( Silence is fine; they're both staying close enough for companionship without words needing to be spoken, puzzling one another out one little revelation at a time. There's some tiny, tiny little familiar thing about him she can't place, but she's assuming it's his accent. He reminds her of Genji. (Actually it's his eyebrows, too.)

Also, Hanzo, that's a lie. You have One Whole Friend and she's right next to you!! )

I remember hearing about the fried chicken; what sort of cake is it? Vanilla, chocolate, or something special? I was in the desert, and my friend wrote to me of the snow amongst other things; when I was very little I mostly just remember playing in the snow in the family cabin in the Alps. I missed the cold, and the hot chocolate, and the cloves and cinnamon in the air. The little stalls selling handmade ornaments and decorations, and the mulled wine... It was very special, all lit up. Very warm and cozy. Decorating trees and putting candles in the windows was always my favorite part.

He was in the Himalayas, with the Omnic monks. He told me of their reverence for the cold and the snow no matter how dangerous it was to their systems, and how they had begun to decorate their homes and how much they loved yellows and oranges and bright blues. And of a planned pilgrimage to the nearby hill station Mussoorie to help restore their little temples. I'm afraid he didn't write of Japan... but let's see...

( She's thinking back some years, to little conversations she'd managed to eke out of him during the worse throes of his recovery. )

I've known him for quite some time now, but when we spoke of Japan, it was always little bits and pieces. He'd undergone multiple surgeries in my care, and he was quite reclusive to begin with. He was very angry and in a lot of pain. But little by little, he'd share when asked. Mostly he just listened to me prattle on. Much as you are, now.

( She was teasing with that; it's not as though he isn't contributing to the conversation; she is just used to filling silences. )