Re: log: adrian and ren - in the cottage
Before, the shed had been all there was, really. The expansion of the case had left behind a lot more space and a more comfortable space to live. For lack of a better word, it felt appropriately...witchy in here. Add some drying herbs to the ceiling and the effect would be complete, nevermind that it was all a completely magical landscape.
Adrian pulled the howling kettle from atop the stove, which cooled and died away almost instantly. It had a comforting little red tea cozy on it. "I brought a few kinds of black tea and some herbals. Do you like irish breakfast?" He wasn't nervous. He wasn't.
He pulled a pair of thick mugs down from the cabinet and set them on the worn table. "It is nice," he said, looking up at Ren. "I'm lucky to have good friends." The bitterness behind that caught in his throat a little. He should be grateful to Newt. He was grateful to him.
What was different now was a familiar difference. Adrian now, Adrian as he was, split off into pieces, was quieter, more serious, more circumspect. He had a brittle, serious quality, while the merged version had been so much easier to smile. This was the Adrian that had been when they first met each other, before Misha had done such good work putting him back together again. That hadn't lasted, which wasn't Misha's fault, and also was probably impermanent. To his mind, sorting out the problems in his head was an inevitability. It was part of getting out of here.
"I'm okay," he said, picking up a box of teabags. They stood out, branded and ordinary artifacts of the ordinary world outside the case. "I do seem to keep upsetting people," he said, one eyelid flickering down. When Ren said he missed him, he looked up again. He was pouring the hot water, but he pulled back just in time to avoid pouring onto the countertop, and he smiled a little. "And I missed you."
He settled the kettle on a cork trivet, reaching for the other boxes. His head fell back, and he huffed a breath of air. "God. Me too." Glad to be out. Glad to be away from that place. Glad to be away from the cold, the broken glass, the needles of it all, the humming vibration of a dozen shrieking voices and the fans, the rushing ventilation, the horde of death grasping his feet.
He fingertips stuttered a little, and he leaned on the countertop. "I'm not what I was, Ren." He looked at him over his outstretched arm, soft, shadowed eyelashes. "I'm not very fun."