Chapter Text
But let's start from the beginning, shall we?
Three a.m., peak time for a menty b if you asked Dennis.
It was quiet in their shared bedroom, the only noise being the distant rumble of the fridge from the kitchen.
And Dennis was cold.
Dennis lay on the shared bed of his and Robby's room and he was freezing, even under Robby's expensive goose feather duvet. The spot Robby usually occupied with his large bear-like body was empty, and Dennis was colder than the arctic.
Robby had been called in for a 24 hour shift, Dennis didn't envy him in the slightest, but of course it would have been nice to have his furnace of a boyfriend next to him and compliant for Dennis to use him as a human heater, shoving his freezing hands and nails that had a blue-ish tint to them under Robby's sleep shirt, and getting tickled as a punishment.
But Robby wasn't there. He was where he was needed most, saving lives.
Dennis couldn't possibly ask his boyfriend to come back to him because he was cold.
But the chill seemed to have seeped deep into his bones and couldn't be warmed away.
Dennis' stomach gurgled an ugly, twisted sound in the quietness of the night. He tossed and turned, pulled and pushed away his side of the blanket, looking for a position that didn't hurt his prominent bones.
After a few more pointless attempts at falling asleep, Dennis reluctantly accepted his fate of a night spent awake for no good reason.
After making peace with that thought, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, disconnected the charger from the charging port of his phone and looked away with tears glistening his sensitive eyes as his phone screen lit up, no notifications.
His head was already spinning, his ears ringing and his breathing and heart rate had picked up. Everything was black, the world seemed to have stopped at Dennis’ command.
He felt a shiver of fear wracking through his body at the proof of how unwell he actually was, how his mind unhelpfully supplied that he probably had nutrient deficiencies, electrolyte imbalances along with hypoglycemia and a whole string of problems he didn't want— nor had the energy— to deal with.
But Dennis couldn’t pretend he didn't like this, he couldn't pretend to be concerned when his vision blacked out, every symptom he showed just made him crave the hunger more, the emptiness and the discipline. He couldn't pretend that he didn't feel a spark of euphoria thrilling down his spine when his hands shook too badly to be able to suture a patient and when he found that he couldn't quite get up in the morning, not as easily as he was used to, at least.
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Dennis found himself in front of the bathroom mirror, pants pushed down to show just the hem of his boxers and shirt lifted and wrinkled over his nipples. He looked at himself, he turned and twisted to the side and front, committing his bones jutting out to memory.
Dennis let go of his sleep shirt with one hand and slowly lifted his right hand to his left arm, near his shoulder. He exhaled, closed his eyes, and painstakingly slowly closed his right hand over the fatless limb.
His middle finger and thumb finally touched.
It still wasn't enough, but it was a step in the right direction.
He hadn't turned on the overhead light, he didn't need to, the cold, cynical light from his phone's flash was more than enough.
Dennis opened his camera app, posing in front of the dark mirror and took the photo.
His hand was shaking, but it shook with pride and the acknowledgement of doing something forbidden.
He cropped the picture he'd taken, nobody needed to see his gaunt face, or the bathroom's counter top and sink, nor the two toothbrushes— red for Robby and green for him— in the stained glass cup next to the faucet. He put on a pretty filter, his usual one for body checks. And quickly, as if to rip the bandaid, posted it in his thread linked on his twitter profile.
Dennis' heart swelled with pride, he'd just need to lose a little bit more, then he'd be perfect.
It had been weeks since his last binge.
It had been weeks since Dennis had last felt that feeling of hopelessness and failure settling in his bones like molasses, weighing him down along the fat that was sure to be growing with all the calories he consumed during his binges.
He was doing good, and if he was doing good then everyone would like him and the pit in his heart would fill.
Dennis was finally getting rid of the fat that seemed to stick to his bones, he'd lost way more weight than he'd ever planned to, but that was good, his hard work was going to pay off.
Robby would be able to pick him up and it'd be easier to cover his part of the grocery bill.
Dennis saw no reason to stop. He was loved. He was cared for. No reason for him to disrupt the peace he finally had in his life
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Dennis scrolled on twitter, ignoring the notifications from his mutuals on his latest body check, he'd answer them later, he always did.
His eyes burned, vision turning blurry, thinspo, meals, grosspo, fatspo all turned to a big mush in his brain.
He scrolled and scrolled through his timeline, reading with unseeing eyes the endless stream of text posts and hidden click-to-reval images from people three time zones away.
It was an anchor.
Until he had his account and the community he was never really, truly, alone.
But on the other hand, there was always someone sicker than him, someone who really deserved people's attention.
Dennis really wasn't that sick yet. He still had a long way to go in front of him, he needed to start walking more, maybe he could ask Jack if he could join him when he went to the gym.
That was okay though, he still had time, he'd diet, maybe fast, do OMADs or monos.
Dennis just needed a little bit of time then he'd finally be perfect, as he'd repeated to himself for the past year or so, the goal slipping a little lower each time he got too close.
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Robby had been oblivious to everything, he hadn't questioned why Dennis was so keen on keeping his shirt on while they were fucking, back when Dennis still had the energy to want to fuck, that was.
The last few times they did fuck, Dennis cried, in pain, maybe shame. Robby had never asked for more information, believing Dennis' excuses; dismissing the tears that carved rivers in his boyfriend's cheeks as tears of pleasure and passion.
How every touch seemed to bruise Dennis's pale skin, how even tenderness felt like violence against his ribs.
How Dennis had changed from always accepting every kind of food to refusing to eat at all while on shift, eating only in his self-appointed lunch which consisted of twenty minutes of deciding which protein bar tasted better with which sugar free, caffeinated, drink. Then slowly it became no food in the morning, then he began to skip lunch and somewhere along the way, Dennis straight up didn't eat for the whole day, except for when the extreme hunger got too bad.
Then, when the hunger that consumed him reached rock bottom other than realizing that rock bottom had a basement and said basement a crawl space, Dennis devoured everything in the kitchen, raw tortilla wraps, frosting, sugar by the spoonful and sometimes even whole bites of pure butter.
And Robby, stupid, stupid, ignorant, stupid Micheal had teased him for it when he caught him eating more than he was used to seeing.
Robby had looked into Dennis', tired, sunken eyes and had called him a bottomless pit— even if that had been what Dennis had felt like in the moment— and for what? Eating a few chips and some chocolate?
God, Robby could be so stupid sometimes.