idontneedluck | OOM/IM: The Tea Workshop

OOM/IM: The Tea Workshop

Chirrut started with one plant.

One sapir tea plant, more of a little side project than anything else, to test the waters of gardening - it's been so long since the temple and its protected gardens were a part of his life.

That was a couple months ago.

After finding that he was crowding their rooms with plants, Chirrut slowly moved his operation to a new room provided by Bar - one with light from windows he's been told are large, and a watering system built in so he doesn't have to fret about the job being done. His sapir plants sit neatly in a row along their bench as he fusses with them, setting them up just so.

He's found he missed this.

He didn't think it was something he had been missing, before.

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"I thought half of them were mine," Baze calls back, clearly teasing again. He rolls up his sleeves, ending up elbow-deep in dirt and moss. "I'll be drinking half the tea they produce, in any event. I can't let you have all the fun."

Baze is a terrible liar. They both know all the plants are Chirrut's.

"In all seriousness, I don't mind helping out, but these plants are yours. And that's good! You need something to care for. I was tempted to get you a pet or two until you started planting."

"What would I do with a pet?" Chirrut laughs, even as he runs his fingers through the leaves of the latest plant, carefully checking it over. "All of its soulful looks would be lost on me, and I wouldn't be able to get the hair off my robes."

Baze could tell Chirrut that the larger man was planning on getting his smaller friend a cat, which he could name Kyber II. But Chirrut is in such a good mood, and the joke is in such poor taste, that Baze wisely keeps his mouth shut about that. He grins, instead.

"I can see you getting attached to an animal or two," Baze says, adding more moss to his soil mixture. "But maybe not as much as you are to the plants right now. Besides, if an animal dies, it's sad, but when a plant dies, it's not as bad, so maybe I shouldn't give you something to neglect."

Baze knows Chirrut would never neglect an animal; that'd just be rude. But the larger man can tease his smaller friend about theoretical pets all he wants. Except cats named Kyber II.

"Perhaps, maybe someday." Chirrut allows, remembering their very brief foray into the world of pet ownership. "This is enough for me, for now."

Once he's made his way down the row, he starts back up it again, turning each pot a precise fraction to the left. He doesn't want the leaves to burn with over-exposure, or stand neglected in the shadow of their brothers.

"It had better be, you've got a whole room devoted to it," Baze says, chuckling again. He adds another three bags to the bin, one of soil and two of moss, and then blends them together with the existing mixture. Then he wheels the now-full bin over to his friend. "Here we are, your majesty, your mossy soil. Do you want me to start bringing pots over?"

"Yes please," Chirrut loftily ignores the teasing (or accepts it as his due, take your pick), and waves a hand at the opposite side of the row he is working along. "I thought to put them over there - that way the younger plants have their own row, so I can tell which batch I am working with."

"Good idea, that way you can set up a rotation," Baze says, tamping down the urge to pull a prank on Chirrut and shuffle his plants around. Unlike the ice bath Baze gave him two days before while he was sleeping, that would have a significantly longer lasting impact--as long as it took to sort out the plants, anyway--and be eminently more frustrating.

Pity. It would have been a great prank, if Baze didn't have a conscience.

He leaves the bin where Chirrut can find it, and starts transplanting pots over to the table Chirrut indicated, whistling again.

"How many pots will we need? A hundred? Or not that many yet?"

"No, no - three or four plants will go to a pot, for now - not all of them will survive, so they will be thinned later."

Possibly.

Or possibly Chirrut will just pot up all of the more mature plants into individual pots later because he can't bear to let any die just because.

"It's a good thing these pots are big," Baze says, carting them over to the shelf two at a time. "The tea plants will grow to about two meters tall if you don't prune them. That's a lot of tea. Are you planning on keeping them a more reasonable size, or will you just let them all grow to be taller than you?"

Chirrut imagines such a future, and smiles.

"I had no thought to before, but there cannot anything wrong with that path. Imagine, a small forest of sapir plants."

Baze laughs, setting two more pots on the shelf. "You'll have a plantation yet," he says, grinning. "But you'll have to get a ladder to harvest the very tops. Poor Chirrut. Always so short. So hunched over in your old age."

"I will just get you to do it." Chirrut replies, innocence itself. "I will just sigh sadly and comment on how the leaves from the top of the trees taste better..."

"I... really should have seen that coming," Baze says, stymied. He crosses to the corner and picks up two more pots. "You manipulative bastard. That was your plan all along, wasn't it? You're only my friend because you want to put me to work!"

"Yes." Chirrut replies, calmly moving to pull out the tiny plants that need transplanting. "I befriended you as a child so that one day, after we had both died decades later, you could pick tea for me."

Baze sets his pots down on the shelf, cocking his head. "Damn, Chirrut. You really play the long game. Bravo," Baze says, and claps a few times.

He can't stand it. He breaks down into giggling, crosses to his friend, and loops Baze's arms around him for a brief cuddle. Then the larger man lets the smaller one get back to work, and returns to carting pots around.

Chirrut giggles, pleased that he amused Baze. It takes several trips to move all of the tiny plants from their shadehouse home to their new place on the long shelves, but it's pleasant work. He goes to bring over the bin of soil as well. He may have spent a fair majority of his life scrubbing stonework, but he doesn't want to do it now if he doesn't have to.

"I may have to move a plant or two back into our rooms - I find I miss having a plant to say good morning to."

Because, you know, he doesn't come down here and say good morning to these plants. Every morning. Before breakfast.

Baze chuckles again, crossing to the bin of soil, and digging his fingers into the soft, deliciously-scented earth. "Yes, and I can sing to them, too. Which will make them grow better? Ribald ballads, do you think? Or Guardian prayers?"

Chirrut would tease, ask for songs that aren't supposed to be sung in mixed company (or any company, if sober) - but Baze needs reassurance, not jokes.

"Guardian prayers." He replies, because he can't bear to think of Baze thinking he's not allowed them. "I know you remember them all."

Baze scoops some dirt up in his palm, and shakes it gently, so that the soil trickles through his fingers. "I do," he says quietly, his heart full and light at the same time. "I remember all of them. And so do you. You'll have to help me sing to the plants."

"Yes, as you wish." Chirrut agrees, knowing his grin is over-broad and ridiculous and not caring.
"We can start now - remember the one from the spring festival, blessing what little did manage to grow on Jedha?" He asks as he unhooks a scoop from the row of tools on the wall and starts distributing dirt into the pots Baze brought over. He starts the song in time to his movements, his voice clear and ringing in the smaller space.

Baze doesn't laugh, as much he wants to. Instead, he joins in joyfully, scooping dirt into the pots with his hands. The song is cheerful, and Baze's voice is as pure as spring water, deep and husky. He matches Chirrut's tenor with his own base, his song rising from deep within his chest. He prays for blessings on the squat, twisty trees, on the rare, poisonous deeku flowers, and the carnivorous plants, too.

It's a perfect song for the purpose.

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OOM/IM: The Tea Workshop

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