Chapter Text
Arthur had tried. He had really, truly tried.
Astreia stared at the offending pile of gelatinous, semi-solid noodles in front of her, struggling to comprehend the horror before her. "Square spaghetti," he'd called it, as if naming the abomination made it any less of a culinary crime. The thick, overcooked mass clumped together like congealed bio-gel, steaming faintly in the artificial light of the food court’s kitchen.
Across the counter, Arthur stood with arms crossed, his sharp mismatched eyes narrowed in cautious expectation. "It's not that bad."
Astreia prodded it with a fork. It didn’t move. She frowned, tilting her head slightly as if doing so would change what she was seeing. It remained stubbornly unappetizing.
"Petersham."
"Mm?"
"I survived the Zariman, Duviri, and whatever hellscape I landed in after that." She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably as she recalled the twisted echoes of her past. "But this? This is where I draw the line."
Arthur let out an amused huff, rubbing the back of his head. "Fair enough. Look, I was just trying to match what you grew up eating. You mentioned Zariman rations were all cubes and paste, so I figured—"
"Arthur, please. Mercy."
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a small, begrudging smile. "Alright. Soup it is."
And so, disaster was averted—set aside in favor of a simple, hearty soup. Actual food instead of the abomination called Arthur’s ill-fated square spaghetti. They ate together at the counter, the tension dissolving into quiet conversation. For Astreia, it was the first time in a long time that a meal felt like more than just sustenance. More than survival.
She hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much. This sense of warmth and familiarity, like sitting across from a trusted friend rather than another soldier, a colleague. She glanced up, watching the way Arthur’s features softened just slightly as he focused on his meal. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to.
This felt… nice.
The next day, she returned the favor. Or, at least, she tried.
The food court was relatively quiet, the artificial hum of the lights overhead ever-present in the background. Arthur had just finished his meal when Astreia slid into the seat across from him, a small, compact meal packet in hand.
"You went through the effort of making me food, so—" she set the ration bar down with a soft thunk —"I figured it’s only fair."
Arthur eyed the offering warily. "And this is...?"
"A nutrition cube, the vitamin one specifically. My comfort food, back on the Zariman."
He picked it up, turning it over between his fingers. It was dense. Unyielding. His lips parted slightly, his expression betraying deep skepticism. "You actually ate this?"
"Well, there are other nutrient types, but yes. Every day," she said, propping her chin on one hand. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They’re what kept us colonists alive."
Arthur hesitated, then gave her a level look before taking a bite.
Instant regret.
Astreia barely held back a laugh as his jaw worked through the aggressively compact cube, his expression shifting from neutral curiosity to pained endurance. The moment he managed to swallow, he grabbed his water bottle and downed half of it in one go.
"Never again," he rasped, voice raw as if he’d just swallowed a brick.
Astreia burst out laughing, pressing a fist to her mouth to muffle the sound. "Oh, come on, it’s not that disgusting."
Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing. "If I wanted to eat a block of compressed chalk, I’d—actually, no. I wouldn’t. Because that’s insane. "
She grinned, shaking her head. "Alright, alright. Maybe I should bring you something better next time."
Arthur sighed dramatically, setting the cube down as if it might attack him. "Please."
She considered him for a moment, a thought forming at the back of her mind. He had tried to make something familiar for her. Now, it was her turn. But if she was going to do it right, she needed real ingredients.
That night, Astreia curled up on the chaise lounge by the balcony of her loft, wrapped snugly in a thick, well-worn blanket. The woven fibers, slightly coarse from age but comforting nonetheless, held the faintest scent of dried herbs and the subtle metallic tang of dust from the Orbiter.
She nestled deeper into it, her gaze drifting past the railing and beyond the highest windows, rooftops stretched out beneath the night sky, their weathered tiles bathed in the soft glow of distant lanterns. Narrow chimneys and winding alleyways wove together like veins, the city’s old bones standing firm against the creeping grasp of time and rot.
In her lap, her fingers absently traced the familiar shape of her Mergoo floof. The soft, slightly matted fabric was a sensory anchor—something tangible, something hers. She turned it in her hands, running her thumb over the stitched cyan “eyes.”
A thought struck her.
The Ostrons.
Her palate had changed since leaving the Zariman. She had learned to cook, in some fashion—rough, survivalist meals, taught to her by Horekk, the surprisingly patient chef at Kahl’s Garrison. And in Cetus, she had honed her skills further, frequenting Old Man Suumbaat’s spice selection, and selecting fresh fish from her catch with Fisher Hai-Luk. She’d never considered it a hobby. But now…
She thought about the way Arthur had quietly cleaned up the mess of his failed spaghetti. The way he had wordlessly ensured she had something better to eat. The way he had shared a meal with her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers curled around the floof. If it meant getting closer to Arthur—to understanding him, and maybe, just maybe, letting him understand her—
She could learn to enjoy it.
Closing her eyes, she exhaled softly, the warmth of her blanket cocooning her as sleep took her.
Somewhere, in the drifting haze of dreams, she could already taste the dish forming in her mind.