FIC: pheres dysseu, eating habits

[xihe]

 PHERES DYSSEU | 5.2 SWEEPS / 11 YEARS OLD

 

“So what do you actually eat? Not the filth around here, I hope,” he says. “Honestly. Who eats lizards? Half of the children here act like ferals.”

And then a moment later, exasperated: “- Pheres, look at me.”

Face flushing, you clasp your hands behind your back and turn to face your moirail. A thousand excuses are jostling at the top of your head, but those are all a little sma- a little paltry to say, when you were being rude. It’s not your fault, you’re tempted to say, because it’s only been a few seconds since you looked away, and already your eyes are trying to trail back to the top of the cart. It’s just…

It’s so high! If you were up there, no one could reach you, and no one could see you, and no one would even think to see you. And the look-outs right there. You never noticed it on the inside of the cart, though you’ve been inside half a dozen times now. Maybe it’s just a storage hole. Maybe…

… you could put so much food away up there, away from Bennue’s beak, away from Alsike’s complaints about risking bugs and Simoom’s veiled threats. It looks big. You could fit armfuls of apples, and an entire loaf of bread, and not have to worry about Bennue fussing because you’re eating too much of Sipara’s food, or Alsike figuring out how to feed you, or Simoom getting mad about stealing ever again. Because no one would even know it was up there!

You only realise you’re back to staring at the hutch when Rmeros clears his throat. “Pheres,” he says, flat, and oh, no.

If your face goes any warmer, you’ll die. “Ah. I’m sor- my apologies,” you say, clasping your hands in front of you now, and you shift to look at him, turning your whole body towards him. That’s the only way you’ll stop staring, you think, but the hutch is still there out of the corner of your eye, taunting you.

You beam and tilt your head to the side, so that your braids hide it from view entirely. A moment later, you dampen the smile to something less objectionable, because Rmeros is looking at you. “I was just thinking. I didn’t mean to be rude! Um.”

There’s no way around it. “.. what were you saying?” you say. Or you start to, because Rmeros clicks his tongue, rolls his eyes, and then grabs a hold of you.

Two meaty hands underneath your arms. It’s a wonder you don’t hiss at him: he doesn’t touch you, on average, and neither does anyone else except for Sipara and Alsike, and it’s all you can manage to do not to hiss and kick, because you don’t like it. There’s fingers digging into your ribcage. Your feet are off the ground.

But then there’s burning metal against the bare of your legs, and his hands are off of you, and you’re scrambling back before you can think twice. When you do, your sandalsthump down on metal, a hollow, echoing noise. He put you on the roof of the van. You didn’t even know he was that tall.

“There.”  When you peer down at him, he’s blank-faced. Your moirail has got a face like yours, so unlike everyone else at the hivestem, and for the first time, it strikes you how hard you could be to read, because his face is like stone. Small eyes, no ears to speak of: when his mouth is a line like this, just barely tugged down at the edges, you’re never certain of what you’re supposed to be seeing.

“Is this what’s been fascinating you? Don’t fall off,” he warns you.

“I won’t,” you promise, eager, and you’re halfway to the hutch before you remember he was talking to you in the first place. You slow down, turn on your heel, and return to the edge. The hutch is right there! But it’ll be there in a few minutes, too. “Um.” Should you thank him? He’s watching you, waiting, and - yes, you decide. He’s always on you about proper manners, and this is a thing that deserves manners, you’re pretty sure, even if he just grabbed you. If you’d been Sipara, you’d have gored him!

.. if you were Sipara, you wouldn’t have a moirail at all.

“Thank you!” You sit on the edge, prim, careful to keep your hand on the top. If you fall, it’s not exactly a big deal. You’ll just teleport down: this isn’t even a wink, this distance, for all that the ground seems impossibly far. You can still feel it. “What were you saying?”

“It’s irrelevant. Clearly.” He turns away, picking up his huskto- his laptop from the chair, and he’s halfway through the door of the van before he starts speaking again.

His voice drifts up to you from the hutch. You startle, then scramble over to that, pressing your face against the glass. “- come inside when you’re done.. staring at whatever you’re so fascinated with up there,” he says, tinny, “and we’ll cook something.”

“Something that’s actually food.”