a coat on the wall [c]

[ICHIROU YUKISHIMA]

• LOCATION. A small restaurant in the Inner Kingdom

• TIME. It's almost nighttime, though still evening, and... idk what season...

• TAGGED. QUAN FUU

It's not as if he wants to thrust himself into the areas of Shangdi that don't welcome him. But this is on the way to the Imperial Kingdom, so there's nothing he can do about it. "It'll be even worse once we get there anyways."

So far they'd only bought food from vendors, kept their heads low while they were at it, and they haven't met any difficulties since. So ever the optimist, he said they should treat themselves and go out.

“If I’m with you no one’ll question ya, promise!”

Ichirou huffs. He sips the tea he’d managed to order with little fuss, then frowns some more. “That requires you to be here, idiot.” He’s not sure where his partner ran off, but it’s been a half an hour and soon enough he’ll have to order in spite of his absence lest he start to stand out.

“Sir, are you… going to order?”

Shocked out of his thoughts, the white-haired man freezes (ha!) a moment before putting on a small smile. “Oh, yes, I was waiting for someone but it seems that… they won’t be showing. I’ll have…” Then he prattles off his order quickly. With a nod and an exchange of pleasantries, they’re almost done and Ichirou is about to release his breath when the man asks a fatal question.

“Are you finished with your tea?” Eyeing the empty cup and (he knows) equally as empty pot, Ichirou affirms and in an act of courtesy (or perhaps foolishness) he hands the porclean off. Their fingers brush and the sound of shattered China splinters through the buzz of the other patrons.

“Your hands are freezing!” Said hands clench into fists, and Ichirou reflexively withdraws them into his sleeves. His gaze immediately drops.

“I-I… I have a high sensitivity to the cold…”

“Ths is surely more than that! Have you been to a medic?”

“No, I’ll be quite alright--”

“You’re pale too, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine!” he can’t help but raise his voice a bit. And he knows the moment he does he’s made a mistake.

“...you’re a cat, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m--!”

“We don’t serve cats here.”

“I said I’m not I’m just--” Looking up at the employee is a mistake, because the cold accusation halts his protests. His muscles feel stiff, and for once, it’s not because of the curse.

[ooc;; this is so long… only because there’s like a conversation and a hella lot of dialogue I HOPE THIS IS OKAY THOUGH!]

[QUAN FUU]

Fingertips, twisted and scarred, tightened into a painful fist. Swollen knuckles, the results of hours spent with brush and hand, wrapped thankfully around a mug of steaming drink. For the majority of the morning, trapped in a sunless studio, his teacher had forced him into a painting frenzy. If Quan Fuu saw one additional bowl of fruit before his next life, he might have tossed it at the sunset. The left hand, torn by the embrace of a tiger, found relief in radiant heat. “Hm.” Blue-grey eyes blinked away a burning sensation as he drained the dainty cup with a single slurp. Perched upon the tiny seat awkwardly, shoulders jabbed into by twisted wood, he stared at those alarmed by his rudeness. “What.” As the chatter went on behind him, talking to that funny white beanpole, the brunette ignored it at first. Not his problem. Guy could just buy some gloves and the waiter could be less clumsy.

As the chatter continued, tension raising, Quan found himself staring at his open cup with tightened jaw. Memories of a tiny little dark-haired girl, treated worse than cow manure, appeared in his mind. Stomach grumbled with the urge to order something—and maybe get that clucking hen to shut up. Sandals, worn and tied together with yarn, tip toed towards the counter. Broad shoulders lifted. Deformed hand, shaped like the three legs of a legendary raven, laid against a hidden object beneath robes streaked with some unknown dark red substance. “Hey.” The tiny cup slammed down on the counter. Blue eyes lifted to the waiter. “Shut up.” A few more coins necessary sprinkled on the counter. “You’re not serving anyone right now.” Bills joined them.

Staring at the menu, assaulted by choice, the man shrugged. “Something hot. “For his muscles and scars, he could see the wrong conclusions in those faces around him. The fear. For once, the dog without bite didn’t mind. Tea splashed into his cup from shaking hands and steaming kettle. Fingers wrapped around the cup and he slid it across to Ichirou. “Here.” A shrug. “Sorry it tastes like shit..” Leaning across the counter, munching on a hunk of bread left on a nearby plate, Quan raised an eyebrow at the server.

To be honest, if called out, he’d just leave. Little chicken did not need to know that. Moron.

[ICHIROU YUKISHIMA]

If worse gets to the worst, he'll leave. That's that Ichirou tells himself as he watches a tirade of insults build up in the employee's face, ready to spill and run him through. But a cup slams into his vision first, and Ichirou's gaze is snatched by the intruding stranger. He can't help but linger on the dark red stains, then the scars and the state of the man's hand, but his words have been caught in his throat for awhile and they aren't about to spill over now. Especially when it seems like he's being... helped.

The waiter, meanwhile, looks a bit pale himself. Not as pale as Ichirou, maybe, but still. Stuttering out a "Right away, sir," he's scampering off leaving the two of them behind. It looks like... he'll be allowed to stay here for now. There's still some eyes on him, but the normal chatter of a food place starts up again soon enough. Maybe some of that chatter is now about him, but Ichirou doesn't care about that at least.

