( He's a lifetime away from being the street orphan who trusted few and ran from the dogs, who scrounged from the vegetable scraps, the ones the dogs haunted last, and ate what he could in fistfuls and tucked away moments, glad for the warmth. glad for anything not yet rotten, that filled the pit in his stomach to fuel the escape, yet again, from the dogs.

he can remember being small only as that, and the day it ended, with a fresh, hot bun in hand and scarfed down so fast he doesn't recall anything about what it tasted like, only the heat. jiang fengmian, for all his faults, was also a man of many strengths and kindnesses. just... not enough to offset the harm visited to his family, his lack of clarity that... well.

speak not ill of the dead. honour them, as they should be honoured. )

It's rice, mostly, and anything else you feel like adding. Some chicken? From the curry, I think, and some sliced scallion.

( work with me here it now exists for at least this one thread laksdjf

he nudges the bowl closer to her, along with a spoon, and chopsticks. )

Fingers work too, ( said offhand, one more way to consume ) but the heat can be a bother.