Empty Plate

     “For Fuck’s sake, Polk, you have to eat more.”

     Svyatopolk stares at the other like he’s just grown a third eye. It’s very unusual, to hear the journalist swear like that. Usually, Leonid’s whole demeanor is gentle, poised, and miraculously professional.  Professional even when sharing a home with Svyatopolk’s recluse of a self, whose aversion to social norms can be quite… offputting, to say the least– Or so he assumes, having given the nickname of a monster.  

     And yet, Leonid treats him gently, politely, like a friend. Svyatopolk has always admired him for that. His ability to keep his composure when amid some interesting situations. Svyatopolk usually compares him– his mannerisms, his talk– with a school teacher. He’d thrive in that environment, he figures. Patient, kind, well-read. Normally less– well. Less curse-y. But then again, how can he expect normality when he seldom gives it back?

     “ I don’t understand,” he says, after a second of thinking his words through. Of course, he understands, but he feels inclined to lie anyway. 

     Leonid sighs, tilts his head back, and pinches his nose right above where it meets his glasses. It feels very much like a school teacher again, more Leonid than the cursing. Svyatopolk can’t help but let out a small laugh. 

     “Sorry,” he drags out, because judging by Leonid’s expression, he didn’t find his laugh funny.

     “If I may ask, when was the last time you had a full-course meal?”

     “Yesterday,” Svyatopolk mumbles, “In the morning.”

     “Oh,” The man says with a smile, shoulders dropping with relief. Then, “Wait– sorry, no. I was with you yesterday morning, I did not see you have a full-course meal.”

     “I… ate the muffin you brought me,” he points out, hoping that’s good enough of an excuse. It had been quite delicious, freshly baked from a small store in town. Leonid brings him treats like those every once in a while, and he enjoys every single one of them. 

     “That’s not what I mean,” Leonid argues, sitting down at his side, “A full-course meal. The muffin was just a treat– did you have protein and fruit along with it?”

     Svyatopolk stares at him and doesn’t say anything. Leonid already knows the answer. 

     “... well, what else did you have with the muffin, then?”

     Again, silence. 

     “Did you have anything after the muffin? My kitchen was right there, Polk. Some protein at lunch, or dinner, perhaps?”

     Svyatopolk fixes his gaze on the floor, very interested in the floor all of a sudden. He hears Leonid’s breath get a bit ragged, like it does every time he’s concerned about him. Which is often, of course. 

     His view of the floor is obscured by Leonid’s legs, as he walks closer to Svyatopolk, clearly looking for his attention. Despite his better judgment, Svyatopolk obliges, and he directs a nervous glance at his partner.

     “Polk,” Leonid gawks, staring right into him, “Did you make yourself some dinner, at all?

     Looking at his face has proved to be a grave mistake. Svyatopolk looks away with a grumble, and he can almost hear Leonid’s jaw hitting the floor.

     “Sorry, Leo.”

     After a second, the journalist moves again and drags a chair out from the table to sit across from him. They have been hovering around the dining room table for the afternoon, ever since Leonid returned home from one of his work trips. Svyatopolk has an empty plate in front of him, the same one from the day before, from that single muffin. It prompted the question from Leonid, presumably after assuming he’d only had something light to eat then, too.

     “You haven’t had anything else since I was here yesterday morning,” Leonid finally declares, and the finality of it betrays that it is no question.

     This time around, there’s no heavy silence to drag them down, no expectations for an answer. Instead, Leonid shifts through his briefcase, that vintage leather thing he carries around like it’s a part of himself. Usually, Svyatopolk has seen it filled with papers, notes, and all the tools of a journalist’s belt. This time around, he procures from it a small, crinkly item. It’s a wrapper and some sort of snack. 

     “It’s not bitten into,” he promises as he places the wrapper on top of the empty plate. He sounds quite sheepish, actually, “I tore a chunk off while I was heading here. I got a bit peckish.”

     Svyatopolk still feels small, shoulders tight and backed up into his chair– but he reaches for the snack in front of him. It’s some sort of granola chocolate bar. He’s had one before, also gifted by Leonid. His mouth waters right away. 

     “But hell, if I was peckish, you must be starving,” Leonid says, sounding quite conflicted. Svyatopolk still has his gaze fixed anywhere but on his partner, but he can hear him stand up after the chair creeks against the floor, “I’ll make something for you. Just– give me a second. Or, er. Five to ten minutes.”

     “You don’t need to,” Svyatopolk says, poking the granola bar with the back of his hands, as if it was some kind of dangerous animal. After confirming it’s not sentient nor hostile, he finally takes possession of it and goes in for a nibble or two. It is, indeed, delicious, “This is good. Thank you.”

     “It’s something,” Leonid whines, sounding desperate, “but it’s not a meal, Polk. You have a kitchen in my home, you need to remember that.”

     He’s right. But the taste is heavenly, and his stomach claws at him every time he takes a bite, “Not a meal,” he says anyway. Because he knows it’s true, “but still. Thank you.”

     “I’m sorry.”

     Svyatopolk looks up at his friend. He wants to scramble to correct him, maybe even apologize himself. But as if Leonid anticipates this,  shakes his head. Instead, he walks to stand right next to him and then takes his glasses off. They’re placed neatly on the table, next to the again empty plate. 

     “... Leo.”

     “Let me promise you something.” He sounds… determined, and the feeling tugs at something deep inside Svyatopolk’s chest, “I’m gonna make you the best damn soup you’ve ever had, for dinner tonight.”

     “Okay,” Svyatopolk breathes out. But Leonid isn’t done. 

     “And then,” he says, and he smiles, “I’ll make sure you never go hungry again. Would you let me feed you, Svyatopolk? Will you let me take care of you?”

     Svyatopolk smiles again, breath caught in his throat, and doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to speak. 

     Once again, Leonid already knows the answer.