Gorge- Charles Xavier- X-Men: First Class
TRIGGER WARNING: Disordered eating thought processes, binge eating.
Gorge
(Written for this prompt on the kink meme.)
Charles starts off slowly, as though in an attempt to fool himself that he isn't doing it again. Sitting alone in the darkened kitchen, he lays out first two slices of bread, then four, spreading them thickly with peanut butter, cutting them diagonally into four triangular sandwiches. He takes a slow first bite, chewing steadily and having to work to swallow, a lump rising in his throat. His pace quickens, tearing off more of the bread and gnashing his teeth together almost urgently. The peanut butter glues itself to the roof of his mouth and makes it harder to eat. He reaches for the glass bottle of milk on the counter and drinks straight from it, clearing his mouth and throat, some of the liquid dribbling from between his tight lips. He swallows with a gasp and attacks the sandwich again. With the last bite a feeling of guilt begins to rise, but he quashes it, reaching for the bag of potato chips. He rips it open with a crackle of foil, dipping his hand into the salty, crisp chips and bringing up slightly more than a mouthful. The bag empties much sooner than he would like, but the hollowness still makes itself known within him, somewhere unreachable, a scream that he thinks he could silence if he only keeps on eating.
He soon finds strewn all around him every manner of food debris: humus contaminated with the remains of breadsticks, an empty jar that had held pickles, the tin foil wrapper of a chocolate bar, a banana skin. He sinks down onto a dining chair with a groan, cupping his head in his hands. The horrible emptiness is still there, but certainly not in his stomach. The food feels heavy and intrusive in his belly, the shame of his binge mingling with the nausea. He rubs his stomach, trying to soothe the pain, panicking. He is well aware that his body is academic, not athletic. He thinks himself too pale and soft and out of shape, and he scolds himself, furious.
"You can't afford to put on any more weight," his mind tells him scathingly, "You're chubby enough as it is. You're disgusting."
He turns his head sharply to one side, trying to shake the thoughts away. He knows what he wants to do, what he is perfectly capable of doing. He'd done it once before, years ago; on one occasion a teenaged Raven, becoming incredibly insecure and unhappy herself, had criticised herself in a thought so overwhelming that Charles had felt it: making him really look at the boy in the mirror, and decide that what he saw wasn't good enough. Going through with it disgusted him so much that he swore never to again. But he never thought that he'd be eating like this. His relationship with food, until very recently, had been perfectly normal. But the stress of it all, of Erik's prophecies of war and the constant threat of his home being discovered, the children taken away; it's too difficult to think about sometimes, and the food occupies him and stops him from thinking. For a while, at least.
"Charles?"
Charles' head shoots up, eyes just a little teary, to see Erik standing in the doorway to the kitchen, an unfathomable look on his face. Charles interprets this as disgust, and decides that he has to lie.
"Erik. I didn't realise you were still awake," he says calmly, keeping his voice even.
"I often am," Erik says, just a hint of bitterness in his voice. Charles swallows. He knows about Erik's nightmares: he's felt them. "What on Earth happened here?"
"I just came down here and it was like this," Charles shrugs, "The children must have had themselves a little midnight feast."
"They have the appetites of animals, those kids," Erik tuts. He flicks his hand, making the cutlery littered around rise and fly over into the sink with a gentle clatter.
"Thank you," Charles smiles, picking up the glass and plate, and taking them over himself. Erik's eyes flicker over Charles. He can see the crumbs around his lover's mouth, the smear of grease on his shirt front. He doesn't say anything, but silently does the washing up, Charles drying with a teatowel.
When they are done, Charles opens his mouth to say something, but is met with a kiss from Erik. He kisses back, surprised, wrapping his arms around Erik's neck as the taller man's snake around his waist. Erik breaks back and simply looks into Charles' eyes.
"What?" Charles says breathlessly, on a half-grin. What Erik does next stuns Charles. He places a hand on Charles' stomach tenderly, like one would to a pregnant woman. Then he rubs very gently, pressing down a little. Charles shudders at the feeling, heat creeping up his neck with embarrassment. He pulls back, looking at Erik questioningly, almost accusing. Erik still doesn't say a word, but quirks an eyebrow, places a kiss to Charles' forehead, then turns and leaves the kitchen.
Charles sits down again. He can feel his belt digging into his flesh, and decides that he has to do a lot of running in the morning
***