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“It’s a Chiss delicacy,” Thrawn claimed.
Reluctantly, Eli poked his head out from under his insulated Imperial-issue parka and glared at the cup Thrawn was offering him. Firelight flickered over Thrawn’s skin, casting strange shadows over his face and making his expression unreadable.
“Didn’t you just dig up a bunch of local plants to make that, sir?” Eli asked.
Thrawn nodded, still holding the cup out.
“How exactly is it a Chiss delicacy, then?” Eli asked. “We’re nowhere near Chiss space.”
“We’re on a snowy, oxygen-rich planet which suffered a rapid-onset Ice Age within the last million years,” Thrawn said. “The atmosphere’s chemical makeup is strikingly similar to Csilla. Naturally, the plant-life is similar as well.”
“Oh, naturally,” Eli grumbled. He had to extricate his hands from the parka to take the cup, and he couldn’t help but scowl as he did so, cold wind striking his knuckles and wrists. The cup, at least, was warm enough to sting his palms and balance out the wind.
Inside the cup, Thrawn’s strange potion swirled, a rich, dark brown the same color as Eli’s eyes. He stared into it — took a sniff. Slightly bitter, mostly sweet.
“It’s for drinking, not for sniffing,” said Thrawn, stoking the fire with a delicate flick of his wrist.
Eli resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped.
“How does it taste?” asked Thrawn. He didn’t glance Eli’s way, but his tone was a little odd, a little stilted.
“Ah, not sure,” said Eli. He took another sip. “The first one burnt my taste buds off.”
Thrawn shot him a concerned look. It fractured into something quieter, less open, as Eli drank.
“It tastes good,” he admitted finally, licking a stray drop off his bottom lip. Thrawn’s eyes darkened, the glow turning a deeper shade of crimson.
“Good,” he said flatly.
“What's it called?” asked Eli.
Thrawn turned back to the fire, doggedly poking at its embers with a long, narrow stick. “We call it h’ot ch’ocolate,” he said.
“Hot chocolate,” Eli said, trying the foreign words out.
“Almost,” said Thrawn approvingly. “H’ot ch’ocolate.”
Eli didn’t try again. He took another, longer drink, letting the h’ot ch’ocolate rest on his tongue, savoring the taste before he swallowed. “You’re not gonna have any?” he asked Thrawn.
Thrawn shook his head.
“You didn’t make enough for two?” Eli asked. Then, eyes narrowing, “Or there weren’t enough ingredients?”
“Neither,” said Thrawn. “I simply don’t like ch’ocolate.”
Eli studied him, trying to figure out if he was lying. It seemed like the type of lie Thrawn would tell — he wouldn’t want his subordinates to feel guilty for enjoying a little pleasure, especially not when they were stranded on a godforsaken blizzard planet waiting for their rescue shuttle to come. But it also seemed like the type of drink Thrawn really would dislike — too thick, too sweet, almost childishly comforting. Eli stared down into the half-empty cup.
“Here,” he said, standing up. He pulled his parka tight around him as he walked the few steps to Thrawn’s side and sat beside him, a little too close for comfort, their thighs touching. Normally, he knew, Thrawn would politely move away. And normally, Eli would jump back too, his face turning red at the accidental touch. But today they were both a little too cold to care.
Thrawn lifted a hand, his long fingers splaying open, and then he hesitated. Eli met him halfway, pressing the cup into Thrawn’s waiting palm. Thrawn looked down into the cup, studying the h’ot ch’ocolate the same way Eli had, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes strangely distant.
He took a sip, his lips parting over the rim of the cup on the exact same spot Eli had drank from. He handed the cup back at once, not even glancing Eli’s way. His eyes were focused on the fire again.
“Thank you, Ensign,” he said softly.
“No problem,” Eli said.
Ten Years Later
“Are you going to Commodore Mak’ro’s wedding this weekend?” Vah’nya asked. “He and his partner made a gigantic batch of the traditional engagement drink.”
Eli stopped, his fingers hovering over his questis, his mind freezing.
Traditional engagement drink. Now that he knew Cheunh, he could translate those words without problem. But before…
“Did you just say h’ot ch’ocolate?” asked Eli weakly.
Vah’nya gave him a curious look and tilted her head to the side a little. “Yes,” she said. “Why?”
Eli thought he might be sick. He rubbed his cheek, trying to ignore the sudden surge of heat to his face. “Is it … ever drunk in non-engagement settings?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Vah’nya, and Eli relaxed at once, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s one of the most popular drinks on Csilla, after all. Friends and family members offer it to each other all the time.”
“Ah,” said Eli, relaxing even more. Oblivious, Vah’nya turned back to her own questis.
“It only becomes an engagement drink when two people drink from the same cup,” she said cheerfully.
“Ah,” said Eli, less relaxed again.