#hairoween

“Well?”

Poppy is looking at him with that look. The “I’m trying to respect your boundaries and not heap expectations on you that this will go perfectly and you’ll absolutely love it and when you don’t I’m going to pretend it’s fine but it’s actually going to be incredibly disappointing and I’ll spend a yet undetermined amount of sleepless nights over fixating on what went wrong until my exhausted brain comes up with some hair brain scheme to make it better and end up with something on fire.” look.

It’s a very distinctive look.

He’s hesitant. It’s not that he’s got anything against the Bergans… Ok so it’s not like he has anything against Bridget, who he knows without any doubt would never do anything to hurt Poppy, and is royalty herself with power and influence, and the filter through which most Bergans have to go through to get to Poppy. So it’s not like he thinks she’d poison Poppy in any way with Bergan food. He’s just not particularly interested in seeking out anything about them ever at all in any way shape or form.

But, Poppy did say the drink reminded her of him, and he… want’s to know what that means.

Poppy had a few jars of the stuff, but apparently it came in a dried form that was steeped like tea, though King Gristle had vehemently denied giving them some of the powder, claiming they didn’t have a way to “brew it right” yet and that he had his best metal workers on the projects. The drink is dark, and…. It does smell a lot. Not badly though. Of something pleasant, and savory, and a bit like smoke but not choking, that had spread through the bunker as she warmed it over his little wood stove. With practiced ease Branch ignores Poppy’s gradually intensifying vibrating and breaths in the aroma deep, trying to determine if his watering mouth is a good thing or not, if the smell is just pleasant or could possibly be palatable. The heat of the mug is lovely in his hands, and the liquid is the same temperature as the glass, and the familiarity of it to tea helps a little.

After another deep breath, as much to sniff it again as to brace himself, he takes a sip through clenched teeth.

Bitter hits first, far more than any tea he’s ever had. Far more so than the smell could convey. The acridness strips the inside of his mouth, and he swallows immediately and coughs a little, tries to work spit back into his mouth. The warmth spreads through him immediately, like a good rich broth, and as the bitterness fades a dark nuttiness, like the burnt bits off a campfire marshmallow, takes it place. His breath tastes of the same pleasant smokiness, and he immediately finds himself going back for another sip.

Poppy squeals, entirely to loud and close to his ear, and he smiles behind the mug, happy to please her, wondering what about this drink, the warm or the blunt punch of flavor, the dark elusive smoke or addictive bite of caffeine, she saw in him as well.

Mood lifted by the pleasant surprise, he smacks his lips appreciatively and sets the mug down, near half gone, and gives her a shrug of acknowledgment.

“Ok, ok-”

“Good?”

He pauses, for dramatic effect if nothing, even though she’s already guessed by his reaction and is literally hopping in place as she leans on his table.

“Yes. Cofee is good.”

A full out scream rattles the glassware and hanging pans, but before anything can topple she’s back down to an excited squeal, a litany of “I told you so”s and “I knew it”s counterpointing her excited bouncing and pirouettes. He thinks, maybe, she’s about to burst into song, and tips his chair back at an angle to make it easier to get dragged around if she’s of a mood. But instead, after a moment, in which he takes several more nearly compulsive sips, she pushes the other little crockery jars his way.

He likes this stuff a lot, and doesn’t care much for the idea of what’s in the jars. Dandelion milk would probably be nice, if he wanted the bitterness to go creamy, like a savory stew. Maybe milkweed for something less overtly tart, but the stuff the Bergan’s called milk was hard to keep, and while it tasted very good and fatty, made Branch’s stomach ache.

The other stuff, sugar, was supposed to make things sweet. Branch liked his preserves and honey, but could see the appeal of something that made sweet without changing the taste. The stuff was all the rage in the village right now, especially with Cooper’s cupcake business and the Party Punch makers. Branch simply hadn’t had opportunity convenient enough to entice him, and Poppy furiously stabbing at the quartz like crystals, the size of a single die and just small enough to be dangerous to stab at, with one of his good knives before he could drag out his pestle did not endear it to him at all. He doesn’t like the look of it, and the saccharine smell coming off the freshly ground powder makes his nose tickle and mouth water in a not entirely good way.

Still, between a grumbley stomach all day and maybe chasing down some of the initial bite for some of the interesting notes of flavor with some sweet, the choice was easy.

