(no subject)
Sweetmeats.
Fic. Gen. Namine, Zexion, and food. For linkthismemory
Every morning there's a lunch bag in her backpack, brown paper with the top rolled down, nondescript in every part. There's not even a bright sticker or anything, to keep it shut up; Zexion just twists the paper tight and puts it in her bag for her without being asked.
He's not demonstrative, really; this is just something of a routine. She gets a turkey sandwich with sprouts and lettuce and tomato and avocado and pepper jack cheese and an apple and some carrot sticks, or mushrooms with cheese and slices of bell peper and an orange and some brocolli (no dip), or sometimes veggie wraps, looking very adult and very bright when she pulls out everything to eventually eat.
Namine is still a quiet girl. Sedate, might be a good word for it; she doesn't eat a lot, although Zexion frowns just a little when she brings back leftovers and they all sort of disapprove of throwing away good food.
She's not really sure what to think of it, or how she feels about it, or whether she feels anything at all. It's... nice. To fit in with the other kids eating their lunches, even if she's a bit too shy to mill around the way they do or to shout and run around and use all that energy. She still wears a lot of white, even if she can choose other things right now; sometimes she feels bad being so drab and sometimes it's just comfortable, familiar, a taste of something that might be called home.
Sometimes when she really can't eat she gives away the leftovers on the way back to the apartment. There are always hungry people here and there, and the food is really good. It shouldn't go to waste, if she can't bring herself to eat it all.
She never sees them in the mornings, not him and not Lexaeus. Sometimes she comes in and Zexion is there, though. Not always, but he'll be in the kitchen starting dinner early, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his narrow back and impeccable posture visible through the kitchen door and Namine never knows what to say, then. Her footsteps soften and her shoulders bow on reflex, like a sapling weighted down by snow, listening to the sizzle of oil or water bubbling or the toc-toc of a knife on a cutting board or whatever it is that he's doing.
She wants to draw him. The spiky back of his head, his straight, stiff shoulders, as if standing the right way could stave off the yawning Nothing within as much as it could bear the weight of the difficult world without. Namine sees best when she draws, she looks closest then, that's how she works with the world, which is why she's afraid to ask him whether she can - Zexion doesn't like being too well known by too many people, and she'll call it that no matter if he says he can't like or dislike things at all. He doesn't really like being seen. He has more color than she does, but he keeps to the shadows anyway.
And he always knows she's there. Sometimes Namine could swear he reads her mind - or maybe it's just that she stands and gawks too long. "Mind your staring, Namine," and he can sound like such a pedant. "Drop your things and come and help me with this."
He's slicing vegetables, and there's butter melting, lifting spices in the pan he uses for stir fry. An onion is being sliced on the cutting board, Zexion staring distantly away from it into space, not a tear in evidence.
"Okay," she says, because he'll chastise her if she just goes and does it without saying anything back to him, and does as he says. Onions always irritate her eyes, she can never keep back the tears no matter how much she wants to. When she comes back to the kitchen he's still slicing it up dispassionately.
"How was your day?"
"Fine."
"Did you enjoy your lunch?" He pauses, holds a knife handle-out in her direction and inclines his head towards a the two yellow bell peppers sitting on the counter. They're beautiful, mellow gold and curved; Namine takes the knife and splits one of them open.
"I did. ...The dressing you put the vegetables in was really good." She takes out the innards of one pepper with the sweep of a knife, piling the vegetable curves and seeds up on the counter. "I ate it all." Not a lie today. Her eyes are stinging, it's that onion now, and she raises a hand and rubs at them with her knuckles.
The sound of his knife pauses. Namine doesn't look, occupied with faux tears.
The touch of his hand on her hair surprises her. Zexion so rarely seems inclined to reach out to anyone, except perhaps Lexaeus, and even then he's almost scarily self-contained, the effortlessly confident leader of the Organization of two. So it startles her when he touches her sometimes. Never badly or roughly or disrespectfully, but startling. She doesn't know what to do with that. What his angle is.
He strokes over her hair, once. "I don't know why you have to persist like that." He might be irritated, and Namine thinks that he is, even if he'd deny it before the sentence left her lips. "I rinsed this under water before I started cutting."
It's just, it must be, that her eyes are sensitive. Namine scrubs at them again and tries to smile.