"No, it's fine..." he replies. He takes a delicate sip, leftover from being nobility perhaps, but even such a small amount does wonders to calm him. "It's good tea." He says no more while draining the cup, little by little. Normally he is not such a quick drinker, but nothing else comes to mind to fill the sudden space. Faced with an empty cup once more though, he knows he should say something else. Words of thanks maybe, because defense is the last thing he expects of... well, anyone actually.

"You're a bit strange," is what comes out instead. "...I expected to get run out."

QUAN FUU

[QUAN FUU]

A deep rumble follows the obedience. “Thanks.” For a moment, reveling in the silence, Quan Fuu took a deep breath of warm diner air and the contrasting scent of low-grade tea. The sound of sandals on tile faded as the kitchen doors swung shut. Guy looks like he saw a demon. Weirdo. “Huh.” Finger dropped away from the side of his stained robes and the ever-so-threatening paintbrush that lurked beneath the fabric. One long finger, calloused by days out in a field, wraps through a thick and hundred-time resewn belt loop.

With his cup gone, waiting for a refill, Quan reached lazily across the countertop. An equally dainty cup, this time covered in cheery little blue birds, looked miniscule between fingers made to crack bone and slit throats. Hunkering forward, twisting himself onto the stool, the apprentice turned with a singular nod. The words he responded to were unspoken. “You are welcome.” In such close proximity, the smell of paint became cloying and apparent. Not being a fan of tea, preferring straight stream water, Quan twisted the cup on one fingertip. “Only thing they got here, beanpole.”Staring at his own clean cup, he reached for the kettle. “Tea.” Caramel liquid poured into the cup with a sloppy set of splashes.

The insults drew a slow bear-like shrug from the man perched like a doll at a tea party. “Maybe.” Moments later, ignoring the last statement, he continued with a slight Cheshire grin. “At least I’m not blue.” Stomach grumbled deep within his chest as he turned towards the window. Moments later, staring at the cursed, he seemed to stare into the past. “That's stupid. Money is money.” Kicking out a paying customer, whether they were cursed or haughty ass noble, was like dumping groceries in the garbage.

Everybody had their kinks.
Nobody was perfect.
Even if they weren’t blue.

[ICHIROU YUKISHIMA]

Ichirou isn't used to people defending him. And he's not used to having extensive conversations with anyone but one person, really. And this man is not that one person. So his gaze is cast downwards, at his steaming cup of tea.

Perhaps he's gotten more expressive over the years though, because a response to his unvoiced gratitude comes anyways. This actually makes Ichirou look up. "Oh... yes." He pauses. "Thank you." A little out of order, but at least he said it.

He watches the man pour more tea into his cup next, and he's tempted to act on the immediate thought of "Do you need help?" as it sloshes around. Serving tea is a delicate and careful practice, and his wrist still aches from the hours of practice he was forced to endure in the name of fine hosting. But Ichirou is accustomed to keeping to himself, and keeping his thoughts to himself as well. His yellow eyes only flick from the cup to the stranger, then back to the tabletop.

"Maybe. At least I'm not blue."

Ichirou laughs on instinct, although as if he's shocked with himself he cuts it off and awkwardly stops. He tries to throw on a smile though in return, albeit a bit forced due to embarrassment. "Yes, I'd be... concerned if you were." The distaste the man expresses is familiar, relatable even, just generally not from other people. Ichirou though, has long since stopped thinking too deeply about it.

"It's how it is. I've gotten used to it." Kind of. The white-haired man frowns, then sips his tea. Unwilling to allow the conversation to flow in that direction any farther, the distinct smell of ink and paint wafts through the air. Or rather, he remembers it's there as he'd noticed earlier.

"You paint." He eyes the misleading red splotches on the other's clothes.

QUAN FUU

[QUAN FUU]

Ignoring the shy little hen beside him, or his fascination with tea, Quan rose his gaze to survey the diner at large. Blue eyes, sapphires set in calloused holding. The brunette man, wondering where all these city men lost their manners, responded to gratitude with a shrug and curt sentence. “It’s fine. No big deal.” All it took was for him to look frightening. All the stupid birds strutting about, chest filled with air, did not seem so stupid for their strutting now. Cup jerked in raven-like hand as Quan lifted it to his lips with a grimace and frown. Little care was spared as drops splattered down his front. Painting smocks, regardless of name, were no more ruined for a stain of tea, coffee, or mud.

Unlike some, no animosity exists in those words and just something matter of fact. His beloved turned into a savage predator. One of his best friends, mistaking his box for a luncheon box, was a cicada. An ugly cicada. “Guess so. Not meant to be blue.” Gaze flickered from porcelain pale skin to azure lips. Wonder if they bottle it. Good for winter scenes. Brow rose in a question. A noisy slurp came from flower-embossed porcelain. “Need a doctor?” Fingers tightened around the stem of the cup as he settled it down. Wonder how much the morons got paid to paint these stupid flowers. City folks are weird. Quan, spun it listlessly on its bottom.

“Guess you’d got to. Good it’s not an ugly blue.” When he had first started tutelage with his teacher, knowing naught but the different colors of cow and hearth, his word had exploded with color. The new shade of death blue was a different one for the palette. Following his gaze to his stains, where red clung with the tenacity of a tick, the man turned to Ichirou with a flat free of expression. “Wrong.” A pause of three heartbeats. “I kill people.” No one could say he didn’t have a sense of humor.