Never once did he complain when his stomach growled, or that his last meal had been two days ago (if one could even call it a meal). His hunger pangs eventually subsided into a dull ache in his belly and then disappeared altogether, becoming that nuisance in the back of his mind that he rarely allowed himself to think about. He didn't whine because he wasn't the only one hungry; all the orphaned children and a good portion of the adults were also starving down in Lowtown's slums, eating once a day if they were lucky enough to scrape something edible from a garbage bin.

Vaan wouldn't let himself complain, because he never heard a peep from her. Penelo was passing off all of her meals to the young ones she had 'adopted.' Going from a steady three squares a day to suddenly nothing for three days had caused her to pass out on more than one occasion, and caused him to have a mini-heart-attack every time. So from then on, when he caught her rationing out her own meager serving, he'd always donate his and force her to eat it.

She'd gotten too skinny too fast, in his opinion. Her clothes—the ones she danced in—had already clung to her form, but now hung from her shape like a tablecloth. When they walked above ground, where the sun could reach her face, he could see how gaunt she looked; heavy circles under her eyes and unhealthily prominent cheekbones making her resemble a skeleton too much for his liking. The way her hips and ribs stuck out where they shouldn't, and her more-noticeable-than-necessary wrist bones bothered him. He wasn't about to let her martyr herself like this.

He'd picked up a pastime she hated; pick pocketing. Her morals were against it, but she couldn't argue with results. Once he'd started their growing clan of parentless and abandoned children was eating better than they had in months. After a week of steady meals, she was looking better than she had in ages.

Still worried, he kept a few Gil in his pocket and saved up until he could buy her a special treat; a box of her favorite cookies. This he forbade her from sharing. He'd been overjoyed and embarrassed when she hugged him and ate half the box in one go, only to throw it all up later from the shock to her system. She cried and apologized, knowing what to what lengths he had gone. He rubbed her back and held her hair, as understanding and forgiving as ever.

It wasn't her fault. He knew that. And he felt stupid; he should have known.

Soon he ate less and less so that she could eat more; he still didn't like how tiny and frail she'd gotten. He was afraid to hug her lest he snap her in half.

His middle hurt and he told himself it's for her it's for her but that didn't make it go away. But it was worth it to see her smile when she could finally stomach her favorite sweets again (despite the guilt she felt for hiding them away when Filo and Kytes and Fussbudget and Bucco were all hungry).

But even during her fainting spells and unsafe periods of malnourishment, not a grievance passed her lips, and since he was her rock, her pillar, her shoulder to cry on, he couldn't let himself complain either. It was as if they were proving something to themselves, to each other; proving that they were strong enough to live where their families had died, strong enough to live because their parents had died.

They were the adults now. They needed to be strong.

So neither needed to say it, because they both knew that it hurt and neither was going to say it, because they both knew that once they did, the floodgates would open and that strong resolve that had been holding their makeshift family together would be destroyed.

So they weren't hungry. Their stomachs didn't hurt (or feel like they were trying to digest themselves). And they wouldn't hurt until the war was over and they could afford to eat again.

It was a silent promise, an unspoken communication between the two.

Neither needed to say it.