Chapter Text
“You got any singles?”
Sire of Termites is nothing at all like the Wiseman’s brother.
He is younger, and smaller, and with bones that jut out in ways that cannot be healthy. He is sickly, his hair is mangy, and his eyes are haunted in ways that Kenai’s never were. Still, the Wiseman feels something stir within him when he looks at the boy.
“I think so,” he says, fumbling for his wallet. “Why? Is the Page teaching you guys to gamble again? Because I’m not gonna help you out with that.”
Sire shakes his head. “Nah, it’s nothing like that… There’s a vending machine in the hallway.”
Oh.
“Yeah, I think I can help you out with that.” The reply is instantaneous. “Lead the way.”
The trek across the building is not a long one, and yet the Wiseman flounders for something to say. “Soooo…” he begins and trails back off.
Sire glances at him from over one bony shoulder. “What?”
“Nevermind, it’s nothing.”
The boy shrugs and continues forward until they are standing in the glow and the hum of a shabbily stocked snack machine. He stops and stares at the semi-filled rows of processed fat and sugar, and there is so much want in his eyes that the Wiseman is half tempted to kick the glass open and let this waif of a boy fill his arms with all that lies inside.
“What do you want?” he asks instead. “I’ve got seven dollars on me.”
“Oh… um, the animal crackers are in the biggest bag and the Heiress and I have to share so…”
“I asked what you wanted.” The Wiseman thrusts a small wad of green into the child’s hands. “This is enough to buy a few things in there and I want you to use all of it, capiche?”
The boy stares at him for a moment, seemingly - heartbreakingly - caught off-guard by this one act of kindness.
“Are you sure…?” He winces as he says it, as if certain the man in front of him will change his mind.
“Absolutely.” The Wiseman puts a hand on Sire’s shoulder in a way that almost feels familiar. “Don’t sweat it.”
“… Thank you.”
The man says nothing to the boy that is not his brother, only watches as seven bills are fed into the machine and not-quite-enough bags fall to the bottom. There is a bag of animal crackers, though only one (“My sister likes to bite their heads off.”); there are also potato chips and cheese curls and at least three kinds of snack cakes. To most, it would seem like a lot, too much in fact-
-but-
“Why aren’t you eating, Sitka, don’t you like the food?”
“I’m not hungry, Denahi… you and Juneau should have it.”
-the Wiseman has been this small before…
He has been hungry and afraid and with a young sibling to look after. He knows that whatever this boy carries in his arms now is nowhere near enough, nor will it ever be.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” he asks on the way back. “We can have whatever you want.”
For a moment Sire hesitates. “I can’t,” he says at last. “Mother’s cooking for us.”
“No she’s not.” The words are blunt, but not without merit. “You should come, you and your sister need to eat something other than that crap.”
“She… um, obviously, she doesn’t know that we’re coming here. She thinks we stay in all day an-and I wouldn’t want to make her feel like she couldn’t trust me to babysit. If we stay out late, she’ll… ask until I give her an answer and I’ll cave in and tell her everything and then I won’t be able to come here anymore… I just don’t want to upset her.”
“My mother scares me when she gets upset.”
The Wiseman heaves a sigh, and fumbles for his wallet once again. “Then you’d better take this,” he says, holding out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “That cheap stuff will only last you about a day if you’re lucky. Use the cash to get you and your sister some real food, okay?”
There is a bump, a clatter and a rustle, and suddenly the Wiseman finds a pair of stick-thin arms thrown around him, squeezing just above his navel.
“Okay.” The answer is barely more than a whisper. “Okay.”