Alexander exhaled sharply, frustration building up again. He slumped further back, his body pressed against the cold tiles. The rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat filled his head, and the pressure of everything seemed to close in. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, trying to calm the anxiety that was clawing up from his stomach, tightening around his chest.
"Cancel the appointment, and I’ll eat dinner," he wrote back, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard for a second before he added, "please."
For a full minute, there was nothing. Just silence. Then, his phone buzzed again. A screenshot from George, showing a message sent to Dr. Warren: "We won’t be able to make it today."
Another message followed quickly after.
"I’m coming home now. Martha is downstairs. You can leave on your own, or wait for me to take the locks out."
A sudden surge of energy hit his head, and the crippling anxiety that had been creeping up his spine exploded into pure fury. White light splashed before his eyes as everything seemed to blur. Without thinking, he shot his phone across the room, the harsh thud of it hitting the wall barely registering in his mind. He slammed his head back against the cool tiles, the sharp pain grounding him for a brief second — just long enough for a few hot tears to roll down his cheeks.
"Emergency," Dr. Warren repeated, clearly not convinced, even the slightest.
Alexander shrugged his shoulders just as interested in selling the bullshit, as Warren seemed to be in buying it. Not at all, that means.
"You are aware that consistency is a key to the progress, right?" doctor Warren asked leaning forward to Alexander to glance at him over his square glassess.
Alexander shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unwilling to meet his gaze. He had heard this lecture before, and frankly, he was getting tired of it.
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, looking anywhere but at the doctor.
Dr. Warren didn’t take the bait. He leaned back in his chair, eyes still focused on Alexander with a clinical detachment.
"You said you didn’t reach the set calorie goal," he continued. "Again. Have you started journaling?"
"For a full two and a half days," Alexander answered, his voice flat. "But I genuinely forget about it. It’s not me being difficult, I promise."
Dr. Warren made a note on his clipboard, his expression unchanging. "You’re not the first patient who forgets to log their meals. It's part of the process to form a habit. But, you’re not making progress without it. If you’re not tracking, I can’t assess what’s working and what isn’t."
Alexander clenched his jaw, the tension in his body obvious. "I don’t need to track everything. I can tell when I’ve had enough."
Dr. Warren raised an eyebrow. "That’s not how this works. You think you can tell, but that’s not always accurate. Your body doesn’t always send the right signals, and that’s why we need to track. Not just for me, but for you, too."
A long silence hung between them. Alexander looked away, his eyes on the sterile walls, the body-positive posters, the Maslow pyramid. Anywhere but at the doctor.
"Let’s move on," Dr. Warren said, his voice calm, but firm. "What does a typical meal look like for you in a day?"
Three days earlier
Alexander sat at the dining table, staring down at his plate for what felt like an eternity. The food had long since cooled, a thin layer of sauce congealing around the edges, but he’d barely made a dent beyond a few half-hearted bites. Gilbert had already wandered off to the living room to watch TV, leaving Alexander alone with Martha and George. George had pulled his chair up next to him, his posture resolute, and Martha sat on his other side, her hands folded, casting him concerned glances.
They sat close, too close, and Alexander felt trapped between them and the godforsaken plate of spaghetti he hadn’t touched for half an hour now. George’s firm declaration echoed in his head: none of them would leave the table until he ate.
"I don’t like spaghetti,” Alexander said finally, setting his fork down with a bit of finality.
Martha looked at him, a hint of confusion—and maybe even a touch of guilt—crossing her face. “It was on your meal plan,” she said gently. Alexander felt a pang of remorse for using her cooking as an excuse yet again, but it was effective. “Dr. Warren said you approved everything.”
Alexander shrugged, avoiding her gaze, and glanced over at George, who eyed him with an expression that said he wasn't buying it.
“You seem to be finding a lot of foods on this plan you ‘don’t like,’” George commented, his voice steady but pointed. “Almonds, chicken, eggs, avocado... and now spaghetti?”
“Yeah, seriously,” came Gilbert’s voice from the living room, adding to Alexander’s irritation. “Who doesn’t like spaghetti? It’s like everybody’s go-to safe food. And, come on, Martha’s spaghetti is out of this world.”
Alexander shot an irritated glare at Gilbert, who looked all too pleased with himself for chiming in.
"Shut up," he muttered, throwing his fork down with a clatter and pushing his plate away. "If it’s so amazing, be my guest—you eat it."
Gilbert rolled his eyes, barely looking away from the TV. "You’re being such a baby," he said, just loud enough for it to sting.
Alexander was already halfway out of his chair, fists clenched, ready to respond with more than words, when George’s firm hand pressed on his shoulder, guiding him back down.
