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In most things, persistence is key. Mind-numbing, eye-watering persistence. Soren has been staring at the equation in front of him for long enough that the numbers are beginning to look like nothing more than nonsensical squiggles. Everything should be balanced. Everything should be working, but it’s not. What is he missing? He has approached the problem from all angles. Perhaps he needs to work backwards again. The desired amount of pressure he wants for this Wind spell is… come on, Soren, you wrote it down somewhere… there. Yes. Alright. Now take that and… persevere. Frustrating, hand-cramping, parchment-wasting perseverance.
The old inn door scrapes open, but Soren doesn’t spare it a glance. If his concentration runs away from him now, he will have to chase it down to get it back. Such a waste of time would set him back a manner of minutes, which means he will finish his work a manner of minutes later, which means he will get to bed a manner of minutes later. Okay, now. Velocity… or is it meant to be speed…
“I brought you dinner,” Ike’s voice announces.
“You can set it to my right,” Soren answers. “Watch the papers.”
In his periphery, a plate lowers to the upper right corner of the desk, covering the final blank spot of visible wood. The rest of the desk is covered in books and parchment and candles and ink. As well as Soren’s own hair and hands as he hunches over his work, clutching his quill in his hand. Wind speed cannot be fixed. It would have to be conditional… so he will have to set parameters and predictions based on mass. Based on weight, rather.
“Have you eaten since lunch?”
“I’ll get to it.” So he should begin with a control group of certain weight. Perhaps a sack of grain… oh. Wait. He already did that an hour ago. What was he trying to do again?
“I missed you at supper.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Soren inhales to even his temper. “I’ll eat it. Just give me a moment.” With his eyes closed, it’s a little easier to think. He’s investigating the inconsistent wind pressure of his equations. He’s so close, so close…
Ugh. Whatever Ike brought him smells good. Is that cumin? It is rare that a simple village inn would adequately spice something. What are they paying to stay here again? No, no, focus.
“Why don’t you come back to that tomorrow,” Ike suggests. “There’s no rush. Is there?”
Moving his hand to his browbone, Soren reconsiders the failed proofs in front of him. “I wanted to finish this today.”
“What is it?”
“A levitation spell,” he mutters, circling a particular equation. “It should be simple—”
“A what?” Ike asks, seeming more than a little dumbfounded.
He draws a line to another equation, fluidly multi-tasking. His wooden chair creaks as Ike rests a hand on the back of it. “A levitation spell. For floating. Hovering, rather.”
“Is that possible?” he asks.
Soren feels him peering over his shoulder. Consciously, he tries to look busy, scrawling a note in shorthand that mimics his speech: “I’m trying to figure that out.”
“That’s incredible,” Ike exhales. As he turns his head, his breath brushes Soren’s skin. “But it’s not time sensitive.”
“It might be,” he grumbles. It’s not a lie. There are many unpredictable scenarios that occur when traveling as he and Ike are. Any day, a situation where levitation would be useful could present itself. That day could very well be tomorrow.
Of course, Ike doesn’t consider this, as confident as ever as he decides, “It can wait for food and sleep,” emphasized with a bump of his nose against Soren’s cheek.
Soren turns away in a huff, though his lips twitch with a smile. “Maybe I don’t need the spell.”
“No?”
“You already hover.”
While Ike figures out the joke, Soren begins stacking his papers. This isn’t the first time Ike has brought him food. He knows he will not give up until he eats it. “I don’t hover,” Ike argues. “You hover.”
“Do I?”
He hears Ike’s smile. “I think you know more about me than I know about myself. What was that thing you pointed out yesterday? That I chew with the right side of my mouth more than my left?”
“The left side more than the right,” Soren corrects, tapping his gathered sheets against the table and setting them aside. He reaches for the plate Ike brought him, pleasantly surprised that it is still warm. Ike must have known he would delay eating it, and asked for it to be made extra hot.
