Food is a near-luxury for beasts, who hunt for each moment their pulse throbs in their veins. Such a creature has little choice in what it kills, dictated by nature to devour the weak. The same can be said for someone for Akutagawa; he consumes only what is necessary, to ensure he is able to move, to fight. Rich tastes are happenstance, and at times even unwelcome. He does not indulge in meals often, merely grateful he has something to pass his lips and stave off inconvenient pangs of hunger.
With his earnings, he supposes he could savor extravagant morsels regularly, but such a thought is alien to him — days of poverty have settled into the way ribs protrude from beneath a pallid canvas, or how sallow skin is framed by gaunt cheekbones. To eat is not a pleasure. It is a means of survival. (The hunger of a phantom cannot be sated by what mortals hope to offer.)
While he is meticulous, his health is subject to negligence, deemed of little import when there is work to be done. He has endured the worst; as long as he can stand, there is no need to coddle this vessel. However, he found himself in a bind, body disobeying the simplest of commands. (Just when had he last eaten? Two days ago? Three? Perhaps more?) It was how he found himself morosely seeking out the nearest source of food, ordering the first item on the menu without bothering to adequately assess his choices. If it’s food, he’ll eat it and quell this stubborn ache.
The crepe he holds should appear enticing, a combination of fruit and cream that should whet his appetite. But it feels heavy in his grasp, the sheer amount of food packed into a single frail shell. His stomach turns when the overpowering scent of strawberries reaches his senses, insides clamoring for sustenance yet all too ready to reject it. An experimental bite is all that is needed to pass judgement.
It’s too sickly sweet for him and while he despises the waste of food, he considers leaving it for another; he physically cannot stomach this. But he is aware of how the child watches him intently from the table next to his, sneaking glances at the confection he’s let rest on the table. And, for a moment, he sees the desire of eight others reflected in her eyes, the same unreserved yearning that was extinguished far too soon because he was far too weak prevent it. Withered roots in his chest coil around something he’s forgotten. Memories tug at a nonexistent empathy, and he relents.
At this moment, he feels nothing for her, the bitterness of her betrayal now smothered embers. Still, pity disgusts him. This is a rational exchange. He responds to the suggestion without gratitude. “Fine, do as you please.” Long fingers deliver the treat to her delicate hands, careful not to spill the contents.
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