[Memories warp and wane all the time. Even Henry's. Just ask him about the days in the lab, where rote sameness should ingrain every detail harshly into his recollection, but the opposite is true -- every day felt like a blur, one bleeding into the next, with no separation in-between, clouding it all over with discontent.
But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
it's not a happy laugh, necessarily, but a laugh is still a laugh, isn't it? even now, even accepting that what she wanted isn't to be, she can still do that.
she moves to one of her cabinets and begins the arduous process of rifling through. this is no "under the bed" wine. ]
[ she can count the number of times she's heard him laugh. she counts now—or rather, she realizes she can't, because it has been that infrequent. ]
I smuggled this from my family home.
[ as she produces a blue-glass wine bottle and turns it in her hands. looking head-on at the thought that there may not be a next time is not something she can do right now, either. she busies herself with uncorking and pouring him a glass instead. ]
[Not a sincere one, anyway. She's been one of a very select few in this place to wrench an actual laugh out of him, one that isn't performative at best.
From here, he can catch a glimpse of the color of the wine as she pours it into the glass.]
[He takes the glass by its stem, watching as the liquid moves within. It is very rich and plummy-looking. He lets it hover just beneath his nose, taking in the scent, and it doesn't take much to catch in his nostrils, though not in a wholly unpleasant way.
Eyebrows lift.] In that case, this is worth a toast, isn't it?
[ do not be rude about this wine, Henry. a bottle is forty times more expensive than the daily needs of the most aristocratic, servant-flush, ball-attending lifestyle in dungeons and dragons ]
Hm. [ it's no small thing to toast, she thinks. it has to mean something. so she casts around for something to toast to, and settles on: ] To... meeting again.
[ rather than pour herself a glass, she offers the bottle towards him ]
[He's not being rude, wine is just very foreign to him in general, gosh!! His palette is not exactly the most refined, though he can at least appreciate that it'll be better than the godawful beer he found in that other prison.
Also, girl are you going to drink from the bottle.
[ she's going to drink from the bottle. it would be nice to smile back, too, but it's still just a little too raw for that, so he simply receives a faint twitch of her lips.
clinks the bottle against his glass ]
To satisfying ending.
[ for him, at least. she still isn't sure about herself. ]
["Exquisite libation" means nothing when your experience with alcohol has been a shitty can of beer and a little bit of wine in a memory. To be fair, it is categorically better than those prior experiences, but it's strong, and though rich and certainly not without taste, Henry's palate still declares that most of it tastes... Same-y. Sorry, but these expensive bottles of wine are wasted on him.
I do. [He does, or at least, he can appreciate the taste from a novice's standpoint.] But it's so different than what we had last time, I was surprised. My tastes aren't exactly expensive, you know -- we've established that.
[ can you blame her for wanting him to like what she likes? if their only similarities and common interests are the dark and unpleasant things, it feels... like he'll grow bored of her. or at least unimpressed. ]
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But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
[He grins.]
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it's not a happy laugh, necessarily, but a laugh is still a laugh, isn't it? even now, even accepting that what she wanted isn't to be, she can still do that.
she moves to one of her cabinets and begins the arduous process of rifling through. this is no "under the bed" wine. ]
Jasmarim Shadow.
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Not from under the bed? You’re giving me the fancy stuff today.
[Giving her a hard time… jokingly!]
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Maybe next time.
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I smuggled this from my family home.
[ as she produces a blue-glass wine bottle and turns it in her hands. looking head-on at the thought that there may not be a next time is not something she can do right now, either. she busies herself with uncorking and pouring him a glass instead. ]
Prohibitively expensive, this.
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From here, he can catch a glimpse of the color of the wine as she pours it into the glass.]
Saved for special occasions only?
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No. [ casually ] This is my fourth bottle.
[ that she's stolen. ]
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Then I’m declaring this a special occasion, anyway. Fourth bottle or otherwise.
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[ this, just barely breathed out. she turns and offers him the glass; the wine is plummy and smells incredibly strong. ]
This is our pact, after all.
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Eyebrows lift.] In that case, this is worth a toast, isn't it?
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Hm. [ it's no small thing to toast, she thinks. it has to mean something. so she casts around for something to toast to, and settles on: ] To... meeting again.
[ rather than pour herself a glass, she offers the bottle towards him ]
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Also, girl are you going to drink from the bottle.
But he lifts his glass, smiling.]
To the inevitable.
[Meeting again.]
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clinks the bottle against his glass ]
To satisfying ending.
[ for him, at least. she still isn't sure about herself. ]
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He has a reply for that, but first... He drinks from his glass. Just how strong are we talking for wine?]
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Sprezzatura does in fact sip from the bottle, tipping her head back. ]
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But yes, strong though. His brow wrinkles.]
That's... interesting.
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... you don't like it?
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[ can you blame her for wanting him to like what she likes? if their only similarities and common interests are the dark and unpleasant things, it feels... like he'll grow bored of her. or at least unimpressed. ]
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[But he's smiling, so obviously he's just poking fun.
Is this a more reassuring gesture, then: he takes another sip, slowly this time, and not even a crinkle across his brow.]
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One last dance?
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It goes down easier, at least, with some repetition.]
Did you have a song in mind?
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WE STILL NEED SOMETHING HAPPY TO THREAD
THIS IS GIVING ME WHIPLASH