The man in question huffs out an incredulous laugh. “How do you even notice something like that?”
“I am observant,” he states, picking up his fork. “I do not hover.”
“And I do?”
“Sit down if you aren’t going to leave me alone,” he gripes, gesturing with his fork to the stool by the entrance of their room.
“I’ll leave you alone if you want me to.”
“Not really,” he admits, taking a bite of stew. Oh, it is good. Hot, spicy, melt-in-his-mouth tender. Or maybe he’s just that hungry.
Ike straightens up, walking over to the stool. Soren watches him out of the corner of his eye. “Did you miss me?” he asks as he bends over.
“I always miss you when you go,” he answers, surreptitiously looking away as Ike turns back.
“Then you should come with me.” Placing the stool next to Soren, Ike swings his long legs over and settles in, an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. Soren takes another bite. “I’d take you someplace nice for dinner.”
Swallowing, Soren holds up a finger. “As your treasurer, no, you won’t.”
Surprisingly, Ike frowns. “I can take you out.”
“I don’t want you to.” Stabbing a piece of beef, Soren hopes to end this line of thinking quickly, unsure why Ike is upset yet not wanting him to be. “This is plenty good. There’s no need to waste money on something better.”
“Treating you is not a waste of money.” Ike’s tone of voice leaves no room for argument. This frustrates Soren, who would very much like to argue the point. “We’ll do it for our anniversary this year. Go someplace nice for supper and wine. And you’re not my treasurer,” he adds. “So you can’t tell me not to.”
At his insistence, Soren raises his eyebrows, pausing with his fork in the air. “Is there something about me that makes you want to feed me?”
“What do you mean?”
Considering his response, he takes the time to chew, then points his fork at his plate. “You’re always bringing me food. I mean, always. Ever since you first met me. It’s my own fault when I skip a meal. You should let me suffer for it. I wouldn’t mind eating dried food. It’s cheaper anyway.”
“Don’t say that,” Ike says softly. “You deserve to be well fed.”
He wears a troubled expression, his brows tensed in a way that leaves the slightest wrinkle. Someone else might miss it, but not Soren. Slowly, he lowers his fork. “What’s wrong? You look worried.”
Ike’s eyes flicker in a way that suggests he is studying Soren’s face the same way Soren studies his. “Does it bother you when I bring you food? I don’t mean to hover, as you put it.” His gaze drops to the floor, drawing Soren’s attention to the way his fingers tap on his thigh. “I know you don’t value food the same way I do.” Is that so? Soren highly values food. Surely Ike does too. It is an indispensable asset necessary for survival. “I understand why.”
Something fierce spikes through him. For reasons he does not yet understand, his heart rate increases. “What do you mean by that?”
Ike meets his eyes. His are kind and deep. “I remember you, when we first met. You were so obviously hungry. But you didn’t ask me for food. You didn’t ask anyone for help that day, did you? I know,” he says before Soren can speak. “They were cruel to you.” Something dark enters his tone. “They shouldn’t have been.” Conversely, he touches Soren’s elbow as lightly as a butterfly. “Eat. It’s getting cold.”
Silently, Soren gathers another bite of stew, knowing from Ike’s tone that he has more to say. He chews as he continues, “When we were kids you wouldn’t ask for food either. I got really mad at my father about it one time, thinking he had forbidden you from taking seconds and snacks or something. He hadn’t, though. You just didn’t take them, even when you were hungry.” Soren’s stomach twinges, guilt rumbling through him. “At meals, you always ate really fast then just watched everyone else and I could tell you wanted more. That’s why I started giving you food off my plate.”
“I did take food,” Soren confesses, unable to hold it in.
“I know.”
He freezes.
“You put it in a bag behind your dresser, in case you had to run away.” He can’t look at Ike, can barely hear him over the rush of blood through his head, but his sadness, disappointment, is clear enough as he asks, “How long did it take you to stop doing that?”
