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Dave Strider can list the things he doesn't like about himself easily. One by one he can count the little things, the way his fingers curve and end just too short, the way he moves around (fast, but not fast enough, in a jerky manner), the way part of his shades touch his cheeks, the way his arms move through space, the way his hands grip a sword. Little things that become less and less little- things that become so glaringly noticeable.
It comes to a point where Dave can feel his faults as they move past air, to a point where Dave curls harder into trying to cover his flaws up with a fake confidence and sureness that betrays him anyways. Not only that, but he always catches all the little-big things whenever they are in his line of vision, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He keeps talking to his friends, keeps trying, keeps hiding the faults in his exterior and interior, shielding himself in a way that really doesn’t help at all. Dave doesn’t tell his friends about what's going on, because he wants to be better. He wants to be so much better than he is.
He wants to know if anyone will notice and congratulate him when he gets there, when he gets better. The little-big problems spread to his legs, stomach, and chest when he realizes that they move through the air like lead and slow him down. They're great big things that make air part around them in all the wrong ways, that leave him feeling heavier than ever before. It's scary, and he hates it- but he doesn't stop with his train of thought. How can he get better? He wonders.
So Dave follows the lead and heavy back to the source, where he finds numbers on boxes and cans and cartons. Calories- he reads. Little things that he didn’t even know existed, let alone how many he had each and every day. He shudders to think at how many dwelled in everything he consumed. How many fell into his body and caused it to be this way? Was this the source of his problem? He makes sure to count the next day, just in case.
Bro asks if Dave wants takeout, and he replies no for once, opting instead for something with a label- something with a table that he can count and assess. It earns him a watching stare that he can feel behind Bro’s angled shades. He doesn't worry too much about it, it isn't the first time he hasn't felt like takeout, and Bro wouldn't be able to tell why, anyways. Dave decides to eat normally to see how many of the little things he has each day, so that he can find out what he's doing wrong. At least, one of the things he is doing wrong, for he is obviously doing so so so so so many wrong things to make him appear this way. What kind of person was he that he never noticed all of this? That he never changed it?
So Dave counts them all, one by one.
2,200 calories.
2,200 little things that became less and less little, pooling in the area of the little-big problems (because that’s what they were now- problems). If he lowered them would they stop pooling?
Dave eats less calories. He writes down the amounts in a small journal that he hides from Bro, because he can wait to show him it when he is better. He’ll show it proudly to his Bro, to show him all the accomplishments, the bettering. It might earn him some sort of outward attention or affection that he hadn't seen in a little while, (little-long while, he notes).
It’s helping, the lower intake, he can almost feel it helping. However slowly it works, and however little it effects his little-big problems. The little-big problems begin to seem a little more, regardless, they appear to be growing into skyscraper issues, looming over him as he speaks or walks or breathes. They lay on his body like pillars, oh so obvious, oh so there. Dave knows that the lower intake is helping, but he's not going to lose any of these problems just yet. That's all he wants though- just to get rid of them, for them all to leave and cease existing, falling into a far off realm where nobody can find them.
Continuing to count, he makes sure to keep his intake steady over the week and a half, makes sure there aren't too many little-big things.
1,400 calories.
1,400 little-big things that begin to seem a little more, as they appear to grow into little-huge things, pooling into the areas of his big skyscraper problems. If he lowered them would they stop flooding?
He eats even less, and he feels like Bro might be getting suspicious, but he can’t help it. Dave has to get better- he has to get better. The problems feel planetary but at least he’s doing it now, he’s making progress. Weighing himself for the first time, and he checks the weight with his height. It says that he’s healthy. Dave doesn’t want to be healthy, he wants to be better. Healthy people nowadays are huge anyways- he doesn’t want to be like them. He wants to be better, better, better. For once he wants to live up to his fake confidence, to make it real.
Fake it until you get there, he reminds himself.
Dave hurts himself for the first time this week when he's frustrated, not even meaning to in the first place. He's sitting on the bathroom floor panicking because the problems aren't going away, they're not leaving, they're not moving, they're not doing fucking anything and what is he doing wrong where is the slip up what can he do?? A type of scream bubbles in his throat and head but doesn't push past his lips, creating thick tension in his throat. His eyes search around frantically for help but he is so alone on the floor in the bathroom, and the feeling on the back of his neck is driving him insane, so he digs his nails into the back of his head and tears trails down his chest.
It's not enough.
900 calories.
900 little-huge things that feel bigger, and they grow into little-gigantic things, drowning the areas of his bigger-than-skyscraper problems. If he lowered them would they stop drowning?
Bro steals a sidelong glance as Dave "brings his food to his room".
“Hey, lil’ man, where're you goin’?” He calls out just before Dave can steal into his room, then quietly bring it down the hall to dump down the toilet.
“Just to my room, Bro,”
Bro shakes his head and motions for him to come over, patting the seat next to him.
