Chapter Text
Jonathan stares into the open refrigerator longer than necessary.
Not because he expects food to magically appear, but because closing it would mean admitting the truth: there’s nothing. No leftovers. No forgotten cans. Not even stale bread that might pass if toasted enough.
Nothing.
The fridge hums softly, tired, as if it too is exhausted from pretending it still works.
Jonathan exhales and rests his forehead against the cold air. For just a second, he imagines what it would be like not to count days until the next paycheck, not to know exactly how many slices of bread are left without checking.
The thought fades quickly. It always does.
He closes the fridge carefully, quietly.
—Anything? —Joyce asks from the table, surrounded by bills and papers she’s already gone through too many times.
Jonathan doesn’t hesitate.
—Yeah —he says— I already ate.
Joyce looks up. Her eyes are sharp, tired, too perceptive for her own good.
—Where?
Jonathan already has the answer ready.
—At Argyle’s. His mom made dinner.
It’s not true. He wasn’t at Argyle’s. He wasn’t anywhere. But it’s an easy lie, a gentle one. Joyce nods, relieved, and looks back down.
—I’m glad —she says— Go get some sleep, honey. We’ll figure things out tomorrow.
Jonathan goes upstairs with an empty stomach and a tight throat.
In his room, he sits on the bed without turning on the light. Hunger isn’t new.
He recognizes it like an old enemy: the hollow ache, the slight dizziness if he stands too fast, the exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.
He lies down fully dressed, hugging the pillow, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. Photography. Nancy. Anything but food.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears soft footsteps in the hall.
The door opens slowly.
—Jonathan? —Will whispers.
Jonathan opens his eyes.
—Yeah, bud?
Will slips inside, closing the door behind him. He’s holding a small plate covered with a napkin.
—Mom said you already ate —Will says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
Jonathan props himself up on one elbow.
—Yeah.
Will doesn’t answer right away. He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, lifting the napkin.
A sandwich. White bread, peanut butter and jelly. Not big. Not small. Just… enough. Enough for one person.
Will breaks it carefully in half.
Something cracks in Jonathan’s chest.
—Will, you don’t—
—Shh —Will says, pushing one half toward him— Eat.
—You should have it —Jonathan tries weakly— You don’t have to—
Will looks at him. Really looks. With those big eyes that have always seen more than they should.
—You didn’t eat —Will says, simple and certain— You always say that when there’s no food.
Jonathan swallows.
—Will…
—I didn’t ask —Will shrugs— I just… take it.
Jonathan looks at the sandwich.
The smell alone makes his stomach ache sharply.
He hates that. Hates how obvious it feels, like hunger is something to be ashamed of.
—Mom—
—Mom thinks you ate —Will says— I know you didn’t.
Silence.
Jonathan takes the half sandwich with shaking hands.
—You’re too smart for your own good —he murmurs.
Will smiles a little.
—You taught me.
They eat quietly, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed.
Jonathan chews slowly, stretching every bite, aware of every simple flavor. Soft bread. Sweet jelly.
The relief of something filling the emptiness.
Will eats faster at first, then slows, glancing at Jonathan to make sure he’s really eating.
—Thanks —Jonathan says quietly when they’re done.
Will shrugs.
—That’s what brothers are for.
Jonathan leans his forehead against Will’s.
—I’m sorry —he whispers— For lying.
—It’s okay —Will says honestly— You did it so Mom wouldn’t worry.
Jonathan closes his eyes.
That’s the real hunger.
Not just for food, but for protection. For carrying too much. For growing up too fast.
Will lies down beside him, sharing warmth.
Jonathan wraps an arm around him, like he used to when they were younger.
—Tomorrow… —Jonathan starts— tomorrow I’ll try to get more hours.
—You don’t have to do it alone —Will says.
Jonathan smiles, sad and grateful all at once.
—I know.
The house is still poor.
The fridge will still be empty some nights.
But in that room, with crumbs on the bed and two halves of one sandwich shared, the hunger hurts a little less.