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Grell awakens to the sound of pots and pans and Othello humming something outrageously out of tune in the kitchen. His good mood is infectious; she finds herself smiling as she basks in the comfortable familiarity. She lies in until he comes in and gets her out of bed despite her complaints.
It’s been a while since they’ve had breakfast together. In fact, it’s been a while since she’s had breakfast at all. Othello usually comes home from the lab in the wee hours of the morning and passes out instantly; only waking up once Grell is long gone. Today is a rare occurrence and Grell is not going to ruin it by refusing to eat.
Othello is already filling her plate with innumerable pieces of french toast and dousing them in gallons of syrup before she can ask him to stop. She stares at the plate being pushed across the table with rising dread before making for the cutlery. She can just skip lunch. It’ll be okay if she does that.
The sweetness is cloying, disgusting, excessive in a way that she used to relish. Now it sticks to her mouth and makes her sick to the stomach, makes her want to gag.
Maybe she’ll skip dinner too.
“Cut down on the coffee already,” she says as she shoves piece after piece of the sugary concoction down her throat, “and get some sleep. Your face is literally all eyebag at this point.”
“You know it comes with the job darling,” he’s digging into his own, syrupless portion. “The really hectic season is almost over though,” he looks up to beam at her, “we can celebrate that. Is the food good?”
Her eyes are fixed on his plate. “You didn’t take any syrup?”
“Nah I already pop too many of those licorice candies all day. Figured I should restrict at least the sugar if not the caffeine, don’t wanna die anytime soon you know?”
She wants to scream at him. Instead she rolls her eyes, tells him he’s hardly restricting anything by leaving out syrup when the toast itself is just as sweet, and continues to swallow.
She knows to expect the nasty, bloated feeling that awaits her after every full meal she happens to accidentally consume nowadays.
By the time she comes home from work that day the familiar, pleasant thrum of hunger is simmering low in her belly. It’s even almost enough to overcome the guilt from the morning. Almost.
When Grell had first stopped working out after five continuous years of regular exercise, it hadn’t really bothered her. Her work schedule didn’t really leave enough time to accommodate a strenuous workout, and she had watched with a detached amusement as years of carefully built muscle softened and vanished from view. Her arms slimmed down; her abs faded and disappeared.
Othello was cautious around the topic, but somehow it affected her far less than she had expected it to. Sometimes she brought it up just to watch him squirm.
She ate healthy, went for runs, consistently defeated Othello in arm wrestling, and felt pretty great about her body, to the point of wondering why she had been working so hard in the first place.
Everything had been fine.
Sometimes she wonders how it managed to go from there to eating an entire family pack of oreos in a single sitting and feeling guilty about it forever after.
Othello’s text sours her mood like nothing else. She’s already tired from work but the thought of having to eat is sickening.
She stares at the pasta he’s left for her for a long time, willing away the irrational thoughts telling her that he’s doing this on purpose to sabotage her.
Eating is hard. She’s almost crying in frustration before she’s done with even half of it and all she wants to do is to shove it in the fridge.
But Othello will see it. And he will know. Grell knows he’s noticed she hasn’t been eating well, but he’s likely attributed it to a busy schedule and she’s going to make sure it remains that way. So she has to eat this, has to succumb to what is probably Othello trying to take care of her, has to make up for it in other ways. She briefly considers throwing it away but she can’t bring herself to.
So she eats it.
She feels so bloated she wants to throw up. She toys with the idea of making herself throw up. It’s far from the first time she’s considered it, but she deliberately keeps herself from doing it. It scares her. She’s terrified of what might happen once she crosses that line – and so she stays away from it.
It’s not like she’s sick or anything. It’s not like her hair is falling out. She hasn’t suddenly fainted on the streets. She gets intense headrushes when she stands up too quickly, but that’s been happening occasionally since she was a child. It’s just stronger now, that’s probably normal.
Besides, she does eat. She usually eats twice a day. Granted she’s been eating lesser than she used to, but is it her fault if she enjoys feeling hungry?
She’s perfectly fine.
She doesn’t obsessively measure herself. She doesn’t even count calories – just the other day she’d given in to one of those massively inconvenient cravings and eaten a whole tub of ice cream. She’d absolutely hated herself for it the whole day. But she hadn’t made herself throw up.
So she’s fine, really. She’ll just eat less lunch tomorrow and make up for the pasta she’s not thrown up today.
When Othello kisses her awake the next day and whispers into her half asleep ears that he’s brought her the blueberry cheesecake she likes, Grell can’t keep herself from losing it anymore.
She fists her hands in the sheets and screams.
She screams until she’s dissolving into hysterical sobs in Othello’s baffled arms, crying into his sweater as he attempts to soothe her.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she says to his shoulder in a wobbly voice.
“Doing what, baby?” he’s running his hands down her back and rocking her ever so gently. She hates it. She hates how warm it makes her feel, hates how it makes her forget that she’s supposed to be angry with him. She burrows further into his arms.
“This. Making me eat when I don’t want to.” His hands stop for a moment before resuming. She hears him hum.
“You know you don’t have to eat the cheesecake if you don’t want to.” He says. Grell groans from where she’s buried her nose in Othello’s sweater.
“It’s not about the goddamn cheesecake, it’s just –” she leans back from his arms till she’s looking him in the eyes.
Huh. It’s been a while since she’s done that.
Maybe she should have done that sooner.
…Maybe it was all she had to do.
“I... I think I might have an eating disorder.”
It feels so good to say it. To finally admit it. She holds his gaze, unblinking despite the fears clouding her mind. Othello doesn’t look away either when he moves to take her trembling hands, holding them as he nods.
“Okay," he says, "okay, darling. Thank you for telling me, baby. Do you want to tell me about it?” his eyes are soft, warm, and entirely free of judgement.
“Not really,” she chokes out.
“That’s okay. Do you want to talk to someone about it though?”
“…Maybe.” He smiles at her then, a little tremulous, pulling her back into his embrace.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, “I’m sorry I hurt you.” Grell closes her eyes and lets herself melt into his arms. “You’re so brave baby,” he’s still speaking, whispering into her hair, “you’ll be just fine.”
And Grell knows. She can see she’s not fine, but she can see that she’s going to be. Not today, and not tomorrow, and maybe not even six months from now, but she’s going to be just fine.
And Othello will be there to hold her every step of the way.