L stares down at the little plate with the intensity of an interrogation., his thumb poked into his upper lip like it often is when he's deep in thought. How many days has it been now, where this little thing has appeared next to him.
Every day, on a dainty plate one might expect to find a slice of cheesecake, there’s a small, freshly prepared piece of Japanese sweet omelette. Soft layers, faintly sweet, drizzled with a dark sauce and arranged suspiciously like a baked good. Suspicious… but inviting.
Well, not anymore. By now, it looks all but dissected, the poor thing. He pokes at it again, the fork in his hand in that signature not-quite-comfortable grip.
He pushes it to the side.
The truth is, L is malnourished. It wasn't a secret. Sweets, to him, were safe. Predictable. A small bit of serotonin his body didn't often get. The best nutritional value he got was from the rare time Watari could convince him a gummy vitamin was still, in fact, a gummy. And that was a good day.
So you do what you can: leave him a small piece of something just similar enough to act as a bridge. Consistently. Subtly. Like trying to befriend a stray cat. Because if you want this to stick, it has to be his idea.
One slow afternoon, more bored than hungry, his eyes drift to the plate. Still there. He pulls it closer. Only a bite that day — a test — but it’s something. And then, another day, something more. Eventually when you pick the plates up at the end of the day they're picked clean.
You walk in on him, one day, eating softly. Fork in his mouth, as he absentmindedly clicks away at his computer.
You want to celebrate, you really do. But it's such a proud, fussy housecat you've decided to look after; that even that much might stop him in his tracks.
