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It took the better part of the evening to traverse the city streets the entire way to Trollskull alley, but it's a familiar walk by now. The remaining daylight since arriving has been spent standing outside, not doing much of anything productive.
You hadn’t expected to be so nervous. What reason is there to be? People have come and gone through the manor’s doors every few minutes since you arrived (and firmly placed yourself against the stone wall of a building nearly half a block away). There shouldn’t be anything odd about another miscellaneous citizen wandering in to gawk at the revitalized tavern on it’s grand opening day. This isn’t anything you haven’t done a dozen times before.
This is, however, the first time you’ve received an invitation. If you don’t go inside, what will you have to say for yourself when you sit in front of pen and paper tomorrow?
Nothing good, that’s what.
With an almost resigned sigh you march your way inside, doing your best to look nonchalant, if a bit curious.
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After watching the foot traffic in and out of the manor for so long, you would had guessed there would be more people still inside. There are only a handful of patrons left on the main floor. All of them look wrapped up in conversation over by the hearth now that the evening has grown cold, though there are dishes left behind all over the room from the crowd that was drawn in around dinner time. Maybe there are people upstairs as well.
His friends, from those you can see, are all either busy, plastered, or otherwise occupied with another guest. The drunken noble you have grown to dislike through indirect means gives you a dramatic welcoming gesture before quickly getting back to the woman on his arm. The bird and the elven boy don’t seem to notice, absorbed into some board game in the far corner. You don’t see the woman. It’s a pity, you actually like her.
You hear the clink of glass as a familiar green-tinted hand comes into view from behind the bar, grabbing empty cups and abandoned platters of food before disappearing around the corner again.
Ah.
You cautiously make your way over to the bar, peering around the corner to see that he's vanished into the kitchen, before you take a seat on one of the empty stools. You can hear him fussing about past the doorway, the clink and clatter of dishes dulled by the wall and the sound of conversation over your shoulder. Eventually he makes his way back out into the tavern, a blur of white and teal instead of the typical black. It makes sense he would want to dress up for such an event. You can’t help but think it's a poor choice of clothes if he’s doing the work of a bus boy in them, though.
You’re barely able to finish the thought before he stops short and catches your eyes, realizing someone new is there at the bar. It almost startles you for a split second, before you remember he won't recognize this face. He reaches to shake your hand with a soft smile and a polite welcome, and you take it. The dew collected on his cheeks and lashes catches the orange glow of the rushlights on the bartop. They must have run out of candles.
His wraps aren’t on today, and his hand is cold and soft without them. The tension you have been holding these last few hours softens with it as he welcomes you warmly, like you shouldn’t be a stranger in this place. You hardly are. He wouldn’t know that.
You give him your name—the one he doesn’t know—and his eyes catch the ink stains on your hand. You can’t help but notice the matching black blotches across his fingertips, mirrored against your own.
“It's a pleasure to have you here, my name is Jonas. Feel free to look around if you’re feeling adventurous, though I think my friends are a bit too occupied right now to be giving a tour…” He glances down to your hand with a small, knowing smile as he lets it go. “You must be a writer of some sort, like myself. We've both stained our fingers.”
You look down at your hand. This must have happened when you were speeding through your letters before leaving home to get here on time. Should have learned by now that rushing doesn’t do you or your penmanship any good. “--Ah, yes, I have a habit of it. I never notice I’ve made a mess of myself until it’s already dried, though. By that point it’s too much of a pain to wash off, so I just leave it.”
“I know a few tricks to get the stains out, maybe we can both sit and clean ourselves up, if you’d like. Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice, I would love some.”
He gives a short nod and a smile, whirling himself back through the doorway and into the kitchen again.
You sit at the bartop just outside that doorway, a small tangle of nerves forming in your stomach. You can just catch him out of the corner of your eye without looking directly, subtly watching as he gathers a pair of cups and starts the kettle. The idle conversation across the room hasn’t slowed, though the desire to eavesdrop has all but disappeared now. You look at your hands again, cursing yourself for forgetting to clean up before going out to do something so important, but you can’t help but feel almost thankful for your clumsiness tonight. It seems like it was the perfect conversation starter, you barely had to put in any effort. So much for rehearsing your hellos.
