“Is it?” Alfred frowned and looked at the clock, and then his face childishly lit up in delight. “Oh, it is! Sorry, Arthur, I’m going to eat in front of the television. You have to come with me, though.” The last part was added not as an afterthought, but a tacked on reminder. Alfred was already bringing his dish to the television, and Arthur felt a surge of relief through his bones. He smiled faintly and after scaring half his dish into the trash, he followed suit, pretending to chew as he sat next to Alfred.
The television showed an obese man instructing seriously about weight loss, and Arthur could only be glad that Alfred was paying too much attention to the television to notice how he, too, had grown alarmingly obese. No, that wasn’t right.
It would have been nice if Alfred paid him any attention at all.
--
He had slept over at Alfred’s house, and the night was going well. He had gotten away with only eating half his dish, and though Alfred offered decent food from his refrigerator, he had refused. He stirred from his dreams in the guest room, the sleep clinging to the back of his eyelids. Rolling over on the soft bed, he stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. The bed smelled like Alfred. Everything smelled like him. He brought the blanket up to his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling Alfred’s burgers oil fries chips grass gasoline.
Under the blanket, his fingers danced across his ribs. It was like a phantom dance, barely brushing against the one-two-three one-two-three of his rib cage that held his beating heart. His fingertips felt cold, like ice pressing against his chest. But he ran his fingers up and down, a cleaning, calming ritual. He closed his eyes and began to fade back to sleep.
And he was suddenly hungry.
He usually wasn’t, not even at the normal tea times, so he almost doubled over in pain at the suddenness of the hunger. His stomach felt like it was consuming itself, and he trembled slightly, a sweat breaking across his brow. No, he thought, no, fuck, no, no, not now. But he was hungry, and he needed to eat, and before he knew it, he was stumbling down the hallway with his bare feet. It was all right, he tried to convince himself. His rituals scrambled to place themselves at his disposition as he entered the empty kitchen, dark and cold against his hot sweating skin.
He hadn’t eaten so much the past few days, just the this and the that, so it was all right. And he was hungry, so he opened the refrigerator and began to scavenge for food. It was a sight too horrible for even himself, shaking hands trying not to make a noise as he sat on the cold tiled floor that pressed its coldness through his thin pajamas. A bag of frozen peas were torn open and he was shoveling the hard green rocks into his mouth, cold, crunching and tearing and saliva dripping from his mouth as he grabbed the peas by the fistful and ate them. And next, there was a small box of leftovers from their dinner, and he couldn’t even use a fork, and he used his hands to scoop out the muck and shove it in his mouth, dripping down his front, and his teeth clenched down upon it as he tore it viciously, the oil slicking across his fingers and still his other hand was searching for more, and he needed to find the more, and when he felt slightly better, he staggered up to find the food from the upper shelves, and finding bread on the counter, he left the fridge door open and grabbed the entire loaf and sat at the table and began to chew and tear and gnaw and desperately ravish as his drool splattered across the table and he was eating and he was hungry. He lost track of time, and food, and he continued to eat, over and over again.
And suddenly, the lights flicked on.
“Arthur?”
He froze at the sleepy voice, looking up painfully through the sudden whiteness. Alfred stood at the kitchen door, slumped on the frame while rubbing his eyes. He looked cute while he was sleepy, a drowsiness cloaking a film over his eyes, rumbled pajamas that featured one of his superheroes in the same stupid pose over and over and over again, red and blue.
“Is it?” Alfred frowned and looked at the clock, and then his face childishly lit up in delight. “Oh, it is! Sorry, Arthur, I’m going to eat in front of the television. You have to come with me, though.” The last part was added not as an afterthought, but a tacked on reminder. Alfred was already bringing his dish to the television, and Arthur felt a surge of relief through his bones. He smiled faintly and after scaring half his dish into the trash, he followed suit, pretending to chew as he sat next to Alfred.
The television showed an obese man instructing seriously about weight loss, and Arthur could only be glad that Alfred was paying too much attention to the television to notice how he, too, had grown alarmingly obese. No, that wasn’t right.
It would have been nice if Alfred paid him any attention at all.
--
He had slept over at Alfred’s house, and the night was going well. He had gotten away with only eating half his dish, and though Alfred offered decent food from his refrigerator, he had refused. He stirred from his dreams in the guest room, the sleep clinging to the back of his eyelids. Rolling over on the soft bed, he stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. The bed smelled like Alfred. Everything smelled like him. He brought the blanket up to his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling Alfred’s burgers oil fries chips grass gasoline.
Under the blanket, his fingers danced across his ribs. It was like a phantom dance, barely brushing against the one-two-three one-two-three of his rib cage that held his beating heart. His fingertips felt cold, like ice pressing against his chest. But he ran his fingers up and down, a cleaning, calming ritual. He closed his eyes and began to fade back to sleep.
And he was suddenly hungry.
He usually wasn’t, not even at the normal tea times, so he almost doubled over in pain at the suddenness of the hunger. His stomach felt like it was consuming itself, and he trembled slightly, a sweat breaking across his brow. No, he thought, no, fuck, no, no, not now. But he was hungry, and he needed to eat, and before he knew it, he was stumbling down the hallway with his bare feet. It was all right, he tried to convince himself. His rituals scrambled to place themselves at his disposition as he entered the empty kitchen, dark and cold against his hot sweating skin.
He hadn’t eaten so much the past few days, just the this and the that, so it was all right. And he was hungry, so he opened the refrigerator and began to scavenge for food. It was a sight too horrible for even himself, shaking hands trying not to make a noise as he sat on the cold tiled floor that pressed its coldness through his thin pajamas. A bag of frozen peas were torn open and he was shoveling the hard green rocks into his mouth, cold, crunching and tearing and saliva dripping from his mouth as he grabbed the peas by the fistful and ate them. And next, there was a small box of leftovers from their dinner, and he couldn’t even use a fork, and he used his hands to scoop out the muck and shove it in his mouth, dripping down his front, and his teeth clenched down upon it as he tore it viciously, the oil slicking across his fingers and still his other hand was searching for more, and he needed to find the more, and when he felt slightly better, he staggered up to find the food from the upper shelves, and finding bread on the counter, he left the fridge door open and grabbed the entire loaf and sat at the table and began to chew and tear and gnaw and desperately ravish as his drool splattered across the table and he was eating and he was hungry. He lost track of time, and food, and he continued to eat, over and over again.
And suddenly, the lights flicked on.
“Arthur?”
He froze at the sleepy voice, looking up painfully through the sudden whiteness. Alfred stood at the kitchen door, slumped on the frame while rubbing his eyes. He looked cute while he was sleepy, a drowsiness cloaking a film over his eyes, rumbled pajamas that featured one of his superheroes in the same stupid pose over and over and over again, red and blue.
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