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“You’re too skinny.”
That’s the first thing the boy with peach hair and the scar says to him.
Is that any way to greet someone?
The words in his head are Tsutako’s. She always reprimanded him for being too blunt, for lacking manners, for forgetting to be polite.
It seems someone forgot to teach this boy that lesson as well.
Giyuu looks down at his own body of twelve years, draped in a red kimono that is several sizes too large. He doesn’t think that he’s too skinny. He’s not sure what too skinny even means.
…He does know that he is hungry.
As if he can read the thought in his face, the peach-haired boy jumps to his feet and runs from the room. In his absence, Giyuu realizes that the space feels too big. He feels like he is suddenly wandering and lost, so very alone again. Memories tug at him. Tsutako— His hands clench. His eyes prickle like he would cry, as if he has any more tears to shed. But, then, before the feeling has time to sink into his skin and settle deep into his chest, the boy is back.
He carries a plate of finely shaped onigiri.
“Eat them,” the boy says, and shoves the plate into Giyuu’s hands without waiting to see if Giyuu actually wants them.
Giyuu stares down at the plate. His stomach growls. He glances shyly back up at the boy who is watching him intently. Waiting.
It’s rude to stare.
Tsutako would have said it. She would have smiled, and nudged his chin with her finger to remind him. But Giyuu does not know this boy, and he doesn’t feel brave enough to tell him that he doesn’t really want to be watched so closely while he eats.
The only way to get him to stop, he thinks, is probably to do as he says. So he drops his own gaze, lifts one of the onigiri, and bites into it.
He freezes as the flavor and texture fill his mouth.
It’s good. Better than good. Giyuu thinks he’s never had an onigiri taste so wonderful. He forgets about the boy’s rude greeting and his presumptuous behavior and his impolite staring, dropping to the ground cross-legged and devouring the onigiri in large ravenous bites.
He doesn’t remember the last time he ate.
So…he guesses he should thank the boy.
He does just that. But his mouth is full. It comes out muffled and indecipherable.
Don’t talk with your mouth full of food, Giyuu.
Tsutako had disapproved of that habit most of all, and he cringes at his mistake. He waits for the boy to wrinkle his nose and curl his lip in disgust. He waits for him to walk away.
…But he doesn’t. His lavender eyes widen a bit in surprise, then soften, and a laugh spills from his mouth. He has a nice laugh, Giyuu thinks, and a small corner of his heart warms towards him.
“I guess you think they’re good,” he says. “I helped make them myself.” He sits down next to Giyuu, and continues to watch him while he eats. Giyuu thinks he doesn’t really mind so much. The boy has friendly eyes, after all.
He waits until Giyuu has finished the plate of onigiri to speak again.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
So perhaps he does know how to greet someone properly, Giyuu realizes, if a bit out of order.
Giyuu hasn’t spoken in a long time, days or weeks—he isn’t sure. His voice, when it comes, scratches a little roughly over the syllables of his name.
“Giyuu.”
“Giyuu,” the boy with peach hairs repeats, then points to himself, “Sabito.”
Sabito.
A nice name to match his friendly eyes and his warm laugh. Giyuu feels his lips pull into the start of a smile.
It’s nice to meet you too.