Re: gotham russian tea room; loren & jules
He tried everything. Small bites and closed eyes, savoring and like there was prayer in each bite of food, in the texture on tongue and the grit against teeth. Food, and it wasn't like music, but it was a near thing. His fingers itched for ivory in a way that they didn't itch for spices and herbs, but the latter was satisfying in a way that was safety, not transcendence.
"I'm not afraid," he said, truth as he looked up from another dip of fingers into the soup, which he liked best from the selection before him.
"I was never afraid. I didn't like it. I didn't want blood spilled because of me. Death in threes, love, and all on my head. I don't want death." He took his own tea then, sipped. "But you aren't going to hurt me. You were never going to hurt me."
Simplicity, and maybe that was home. Sweet South and quiet green, and he wasn't cities and violence and alerts on highways on the way home. His life was run on bells. They sounded for prayer, for meals, for song. Wake and sleep, and Loren enjoyed the stillness. He wasn't afraid, because he didn't fear after.
But he was not made for violence. "You liked me because I was good. You liked that other little girl because she was. Why are you surprised I didn't like what you did, when you liked me because I wouldn't?" His smile turned earth, knowing in the pale. "Well, that's rather not all you liked, is it?"