Poppy bounces in her chair and takes a healthy slug of her own mixture, near equal parts of the Coffee to it’s appointed add ins, as well as a few spices off his rack and stirred with an entire sliver of vanilla. She was three cups in and had yet to drink the same combination twice, the only constant being it’s milk chocolate appearance and gaining a viscosity he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to have. He spoons in one heaping serving of the white powder into his cup, and after a second of hesitation, knowing to well it was probably to much but unable to resist her expectant look, he spoons in another. Topping it off with a bit more of the coffee to heat it back up and giving it a good stir, he goes for another swig.

“Ok, ok, ok, how’s that one?”

It’s…sweet.

It’s

They’ve started a scant fire in the middle of the Tree, most of them scattered through the branches in the hopes of blocking as much of the light as possible with strategic pulls and twisting of leaves. They aren’t allowed to have fire, but the nuts they were given have started to go rancid, and they have until morning to bake the rough cakes of nut meal and the sweetness to try and preserve some of them. He’s helping his grandma rake them off the hot stones with a stick and they smell like the color brown. His stomach is a knot of anxiety. If they’re caught with fire, they’ll be in so much trouble.

It’s

He’s ill, very ill, and grandma is using spoonfulls of the sweetness to try and get him to take down some of the scant bits of foul tasting herbs they’ve kept in secret at the base of the Tree. It’s bitter and sweet and he chokes and he burning up.

“Branch?”

It’s

Winter and they’re out of food. Winter is cold, but it’s not cold enough to sleep through this year. The sun is weak and the younger ones are crying out of hunger. They can’t ask for more. If they need more then the Chef might just take enough of them instead to make the food last longer. Everyone gets one spoonful of the sweetness a day, to keep their energy up. The babies get two and still cry. Sometimes Grandma gives him her spoon of sweetness and he’s still hungry, but he can’t say anything, because he knows she’s hungrier than she is.

It’s

A week before Trollstice and the Sou-chefs have ripped apart the tree. They used their fat, greasy fingers to pry open pods and dig around the roots, razing the tree for any food the Trolls might have stored back. When the Bergans are done, the village is given a veritable feast. A mountain of the sweetness on the little pedestal the Bergans use to supply their food. More of it than they could ever possibly eat. Even their water is tainted with the stuff. Fattening them up. Gut-loading them for the feast. Its so sweet, for so long, Branch starts purging on the third day. He’s hungry. He can’t stand it anymore. He’s so thirsty, but the water is sweet.

“Branch, are you alright?”

It’s

Grandma is dead. She’s dead and everyone keeps telling him it will be ok. It’s not ok, it’ll never be ok. One of the adults tries to ply him with a treat they make, the sweetness warmed over the fire until it turns golden brown and mixed with the fatty, creamy drink they get rarley. He’s only old enough to have gotten to try one or twice, and he loved it then. He throws it at them and stomps it into the dirt, so no one can eat it, suddenly angry that they are trying to buy his feelings with sweetness, as if it doesn’t matter that his grandma is dead, at least he has some caramels.

It’s

Days into freedom, and they still aren’t free. There’s no more Bergans, and without the Bergans, there’s no food. The King and a few of his closest aids put themselves first in line to try to scavenge. There’s some old rhymes that might help a bit, and some worn books more thread and bare glue than pictures from before the Tree was a prison, but it’s not enough to teach them to sustain. The grownups try anything green and every near edible looking thing they come across. Sometimes they’re fine, but more often then not the tasters get sick. A few die. They gathered as much of their food as they could and saved it in preparation, and the children get bits of dried fruit paste rolled with nutmeal and sweetness while the air stinks of purging. Even those who don’t eat the plants and try to live off the sun have gotten ill, and they come to realize it’s the sweetness leaving them. They drink as much water as their bellies can hold and dread when there’s no more to give the children. Branch watches and eats what doesn’t make the adults sick. The greenery tastes like nothing he’s ever had before, raw and bitter and alive, and he has to chase the taste away with his sweet rations to get rid of it.

It’s

A sudden wash of saliva as a nausea so bone deep as to be consuming rockets through his senses. Poppy is staring at him, hand half raised as if to touch him, and she looks worried, though he can’t imagine why. He tries to swallow. He wants to tell her it’s good, it’s fine, it tastes fine. She was so happy. It’s hard for him, specifically, to make her happy. He doesn’t understand her, she delights in the weirdest things. When he laughs, or smiles, or cracks a joke, or tries any numerous boring things that she does with other trolls all the time. It’s frustrating and never feels like he’s done enough. It’s hard to make her happy with him on purpose, so he should just tell her it’s good then not use the stuff again, just to make her happy. But when he tries to swallow he can’t, the muscles lock up with a click and refuse to move and

It’s

Making his mouth water, in that terrible way that lets him know that he’s not going to keep it down, and it’s happening soon, now if he’ll let it. There’s no cramping, no gag, just a sudden rush of fluid and he huffs through his nose and tries again to swallow.