“Nah, you’ve been doin’ that for the past few weeks and keep skippin’ on movie time. You’re gonna sit your ass down and we’re gonna do this shit,” He motions with his hands as Dave sits down.
Suddenly Dave is so very angry. He doesn’t say anything- getting better is supposed to be a surprise. Bro is keeping him from getting better because he has already had soup today (320) and an apple juice box (120) which totals to 440. He only has 60 more calories today, and he was just going to have a little bite of the grilled cheese before going to flush it down the toilet. With Bro there he knows he’s going to have to eat the whole thing (330) and tip him over to a total of 770, which is too much.
It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, he’s never going to get better because of this fucking grilled cheese and he can feel the little-giant things pooling in him as he makes dumb commentaries at the TV with his Bro. He can feel the orange eyes on him as he takes another bite and then spews out a stupid line for the character he’s supposed to be voicing. Bro doesn’t have to know anything. Secretly Dave is mad, though, shouting insults in his brain carefully at Bro.
When the movie ends Bro nods his head and Dave takes his plate to the sink. The grilled cheese has ruined him and he’s nearly panicking as he walks back down to his room. He’s clutching at his hair and falling to his knees, the pressure building up in his brain with his thoughts. Curling into himself, he pulls at the back of his neck with his nails and feels the pressure from his head spread to his throat, clenching it. So he curls his fingers around the pressure in his neck and tightens his hands until he feels faint and the pressure lessens. Then he rakes his nails down his forearms this time, creating a pleasant burn that returns him to reality.
Dave turns to the internet in hopes that there is a solution, a way to get all of these little-giant things out of him. He finds one. Shouting out to his bro that he’s going to shower, he heads to the bathroom. He turns, locks the bathroom door and finds that Lil’ Cal is, fortunately, not in the room. Turning on the shower to his preferred temperature, he puts a layer of toilet paper into the toilet bowl.
It is nerve-wracking, this part. He takes off his shades and folds them on the counter of the bathroom sink. On his knees, he traces the seam on his tongue back, and throws up his food for the first time. He knows it doesn’t get rid of the little-giant things, only half of them, but he feels much better. The feeling of the drowning little-giant things is out of him and it's going to be okay, it's going to be okay, we're going to be okay. Looking in the mirror afterwards, his problems go back to skyscrapers. He’s lost weight, definitely, and that makes him a little happier, giving himself a smile into the mirror. They are better, but not quite yet, he’s hit a plateau in his weight and he needs to do something more.
500 calories.
500 little-giant things that swell in his body and become more, and they grow into little-humongous things. They pool in the areas of his now skyscraper plateau problems and he wonders. If he lowered them would they stop swelling?
Bro has to leave for a little while apparently, and Dave revels in the fact that he won’t be around to criticize him. He doesn’t eat anything and drinks water the entire week that Bro is gone. On day six, Dave faints over his turntables with a smile. He goes to the market because everything in the house is too too much and he doesn’t like the way his throat burns when he throws things up. He buys one granny smith apple (95), and a water bottle. He eats a third of the apple each mealtime and chugs water with it.
When Bro gets back, he keeps flushing his food down the toilet, nearly all of it now whether thrown up or not. When Dave checks his BMI again after a month of the near-nothing he is underweight. Instantly he feels like he is nearly close to better, nearly there, only a few more steps, only a few more.
Checking the mirror, he notices most of his skyscraper problems are gone. He lets himself enjoy it, and drinks an apple juice box (130) for his efforts.
Everything is colder now, even in the Texan heat. He feels lighter though- he moves through the air with more ease, and wow, his fingers, so slender. His sword fits more evenly into his palm, and he feels as light as a bird, (as flighty as one too). It's more fun like this, in the danger zone, where he has blackouts that make him forget what he was even worrying about, where he is above everyone else in his rightful place. He is confident in a way, and he feels delicate and dangerous at the same time. He's like a thin razorblade, sharp and weak but powerful and deadly.
It's all very lovely until his brother sees his hipbones and ribs that protrude from the skin and make smooth shadows on his pale complexion. His larger hands grab Dave by the shoulders and shake him with wide eyes behind shades that are quickly removed.
“What do you think you’re doin’ to yourself?” He shouts as if Dave can’t hear (Bro does sound a little far off though, and Dave wonders quickly if he is about to have another blackout).
“I wanted to be better, and I'm better,” is all Dave can say through the haze.
There's black on the edge of his vision and he swears to the fucking heavens that he loves it.
He wanted to be better and he’s better now, isn’t he? The air glides around him in waves like it’s his friend, his fingers are slender, his shades don’t touch his cheeks anymore and he’s finally better, why can’t Bro see that he’s better?
“Bro, I’m better now, y’know? All the skyscraper problems are gone, I just had to get rid of the little-giant things too, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” He asks, panicked as his brothers face falls into his (not large anymore) chest.
