Stare at the food in your hand, the scraps, and you have to fight the urge to drool. It's really not much, some kind of dark rye and a slice of savory pork. You want it. You want it more than anything you've ever wanted in your life, you want it so badly it hurts. But that's...exactly it isn't it? Because you can bear it, because you know your limits, because you've done plenty with even less and you- if the two of you make it through this, if you survive at all, it won't be because your hunger was oh-so-slightly slaked by a bit of pig.
You have to jerkily lift your arm like a mechanical crane, swinging your hand over his lap, all but prying your fingers apart to let it fall. Eyes going back to your own diminished meal so you don't have to watch it vanish. The rats screech in protest, subsiding for a second as you ravenously rip into the half-loaf that's all you have left.
"Wh-"
"You're stronger than me," you say through a mouthful, fighting down the urge to snap at him, "Matters more that you can keep it up, keep from losing it. I'm already a scarecrow. I need less anyway."
It's not really even a lie either but you hope he doesn't offer it back. You don't think you can part with it a second time. You don't think you can keep from snatching it from his hand and cramming the whole thing into your greedy maw. But he doesn't. Because in the end he's like you, he understands, he can see the facts laid out before you. Instead he just looks at it, jaws parted, paused in the middle of whatever he was going to say; that small smile flickering, fading a few degrees before he nods shallowly.
You grunt in something like appreciation.
You try not to be too jealous of him. The people who live on the riverside don't really have it easier, they're only fed more because they have to lift more, but you still think about it as you chew. Wondering if you could have been taller, could have been stronger, if your shoulders would be broader and your chest deeper. Wondering if you were just born slender or it's a product of your parents hedging their bets, feeding their firstborn, feeding the youngest and most vulnerable ahead of the middle child. Wondering what it'd be like to be actually muscular, actually masculine, instead of this thing of twine and stitched rawhide. You bet it'd feel pretty great, at least before the next sweep.
A torn off chunk of meat drops on top of your last bite of bread. You tense up, gritting your teeth, eyes cutting to your right. To the blonde haired man with a jawline to kill for, staring off into the middle distance. He shrugs without looking back.
"One chunk wouldn't make much-" a flash of faintly yellowed teeth and it's gone, it's gone and you're sitting with your head hunched down, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, feeling just a little lower than an animal. Doing your best to ignore the way the rats celebrate. He shifts next to you. Drapes his arm around your bony neck, brawny forearm resting along a pectoral. He doesn't say anything else, just pretends not to notice as your breath hitches with small, sad hiccups.
