Munch. Munch.
The scent of flour and ash lingered in the air, curling around the small room like smoke from a dying fire. It clung to his clothes, his skin, his breath.
Arcose sat stiffly at the wooden table, a bowl of porridge in front of him. It was warm—uncomfortably so. Or maybe it wasn't the food. Maybe it was the feeling of being here, surrounded by people eating quietly, like a family.
Only, they weren't a family. Not his.
Across the table sat the old man, silent and stoic, chewing methodically. Next to him, Vivian hummed to herself between bites, legs swinging beneath the chair, her violet hair catching the morning light like spilled ink.
Arcose looked down.
He wasn't used to eating with others. He wasn't used to warmth, or kindness, or second chances.
He wasn't used to being seen.
Earlier That Morning
After their brief talk by the window, Arcose had tried to leave.
"I suppose I should go," he'd said, voice soft and uncertain. "I've caused enough trouble."
But what he really meant was: This is too good. Too kind. And things like this don't last for boys like me.
He turned to go, already bracing for the cold that waited beyond the door. But before he could take another step, Vivian's voice caught him.
"Haloa is coming soon," she said. "You should stay. At least until then. I'm sure Grandpa will want that too."
Her words hit him harder than he expected. Haloa… A festival he'd only ever watched from the alley shadows, too filthy and hungry to dream of celebrating it himself.
Joy flickered inside him—brief, naive.
Then it vanished. He knew better. Her grandfather wouldn't allow it. He'd already been given more than a slum rat like him deserved. A bed. Soup. A place to not die.
Poor girl... she isn't too bad, I guess, but… whatever. The thought was sharper than he intended, but it dulled the ache.
"I'll go ask him!" Vivian shouted, already running out the door like a spark dancing across dry wood.
Arcose followed. Not out of hope. Hope was a cruel thing in the slums.
He followed out of something quieter. Something like longing.
The old man was in the yard, tending to a bonsai tree. It was small and gnarled, its branches twisted like the fingers of an old sorcerer. Arcose blinked. A man like that—with hands built for war—was treating the tree like it was sacred.
"Grandpa! Grandpa!"
"I'm listening," the man replied, without turning.
Old man… acting all cool and shit, Arcose thought with a half-scowl.
Vivian rushed forward. "Can Arcose stay with us until Haloa? Please? Please? It's always just us—and it's lonely. It would be nice to have someone else to celebrate with. Right, Arcose?"
He didn't answer. He didn't know how.
The old man finally turned to face him. His eyes met Arcose's—and there was no softness in them. Only scrutiny. As if he were weighing the shape of Arcose's soul by the scars it carried.
Then he spoke.
"Are you comfortable staying with us for a few days, Arcose?"
Arcose hesitated. "I… I wouldn't want to trouble you."
"No. You wouldn't," the man said flatly.
Then he turned to Vivian. "And perhaps it has been a bit lonely, hasn't it, Vivi?"
Huh… that's it? Arcose blinked.
No way. That was too easy. There's got to be a catch. Maybe they're trying to fatten me up—for the slaughter. The cynical voice in his head sneered.
Vivian beamed. Her smile was like sunlight breaking through soot.
Now
Back at the table, Arcose stared at his half-eaten porridge. The food was plain. The air was thick with warmth, with the hiss of something cooking over fire.
It should have been ordinary.
But to him, it was a strange kind of magic.
He looked up—and for a moment, Vivian caught him. Her smile was small, soft. And for some reason, that made it worse.
He looked away.
Something in his chest tightened.
In the slums, kindness was a knife in the dark. You didn't trust it. You didn't believe it.
But here?
Here… he wasn't sure anymore.
He didn't know if he wanted to believe it.
Again with the ass-fuck philosophy… what the fuck is happening to meeee. A mental version of himself screamed inside his mind.