Fic. Gen. Namine, Zexion, and food. For linkthismemory
Every morning there's a lunch bag in her backpack, brown paper with the top rolled down, nondescript in every part. There's not even a bright sticker or anything, to keep it shut up; Zexion just twists the paper tight and puts it in her bag for her without being asked.
He's not demonstrative, really; this is just something of a routine. She gets a turkey sandwich with sprouts and lettuce and tomato and avocado and pepper jack cheese and an apple and some carrot sticks, or mushrooms with cheese and slices of bell peper and an orange and some brocolli (no dip), or sometimes veggie wraps, looking very adult and very bright when she pulls out everything to eventually eat.
Namine is still a quiet girl. Sedate, might be a good word for it; she doesn't eat a lot, although Zexion frowns just a little when she brings back leftovers and they all sort of disapprove of throwing away good food.
She's not really sure what to think of it, or how she feels about it, or whether she feels anything at all. It's... nice. To fit in with the other kids eating their lunches, even if she's a bit too shy to mill around the way they do or to shout and run around and use all that energy. She still wears a lot of white, even if she can choose other things right now; sometimes she feels bad being so drab and sometimes it's just comfortable, familiar, a taste of something that might be called home.
Sometimes when she really can't eat she gives away the leftovers on the way back to the apartment. There are always hungry people here and there, and the food is really good. It shouldn't go to waste, if she can't bring herself to eat it all.
She never sees them in the mornings, not him and not Lexaeus. Sometimes she comes in and Zexion is there, though. Not always, but he'll be in the kitchen starting dinner early, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his narrow back and impeccable posture visible through the kitchen door and Namine never knows what to say, then. Her footsteps soften and her shoulders bow on reflex, like a sapling weighted down by snow, listening to the sizzle of oil or water bubbling or the toc-toc of a knife on a cutting board or whatever it is that he's doing.
She wants to draw him. The spiky back of his head, his straight, stiff shoulders, as if standing the right way could stave off the yawning Nothing within as much as it could bear the weight of the difficult world without. Namine sees best when she draws, she looks closest then, that's how she works with the world, which is why she's afraid to ask him whether she can - Zexion doesn't like being too well known by too many people, and she'll call it that no matter if he says he can't like or dislike things at all. He doesn't really like being seen. He has more color than she does, but he keeps to the shadows anyway.
And he always knows she's there. Sometimes Namine could swear he reads her mind - or maybe it's just that she stands and gawks too long. "Mind your staring, Namine," and he can sound like such a pedant. "Drop your things and come and help me with this."
He's slicing vegetables, and there's butter melting, lifting spices in the pan he uses for stir fry. An onion is being sliced on the cutting board, Zexion staring distantly away from it into space, not a tear in evidence.
"Okay," she says, because he'll chastise her if she just goes and does it without saying anything back to him, and does as he says. Onions always irritate her eyes, she can never keep back the tears no matter how much she wants to. When she comes back to the kitchen he's still slicing it up dispassionately.
"How was your day?"
"Fine."
"Did you enjoy your lunch?" He pauses, holds a knife handle-out in her direction and inclines his head towards a the two yellow bell peppers sitting on the counter. They're beautiful, mellow gold and curved; Namine takes the knife and splits one of them open.
"I did. ...The dressing you put the vegetables in was really good." She takes out the innards of one pepper with the sweep of a knife, piling the vegetable curves and seeds up on the counter. "I ate it all." Not a lie today. Her eyes are stinging, it's that onion now, and she raises a hand and rubs at them with her knuckles.
The sound of his knife pauses. Namine doesn't look, occupied with faux tears.
The touch of his hand on her hair surprises her. Zexion so rarely seems inclined to reach out to anyone, except perhaps Lexaeus, and even then he's almost scarily self-contained, the effortlessly confident leader of the Organization of two. So it startles her when he touches her sometimes. Never badly or roughly or disrespectfully, but startling. She doesn't know what to do with that. What his angle is.
He strokes over her hair, once. "I don't know why you have to persist like that." He might be irritated, and Namine thinks that he is, even if he'd deny it before the sentence left her lips. "I rinsed this under water before I started cutting."
It's just, it must be, that her eyes are sensitive. Namine scrubs at them again and tries to smile.