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The humming of the starship is what Ramattra wakes up to. It’s a low, bassy thing: a rumbling that is felt more than heard. Indeed, if his senses weren’t enhanced, he’d probably be unaware of it entirely. It’s an ambient white noise that relaxes him almost like nothing else.
Or, it would if the rational part of his brain, and subsequent panic, hadn’t kicked in immediately.
Mornings aren’t quiet. Mornings are full of alarms, hastily waking, dressing, fixing his hair, and preparing for the million and one things that fill his days on the ship. Occasionally training, usually lots of fiddling upgrades and mechanical or electrical projects at his workbench. Admittedly, most of it is unnecessary busy work, idle things to keep his hands occupied while his thoughts wander, restless as they are in such a confined space– despite how large the ship actually is. He’d never tell Zenyatta.
But as the door slides open, he wonders if he might even need to do that.
“Good morning!” Zenyatta sing-songs, practically dancing into the room. There’s a surprisingly large tray held high above his head with one arm.
Ramattra’s so taken aback by it that all he can do for a scant second is blink and openly stare. “Habibi…? What time is it?”
“Irrelevant!” the man chirps, and he definitely knows Ramattra too well, because he swiftly cuts off the argument he was about to voice. “Time doesn’t matter when there’s breakfast to enjoy.”
Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut, but silence doesn’t stop him from sitting up in his blankets and crossing his arms. Despite the messy morning hair, Ramattra tries to make some sort of disgruntled expression, just to be a contrarian, just because he can– but his stomach thoroughly dashes these plans. He’s given away by a particularly loud rumble. Damn traitorous thing!
Zenyatta, though, just laughs, and the sound melts away the last of Ramattra’s resolve. “Lean back, Rama,” he says, and sets the tray in Ramattra’s lap, quickly pulling off the cover with a bit of a flourish. “Voila! Breakfast for one.”
Immediately, Ramattra sees why Zenyatta felt the need for dramatics– the spread before him is enormous. Lots of small dishes, both savoury and sweet, as well as condiments and drinks fill every bit of the tray. That has to be the majority of the small plates in the kitchen… Distantly, Ramattra hopes no one else needs them, but he can’t be too bothered about it when everything looks so good.
There’s things he expected, as he often makes them for himself, such as fresh coffee and falafel and ful medames and pickled vegetables and pastries, but more than that–
Fresh fruit. On a starship packed with long-lasting, travel-ready foods, either frozen or pickled or dry, fresh fruit doesn’t exactly have a place in their kitchen or pantry.
Hesitantly, he takes a strawberry and a few pomegranate seeds in either hand as if he can’t believe what he’s looking at. And really, he can’t. Eyes as wide as saucers, he looks to Zenyatta. “Where did you get these?”
“Don’t worry about it.” There’s a twinkle in Zenyatta’s eyes. “I called in a favour, that’s all.”
“In deep space?”
Zenyatta just shrugs and settles on the bed cross-legged. Ramattra knows he won’t be getting any proper explanation from his mysterious partner. Better to just enjoy the fruits (ha) of his labour.
Gratefully, he puts the whole strawberry in his mouth, and doesn’t even bother hiding the frankly obscene noise he makes when he bites through it, juice coating his tongue. Across from him, Zenyatta smiles. Ramattra downs two more strawberries and a handful of pomegranate seeds in this way before finally realising he should be savouring this. Take it slow. Perhaps he got a little carried away…
“So,” he says, bringing a napkin to his mouth. “What’s the… occasion, habibi? It’s not my birthday.”
“There isn’t one,” Zenyatta says.
Ramattra’s eyebrow quirks.
“Really, Rama. There’s no special occasion.” Hastily, he adds: “Nor something we broke that I’m compensating for. I promise.” Ah, he knows him so well.
“So if not an event, then why did you go through all this trouble? I don’t want to know how long this took you. Did you at least get some assistance?” Ramattra asks.
“No, you don’t want to know how long. And yes, Genji gave me an extra set of hands.”
Appeased, Ramattra nods and picks up a falafel ball. It too is delicious– they always remind him of home. “You just wanted to spoil me, then?”
Zenyatta softens, reaching a hand over to rest on one of Ramattra’s blanket-covered feet. “Pretty much. You… looked stressed out. We’ve been away from home for a long time now, and there’s still a long while left, and that’s before the mission even properly starts.”
(As if Ramattra needs a reminder… But Zenyatta’s not wrong, exactly.)
Despite his mixed feelings, Ramattra smiles. He’s more than willing to let his partner comfort him. It really is a sweet gesture, after all… Everything is delicious, and clearly hand made as much as anything can be hand made in this place. Warmth that isn’t just the hot coffee fills his core.
“Thank you,” he says, putting as much emotion and genuine gratitude as he can into the simple words. He hopes it’s enough.
By the way the smaller man preens, it just might be close. “You’re welcome,” he says.
In their little dish, there’s still two strawberries left. Ramattra takes one in hand, gently pulls the leaves back, and holds it out. “Here,” he hums, offering it out. “At least share it with me?”
Zenyatta hesitates. “I’m not all that hungry, please. It’s your breakfast.” He can deny it all he likes, but Ramattra knows he’s tempted by the plump red fruit.
“And how better to enjoy my breakfast than with my lover taking part?” Ramattra grins, gently shaking the berry, beckoning the other to take a bite, and absolutely refusing to let Zenyatta take it from him with his hand.
Colour paints Zenyatta’s cheeks, but he settles his hands in his lap. “Oh, very well,” he says, and leans in to take a bite.