It takes less time than you would have expected for him to come back with a steaming mug in each hand. You can see now that he has that bracelet—your bracelet—on his wrist, his spell focus wound tightly around the other. The beads click and chime lightly against the ceramic cups as he sets them down on the bar in front of you. You forget to fight the smile that creeps onto your face.
“These are still steeping, but once they’re done I’ll cool it off a bit for you, if you want.” He keeps walking after setting them down, rounding the bar and taking a seat next to yours.
“That’s alright, I could use something to warm myself back up.” You slide one of them his way as he adjusts himself in the chair. You wonder if he would ever show you how he ties all those knots in his belt cords.
“It is a bit cold outside for this time of year, I think it contributed to how many people were popping in today to warm themselves. We’ve had a steady flow of people coming in for most of the day." He finishes resettling the cloth on his lap, and makes a feeble attempt at tucking the loose hair from his bun behind his ears. His hair is a mess, floating around like it usually does when he isn't trying to tame it. The tips of his fingers aren't as icy white as they were the last time you got this close. You snap your eyes back to his face when he speaks again. "It was nice to see people so excited the tavern is back open, but I’m glad things have calmed down a bit. I’m not used to co-hosting such a crowd. You came in at the perfect time, I think.”
“I think so, too. I’m not much for rambunctious crowds. This is just fine for me.” You wrap your hands around your cup for a moment to warm your fingers.
Jonas peeks down into his own tea, swirling it around with a curt movement of his hand. “Neither am I, but it hasn’t been so bad… I think these are about ready!”
You slide your mug towards him a bit and watch as he pulls out the little cloth tea bags, letting them drip for a few moments before setting them on the table. He slides your mug back to where it was in front of you with a smile.
“Ready for the magic to happen?”
“Always.”
He touches a finger to one of the tea bags, and the steam dissipates as he picks it up, taking your hand off the table at the same time. He freezes almost immediately afterwards. You don’t miss the tinge of purple on his ears. As if on cue, there is a gentle roll of thunder outside. You can’t recall when it started raining.
“I’m sorry, that was a little abrupt of me. Is this alright? I could just show you..”
“It’s fine, I don’t mind. You’re probably faster at it than me anyway.” You lift your cup with your free hand, taking a sip of tea to hide your face before your smile becomes too obvious. You forget that it hasn’t cooled, though, and scald your lip before you can even taste it. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to catch on.
He nods politely and goes back to your hand, gently scrubbing at the stains with the damp tea bag. He glides into explaining how it works, the oils from the leaves help to pull out the ink, but you’re a little too transfixed on the sensation to absorb any of it. Between the warmth of the tea, the soft rain, and his company, you could fall asleep right in your chair.
You spend the next few hours talking idly about nothing in particular, as he finishes cleaning your hands and then works at his own. Three plates of food and an unhealthy amount of tea for such a late hour seem to disappear between the two of you over the course of the night. The white noise of other conversations die down dramatically as most of the other patrons bravely rush home through the storm.
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Eventually the rain stops, and the yawns interrupting both of your sentences become an obvious enough signal that the night is drawing to a close.
You step out onto the porch of Trollskull Manor as he follows behind you, pulling the door most of the way closed. The soft chatter of his odd friends and the two or three remaining guests barely filters out after you. The night has grown late and the rain clouds have passed, leaving a smear of stars visible in the sky. The city is nearly silent, apart from the water that drips from the roof to the soaked street below.
“Thank you again for the tea and the help. I’ll have to remember that trick for next time. I drink enough tea on my own to be able to keep my hands spotless if I keep it up.”
“It was my pleasure, sir.” He gives a slight bow, loose hair from his long-disheveled bun falling across his face, “I’m happy to have helped. I hope that you visit here again sometime soon, you’re very pleasant company.”
You lift your hand slightly to coax him out of his bow. It feels too formal and out of place for how long you’ve known each other, in reality. “Oh, please, you don’t have to call me sir. We’re friends, aren’t we?” He rights himself, uselessly tucking the stray hair behind an ear. It floats up and out of place as soon as he removes his hand.
“What shall I call you, then?”
You smile, gently letting go of his hand and lowering your voice as you lean in toward his ear. If you could pluck a more perfect moment out of the sky, it might bite you.
“Usually my friends call me Corbeau.”