stars bear witness

Although he has never found such pleasure in food, there is something cathartic in watching the Warrior of Light eat, Zenos finds.

It is a sight that is also strangely rare.

Each and every mealtime upon their vessel has the Warrior of Light ensuring that Zenos is fed. "What am I, a pet?" he cannot help but hiss out after an eerily silent, grim fortnight has passed upon the ship. Long ears flick back momentarily in confusion, so the blond carries on, "Have you bothered to eat, or do you always insist solely on sustaining others?"

And the Miqo'te smiles, and the conversation is done, the Eorzean champion's stomach still seemingly empty as he hands the blond a small pouch of food. Zenos is loathe to accept, but the gentle yet stern glimmer in jade eyes forces him to bite his tongue yet again. "I suppose you shall sit hungry?"

Something tenses in the Warrior's face, lashes trembling. It is but a moment. Zenos catches it regardless, forced to bite his tongue yet again as the other man retreats into himself as usual, eyes idly taking in the horizon. When Zenos can no longer deny his hunger, he eats. The Eorzean does not.

That is, not until Zenos catches a glimpse of the man later on, gingerly turning away rations offered by one of the crewmen. The Miqo'te reassures the sailor in favour of pulling out his own goods and quickly gnawing at jerky at the edge of the ship, perched upon a crate. In spotting this, Zenos attempts to call out. Why he catches the man's attention, he does not know- to point out the hypocrisy? The strangeness? He had always thought the Warrior of Light to somehow be the paragon of alliances and friendliness, but here he is, hiding away and gnawing on scraps like a kicked dog in the corner.

Zenos catches the man's eye. The Warrior of Light stiffens, and the food is immediately put away.

This happens every day.

So, Zenos stops calling it out. He shuts his mouth and pretends to have said nothing at all, his body tensing in frustration at the mere sight of the Eorzean champion holding a meal for himself.

I've been trapped out here for far too long, if watching him eat is what shall bring me reprieve.

It is only once that a memory flits back into his mind, staining his closed eyes with the image of his father's dining table laden with a multi-course meal for two; Fandaniel in that pathetic Yanxians body standing at the side, grin leering in sickening, yet dull delight; and brilliant green eyes, boring holes into his own from across the table, chin tensed in bitter, pained indignation.

He wonders, briefly, from where that pain had stemmed. His fingers itch to soothe it, to smooth out wrinkles and guide his dinner guest to eat. Back then, in the heart of his homeland, the Warrior of Light had not eaten with Zenos, either.

Then, the image is gone. He shrugs. It matters not. As long as he is alive by the time we dock, his habits are not my concern.

Zenos' lips curl downwards, displeased, as he eats alone yet again. They are indeed his concern; they are not, however, his business. He does not like that there is a difference.