a mare spooked by a clap of thunder.
Then Huaisang's touch settles around his hand and the teacup, and the connection grounds him in the present again. "Is that all right?" Huaisang asks him, as though not having the answers to all of these as-yet unasked questions is something he isn't even sure is allowed, and unthinkingly Fitz lifts his free hand to settle his own against the back of Huaisang's wrist.
"Of course, of course it's all right," he assures him, his smile warm and crooked, and if he is also, yet again, allowing himself to feel extraordinarily secure in his unambiguous and exclusive attraction to the ladies, to be so comfortable in touching another man's hand like this (so soft, so nice, this is very platonic), then let's just let him have this moment.
Then that last question, "How can you drink that?" and Fitz blinks, puzzled. wait what?
"What, the tea?" He peers down at it, sniffs it once--smells all right, milk isn't spoilt--then looks up at Huaisang with guileless confusion writ plainly across his features. "What's wrong with it?"
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It's a moment. A good one no matter the uncertainty or the lingering despair, and Huaisang can't help but laugh when Fitz is so very earnest about the tea thing. Oh, no, no one has taught this man about the proper preparation of a fine tea, the poor thing...
"You put milk in it," he says, eyebrows raised, like it's obvious (it should be obvious). He taps the back of Fitz's hand in mock disapproval with a slight shake of his head. "I've never seen anything like it! If you were anyone else I'd ask the waiter for a new cup on your behalf."
Feel honored, Fitz, to receive the privilege of explaining this tea with milk monstrosity instead of having it publicly shamed with a fresh cup.
"Isn't it overwhelming?" It's milk. "How do you enjoy the flavor of the tea?"
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"It's tea," he exclaims, smiling, and briefly releases Huaisang's wrist to spread his hand to one side, "how else would you drink it?" Then, "Here," he goes on and offers the cup out to Huaisang with raised eyebrows, "try it and then tell me what you think."
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"Ah, I don't know," he says, but he's already lifting both hands to take the offered cup and consider it only a little faux-warily. It's kind of real-warily. He glances from it to Fitz's face once, twice, mouth curling in a smile that can't quite believe he's going to drink the milk tea—!! But he's doing it, taking a sip.
...It's just tea. This is the most surprising possibility. "It's... drinkable."
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"It's... drinkable."
It really is just tea.
Still, Fitz grins and suggests, "I could order you another cup, if you like." He's teasing. Mostly. (But there is nevertheless clear and transparent affection for Huaisang in his eyes, which he is infuriatingly unaware of, and which will surely not come back to bite him in the ass at a later date.)
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(Like, that would be a Them Problem, but still!)
Huaisang puts the cup down and slides it back over to Fitz, shaking his head as he laughs again. "No, no, I don't think so. I'll take back what I said about your tea, but that's my limit." He pauses, makes a pursed-lip decision, and adds, "Whenever you'd like to have some proper tea, you come and find me— I'll take care of everything."
He'll treat you right (to tea), Fitz.
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"I'd like that," Fitz answers him without a shred of guile (or self-awareness) and accepts the teacup as Huaisang slides it back towards him. Picking it up, he lifts it in a little toast gesture, like saying 'it's a date' without actually saying the words out loud. Then, as though recalling something, he adds, "Though, it would help if I knew where to look for you in this city. Nighteyes and I have settled in Feed, for the time being." Risking the Trenchwood might be dangerous, but forcing Nighteyes to limit his range only to the city would be a different brand of cruelty.
The server returns with their meals at that point, and Fitz does what he can to clear off space on the table for their plates and the veritable mountain of pastries that Huaisang has ordered.
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"Do you know the Red? In Cellar Door? You won't be able to miss it, it has a massive red stone on the front." And a squid. He's lost interest in the big squid statue, somehow. "I have a room there. Ah, but I don't know where Feed is..."
Which they can chat about over breakfast, while he makes a valiant effort to dent this mountain of pastries. It's a date- both in the future and right now, as far as Huaisang is concerned- and it's a much better meal than last night's slim pickings of dry bread and room temperature cheese. If he quips that a place called Feed sounds like a place that would also serve bread-and-cheese and nothing else, well, is he wrong! Feed... of all names...
So: breakfast is good, and Huaisang skips them past the inevitable period of awkwardness at the end of a meal when the uncertainty of parting must come up - mostly by assuming that, no, Fitz is going to keep him company all day, and declaring that he would like to smuggle out some little sausages wrapped in flaky pastry for Nighteyes posthaste. That's that on that, and unfortunately he can feel it as soon as they sight Nighteyes again outside of the restaurant— or rather, he can't feel the background tug of connection any longer, and it's a keener loss than he expected, to not be able to chatter with Nighteyes about their spectacular breakfast.
He does still present the napkin full of sausage croissants like the spoils of some grand heist, though. Please enjoy this bounty, courtesy of did he steal these, maybe? Probably not? It's difficult to say, there were a lot of pastry-adjacent things happening.
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(He is not successful. But maybe that is some silver lining for all three of them, to know that the bond, while it was there, was something he cherished.)
Are we not here together, fed and content? Nighteyes chides him affectionately. Let that be enough, brother.
The wolf, as always, accepts the change to their dynamic with ease, because to do otherwise just isn't in his nature; today is chillier than yesterday, he can still taste rabbit on his tongue, and his mind no longer touches Huaisang's. But that absence doesn't change the effusive, wolfish affection that he greets Huaisang with, as he hoists himself up onto his hind quarters to put that cold nose right against Huaisang's cheek, tail lashing and ears flat with fondness, before he drops back down onto all fours and sniffs eagerly at the care package that has clearly been brought for his benefit. He brought me sausages?
"Yes, he did," Fitz answers him with a wry twist to his lips, some of the melancholy easing from his eyes. Then, glancing at Huaisang, he clarifies, "He can smell the sausages you brought for him. You know--" and this to Nighteyes again, "--I thought you'd had your fill of rabbit this morning. How is it that you're still so hungry?"
Nighteyes already has a mouthful of the cooked meat in his mouth and has dropped down onto his haunches to make short work of it. There's laughter dancing in his eyes when he looks back up. Shall I let it go to waste instead?
In response Fitz just scoffs and glances Huaisang's way out of habit as though to invite him to share his mild affront, and then remembers with a grimace that he can't. He frowns, apologetic, and rubs at his chin. "I'd wondered," he admits, "how long it would last."