His mug is clattering against the table with the force of his shaking hand, and he silences it by bringing the cup back up and makes as if to take another sip, spits the mouthful back into the cup and doesn’t look into the now murky foul he’s made of it. He works up a mouth full of spit, and that goes of the same way, and the relief is nearly immediate. The dizziness recedes as if it never was, and the nausea goes from an immediate threat to vague knowledge in the back of his throat. He sniffs once to clear his nose, and the world suddenly comes from screaming silence to bright clarity as Poppy yanks the mug from his hand.

She’s babbling, though he can’t quite make out the words yet, and some far away piece of him is screaming in frustration at himself as she dumps the mug in the sink and furiously scrubs the inside.

“-not for everyone really. I should have known better than to even offer, you hate sweet things.” Except he doesn’t. He likes the occasional knob of honeycomb or frosted treat why does everyone assume that? “Why don’t we just go back to square one?” She’s been moving the whole time, and she punctuates the question by slamming the mug just a little to hard on the table top and pouring another hot stream of pure coffee into it. “Square one was good right?” And she shoves the mug back into his hand.

She looks panicked, and Branch notices, in that vague, connected way, that the skin of said hand isn’t as bright as it was just a few moments ago. Under the sparse navy velvet of on his arms, the skin is a stark, stone grey, and his brain understands that it makes sense, given the sudden numb adjacent exhaustion he feels.

His heart is pounding in a way that tells him he’s bordering on over caffeinated, and he’s distantly angry. He doesn’t really feel it, not yet, but he will, when he’s over tired and can’t sleep and hating himself for whatever the heck that was. Today had been good, it had started so well. What the heck was wrong with him?

He tries to force a small smile, and knows he fails with the way Poppy kinda flinches but doesn’t.

“Yeah, it was good.”

She smiles and sighs in relief, and he can’t just let it go.

“It was very nice of you, to bring this over while you had time.”

A very clear dismissal, and normally such things would slide right over her head, but maybe she’s a bit sensitive right now, because she does indeed hesitate where she’s half crouched into sitting back in her chair.

“I’ve always got time for my friends Branch.”

“And no doubt you’re also very busy.”

She hesitates again, and the far away anger is starting to bubble, build, compound. He wants to be left alone to fall apart. He wants to not be such an ass. But here he is. He expects her to double down, park a seat and insist on whatever activity will keep her underfoot. Maybe to keep an eye on him, because he’s such an awful actor she obviously knows somethings wrong and he can’t be trusted with his own emotions. Maybe it’s just sheer pigheaded stubbornness. Maybe she can’t take a hint for once and he’ll have to spell it out and be the bad guy when she leaves and not doubts tells all her friends what a terribly rude and awful person he is and they’ll all throw up their noses and talk over loud about how he’s no good and they always knew it and no one will hang out with him anymore and Poppy will give up on him and he’ll be all alone again and it will all be his fault and he’ll die here alone in the dark and no one will ever miss him and-

He’s broken from the stream of thoughts by her hand covering his own that’s hold the mug.

“I always have time for you.”

Her hand is soft, and warm, and very real in a way his body isn’t right now. Regardless of the core deep exhaustion suddenly draped over his shoulders, he finds it in him to actually smile, a little, at the overly earnest expression she’s giving.

“I know. Thank you.”

He pats the hand covering his before extracting it and letting her keep her appendage.

“But don’t you have a meeting with the recreational leaf pile building society this morning?” He sees the very moment she realizes that she does, in fact, have such a meeting, and very soon, eyes darting to the elevator and back to him with something like plaintive panic.

“I- shoot- yes I do. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I would totally stay and hang out but-”

“Queendom waits for nobody.”

He affects something like nonchalance, managing a weak salute with his mug as she races to the elevator. She grabs the lever, but hesitates before pulling.

“I’ll see you later?” The farewell lilts at the end in a question. He should lie and tell her yes. He could probably use the sunlight, and it would make her happy. It’s so hard for him to make her happy sometimes and it would be very easy. But it would also be a lie. He doesn’t feel like sunlight right now. He doesn’t feel like singing. And it had been such a good day too.

“Maybe.”

He holds it until the elevator passes through the ceiling, her waving all the while, before his shoulders slump. He finally takes a sip of his plain drink. It’s bitter, and quite lovely.