He swears he can feel hot tears fall on his better skin and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s finally there and he can give his brother his journal and show him that he’s so much better now, he’s so much better. There's no reason for tears when they should be celebrating!
“Kid why’d you do this to yourself, is it some shit I did or-” He mumbles, and Dave takes off his shades to look at him.
“No, Bro, I just wanted to get better, and I am now, you should see the way I move, it's graceful as fuck,” He replies.
Bro doesn’t say anything, and carries him into the living room, making a frantic call to Jane or Roxy or anyone, even calling Rose in the end. As Dave hears her voice when she gets on the phone he almost smiles.
“Hey, Rose, whats going on? Anythin’ new?” He asks his friend.
“Dave you are apparently horribly underweight and unhealthy. I’d make a snarky comment but it’s really not the time. You need to stop this,” She says, trying to keep her voice even.
“I don’t know why everyone keeps sayin’ that, I just got better that’s all,” He growls into the phone.
That’s when Bro snatches it back up and rambles some shit to Rose and gets on the computer. He leads afterwards Dave into the kitchen and sits him down for food, making whatever he can, and Dave indulges him until he feels nauseous just looking at the food and Bro sighs deeply.
“You, you need help kid, and I ain’t the one that’s gonna be able to help you this time,” He poses.
Dave’s not sure what to say, so he cocks his head and furrows his eyebrows. Bro is making hella sense and Dave's sure he's gone whacko.
When he wakes up the next day, he is brought to a therapist. She goes through a bunch of bullshit that Dave doesn't believe in.
Bro is nowhere to be found when he returns home, and Dave sits in the kitchen looking at the table of contents on an apple juice box. Half of him is screaming and the other half is whispering, but he's never listened to the whispering side before. It was always too quiet, too unnoticeable for Dave to even care.
It whispers quietly of days where he could feel fine, without caring about how his body looks to an extent, it whispers about food and how it can be helpful and good, it whispers promises of healthiness.
Dave doesn't listen. He keeps going the way he is, laughing when he wakes up from dizzy spells, messaging John about how good he feels, and trying to convince Rose that there is totally nothing wrong with him and everything is super cool like usual. He even tells Jade how much he's been doing lately- well, as much as he can do with the blackouts- how well he could strife. That is, if Bro would strife with him anymore.
The next day, Dave wakes up with an IV in his arm. The walls are all white and there is a nurse hovering over him with a dead look in her eyes-(if you didn't want the job bitch then maybe you should have chosen a different major!)- and he just stares as he feels a hand holding his on the side and as the room focuses, John and Jade are curled up at the end of the bed, Rose in a waiting chair, and Bro is holding on to Dave's hand in his sleep like his life depends on it.
Fucking ow though, he bruises easy, way to go Bro.
He stays in the hospital for a while, realizing, that, in fact, they are feeding him needless little-humongous things through a tube and he almost pitches a fit, but he doesn't want to be in the hospital anymore. They honestly freak him out a little (lot).
Dave visits the therapist again, she is looking at him sternly. Dave is too busy watching the fuzzies in the corners of his vision to care. She shows him something this time, though, that startles him. It is a picture of a boy from the neck down, who is emaciated and looks to be dying. When he expresses concern for the boy, she places his picture- identical- right next to that one, but with his face.
He nearly shits himself with the revelation, thinking that there must be a problem, they must have done something. Beginning to accuse them of photoshop, he glances around the room nervously. There is nothing wrong with him, he is better, he is so much better, he is better. The lady assures him that it is most definitely him, and looks right into his eyes. She proceeds to the next activity, asking him to draw an outline of what he thinks his body looks like, and then traces his to show that it is much smaller.
It takes a few months of working with the woman, but Dave finally realizes that he wants to get better, and actually cooperates. Not the same kind of better as before- the kind of better that has him looking less like a skeleton again. He wants to leave the land of dizzy spells and blackouts and being oh so cold and little white hairs all over his body. The little-giant things are still big, but he thinks that he can deal with it. They're scarier than any monster that he can imagine, and he can't even cut them down with a sword. They are a bodiless enemy, and he doesn't know how exactly he is going to approach the feat.
He was afraid to fight Bro for the first time because he was so big, and he is good at fighting now because he took that leap, that one jab. He decides that if he can fight Bro- he can fight off the little-giant things. When he asks, Bro pays for him to go to an inpatient program that includes boys in it.
Dave has made up his mind, and he finally wants to get better.
He knows that just like before he will never obtain better, that there will always be blockages and problems that will come up after a while.
Nobody ever truly gets better- he thinks, but they just try a little harder, live the way they need to or want to, and make their way slowly to a place that is between better and the way it was before.
Dave is willing to try a little harder.
1,200 calories.
1,200 little-big things that are becoming less and less big, as they shrink into little-manageable things that nourish his entire body. If he tried a little harder, would he be alright?