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Living in Las Vegas was a lot of firsts for Theo, his first time shoplifting - canned soup stuffed up under his jacket, chewing gum and painkillers hidden in his boots - his first time drinking, his first acid trip. Angry make outs with Boris under fluorescent lamp light, all angry teeth and bruises. But what stuck with Theo the most, or what stuck at him. The creature that gnawed his body to powdered dust at night was the food. The lack of it and then its sudden abuendence when his father was on a high, literally and professionally. He went from family dinners with the Barbours to snatching leftover dumplings from the Chinese takeaways.
But that was okay, food wasn’t really an issue when you were trying to get blasted out of your mind on the cheap. Theo often thought his stomach doth protest too much, the dizziness he felt before downing bottles of alcohol, the physical sickness he felt from days without food - that he could understand, his body was rebelling from the inside - but the days spent puking what little nutrients there is in liquor out? Theo would spend the day hungover, in agony trying to fall asleep in the sunlight coming through his bedroom window like a fat cat or a member of the Bourgeoisie. Before Las Vegas, in the space between the museum and now, how all his memories were categorised since. Theo never remembered going hungry on purpose, or more accurately - having nothing there to eat. No matter his father’s mood, his mom had always made dinner even on a budget. Theo tried to tell himself that he didn’t mind the pain of an empty stomach, he was used to it, in fact he quite enjoyed it if anyone were to ask. Swallowed up by grief he was happy to become a ghost in his own home, until his own dad barely regarded him, staring at him with disgust.
“I just don’t understand you Theodora”, Larry sniffed as his son flinched from him “God you smell like the dog, go shower for God’s sake! You have to take care of yourself, you’re a young lady now geez!”.
To his credit, Theo did shower albeit in the dark, why would he look at his body if he didn’t have to? The one positive about scrounging for scraps was that there seemed to be less of him to look at, less of himself to hide in his stained frayed jumpers. But that didn’t stop him from buying jumpers five times his side in the Men’s section. It was never cold in Las Vegas, but Theo’s heart felt iced over inside, like he had frozen to death in a past life. He missed the snow in New York, Theo missed the child he was, the boy he never had the chance to be. Sometimes in the dark of night he wondered how Theodora would have turned out, in a world with no bomb and two happy stable parents but he knew down to his bones that she never would have existed even then.
In his heart of hearts, hidden beneath the blanket of stars and his own duvet, Theo shivered in his bed. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself, hearing Popper’s soft breaths beside him on the bed covers.Usually he’d be drunk right now or high, hell it was usually both, he’d take off his jumper and his ratty t-shirt underneath and swim. Really swim, not caring about his chest or his shoulders. Of course Theo didn’t want to go swimming, swimming wasn’t more mystical just because he was intoxicated or abusing substances. Theo stifled a sob, what was mystical was how Boris made him feel. Between the two of them, they could conquer the world come hell or high water. The signal Boris gave him to run from the mall cops, their shared parental neglect, How his hand felt on his cheek or placing Popper on top of him during a nightmare. Blood brothers. Two who were bound, tethered together. There was an invisible rope of starlight tied tight between them that only the Gods could see. Boris was what the renaissance painters could only dream of immortalising in marble or canvas. And yet, he was with Kotku. Kotku was everything Theo was not. But Theo was no fool, he knew she was smaller than him but he didn’t want Boris to fawn or worry over him like a china doll, he just wanted him here. She was just real and Theo was well.. Theo.
Theo was sleeping in two sports bras, he was using rusty kitchen scissors to cut his hair in the bathroom sink. Theo was blacked out crying for his mother, he was the failed letters to Pippa and Hobie. Theo was stuffing cold pizza into his mouth during the witching hour, stealing ice cream just to cry over it.
-
Years later, safe in New York or mostly safe - no more Lucian Reed to worry about at least - Theo had just come back from his bridegroom suit fitting. Brides were meant to cry when they found the right dress, they never talked about grooms who wanted to decompose. Sure he fit into the suit but it was all wrong, the attendants were just laughing at him behind his back. During the payment, Theo knew the tailor could tell what he had eaten last night, evidenced in his updated measurements he was sure. Hobie’s store bell rang as he entered the building with take away in hand, even a chocolate cake from the bakery, getting married was a special occasion afterall. Theo dove into his room, stripping and pulling on his most oversized hoodie and baggy pj pants.
He sat cross legged on his bed and opened up the food containers, the ritual was beginning. Everything would be okay. As he slept that night, no more room for any thought but self hate for his binging, Theo could nothing but cry - why didn’t the hunger leave him?
‘I've been big and small
And big and small
And big and small again
And still nobody wants me
Still nobody wants me’
Mitski