“I stopped when I started going to college,” he says quicky. "I… I didn’t steal anything after that. I promise. I’m sorry—”
“You didn’t steal anything,” Ike interrupts. His hand settles on Soren’s thigh. “It was always your food. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I just noticed, that’s all. I’m happy you stopped doing it because that means you finally got comfortable with us. You learned to trust us in that way. I’m glad for it.”
“Is that why you keep bringing me food?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Because you think of me as a vagabond child?”
“No.” Ike squeezes his thigh. “Not at all. I just… I don’t think you would get yourself a hot meal if I didn’t bring one to you. I know you wouldn’t have eaten at all during the wars if you had things your way. And I didn’t want that. I don’t want that. I want you to eat well.” He nudges Soren’s plate a bit closer to him. Soren stares down at the offending food, gritting his teeth. “Taking care of yourself is more than an expense, Soren. It’s something you do out of love.” Ike tries to make eye contact. Soren keeps his gaze on a slice of carrot. “I love you. That’s why I bring you food.”
He knows he wouldn’t lie about that, but he still has to check: “Are you disappointed in me?”
“No. I understand. I mean, I don’t get it, but I understand why you feel this way.” The blurred shape of his face disappears from Soren’s periphery, his hands leaving as well as he gives Soren some space. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“I’m sorry I worry you.” His anger flashes bright as he pierces that carrot with the tines of his fork.
“Don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
He doesn’t feel that way. It would be easier for Ike if he could just eat normally, right? Then he wouldn’t have to bring him food or drag him from desk to dinner table.
He remembers starving. It’s like a scar on his body that aches with the rain. He remembers thinking he was going to die from the fangs in his stomach. He remembers his gratefulness when he was fed and his guilt when the gnawing inside him didn’t cease after a meal. He remembers shoving food in that little burlap sack in his bedroom at the mercenary hideout, too scared to throw anything away until after it spoiled or rotted. He remembers balancing accounts during the war and watching their food stores dwindle and feeling that keeping himself fed just wasn’t important enough to waste resources on beyond the bare minimum.
He remembers Ike. Offering him a warm hand and half a sandwich. Always taking two pieces of bread and giving him one at the table. Bringing him a plate every night he was cloistered in the strategy tent. Tipping a bowl of soup against his lips last winter when his frigid fingers couldn’t close around a spoon. Roasting game he caught over a campfire and excitedly sharing it with him. Covering the last empty spot on his temporary desk with a dish from the inn’s kitchens.
“Thank you for caring for me,” he murmurs.
“Always,” Ike promises. Soren finally manages to look at him, and finds him looking right back, searching. “I hope I didn’t ruin your meal…”
“No. You didn’t.” To prove this, he picks up his fork. His head is still buzzing, but he manages a delicate bite, then feels good enough about that to scoop up another. “Thank you for bringing it to me. It’s tasty.”
“Isn’t it? I thought you would like it. We finally found a place that makes something spicy.” Relaxing his shoulders, Ike smiles. “I think we should stay here for a bit. You can work on your spell for as long as you need.”
Soren nods. He had almost forgotten the spell he’d been agonizing over. Now, he smiles, thinking of it and of well-seasoned food. “You know what made me want to do it? The spell, I mean.”
“What?”
“I’d like to be the taller one once when we kiss.” He takes a bite right after he says it, lips quirking around his fork at Ike’s expression.
Blinking, he manages to shake off his reverie. “You could kiss me now.”
“Not while I’m eating.”
“Well, then, hurry up.” He frowns. “I don’t mean that.”
“I know,” Soren answers. He should hurry, though. It’s late, and his food is getting cold. Touching Ike with his elbow, he looks at his own shoulder, then back at Ike. “Come here.”
Ike understands; somehow, he always does. Scooting his stool closer, he rests his head on Soren’s shoulder, the weight of him pressing pleasingly against his arm. As his anxiety fades, Ike’s warmth replaces it. So does the warmth of a good meal brought to him by someone he loves.