"Enough, both of you," George said, his voice calm but unyielding. Alexander sank back down, jaw clenched, and avoided looking at any of them, his pulse still racing from the moment’s tension. "Gilbert, either go upstairs or stop commenting," George said, giving him a sharp look.
Gilbert glanced up over the couch, his expression shifting from annoyance to slight hurt, as if he couldn’t believe he was the one being reprimanded.
"But he’s the one insulting Martha’s cooking and causing all this!" he protested, indignant.
"Right now, you're the one causing the problem," George replied. "Watch TV or go upstairs, but enough with the commentary."
Gilbert grumbled under his breath, casting one last annoyed look at Alexander before turning back to the TV, clearly frustrated but reluctantly compliant.
The room was quiet for a moment, thick with tension, as George turned his focus back to Alexander, waiting. Alexander kept his eyes down, jaw tight, though he could feel George’s gaze on him,
"I can make you something different," Martha offered gently after another stretch of silence. "You liked those egg rolls we ordered last week, right? I can make you some. We have everything we need—"
"Martha, darling, no," George cut in, his tone sympathetic but tinged with a subtle edge of impatience that Alexander easily picked up on. "This isn't about the food," he said, turning back to Alexander, his gaze steady and firm. "You’re looking for excuses, and I’m not buying it."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, and continued, "We can reheat this for you if that’s what it takes. But one way or another, you’re going to eat it, Alexander, even if I have to insist on it." His expression softened just slightly, but his voice held steady authority. "And I think we’d both rather avoid that."
Alexander’s jaw tightened, his hands gripping the sides of his chair as a surge of anger washed over him. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the fact that George was treating him like a child, or that George was trying to control something as personal as his food, something that felt like an invasion of his space, his control.
"You're really gonna force me?" he muttered, his voice low and sharp, though barely above a whisper. He couldn’t look at either of them—his eyes remained fixed on the plate in front of him, willing it to vanish, to somehow disappear, but knowing it wouldn’t.
"Yes, if that’s what it takes," George answered, his voice firm but laced with a note of reluctant compassion. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his chest. "I don’t want to, Alex, but you’re nowhere near your calorie goal. You didn’t eat breakfast, barely touched lunch, and now here’s dinner, and you’re not even trying. You have to eat, and I’m done letting you skate by. I have to set my foot down."
Martha’s eyes flickered between the two of them, torn between the tension in the air and her desire to ease it. "Please, honey," she said, her voice gentler, "just eat something. For us, please."
The words felt like a weight pressing against his chest. Alexander could feel the walls closing in around him, the suffocating pressure of their combined expectations bearing down on him like a thousand-pound weight. It wasn’t just the anger that churned inside him; it was a visceral need to resist, to hold on to whatever tiny shred of control he had left. Every word they said only seemed to make it harder to comply.
His body felt frozen, locked in place as he tried to grapple with the rising tide of emotion. He clenched his fists, the pain in his hands barely registering, and snatched up the fork, holding it for a second before slamming it down onto the plate with a force that echoed in the silent room.
In a sudden burst of movement, he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping violently against the floor. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. Without another word, he bolted from the table, the sound of his feet pounding against the floor as he made for the front door.
Before he could even reach for the handle, he felt a physical resistance—George’s arm wrapped around him with surprising force. It wasn’t painful, but it might as well have been, the adrenaline buzzing through Alexander’s veins, drowning out everything except the brutal, undeniable realization of his own weakness.
He was dragged back into the kitchen, his heart pounding with fury and frustration. His mind was clouded with pure, white rage, unable to focus on anything other than chaotically thrown punches in desperate urge to break free.
"Gilbert, go upstairs!" George’s voice cut through the chaos, and even though Alexander couldn’t see him, he heard the command clearly. The words barely registered in his mind, lost in the rush of emotion, and all he could do was struggle, fighting to escape the suffocating grip of his own fear and fury.
Alexander's pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, drowning out everything but the roar of his own anger. He pulled against George's grip, muscles straining as if his very survival depended on breaking free. His breaths came in sharp gasps, each inhale punctuated by the taste of bitterness in his throat. He had to get away.
But George's hold only tightened, unyielding. For a moment, Alexander thought he might break free, but the feeling of being trapped clawed at him, like a cage closing in. He twisted his body, desperately trying to shove George off, but it was useless. He was too strong, too solid.
"Let me go!" Alexander snarled, his voice cracking with the force of his words. His eyes, wide with panic, locked on George’s. "Just let me go!"
"Calm down, Alexander," George said, his voice firm but low, the tone one he used when trying to reason with him, but Alexander wasn’t listening. He was beyond reason. The feeling of George’s hands on him, controlling him, was suffocating.
Martha stood to the side, her face pale with worry, eyes flicking between the two of them. She didn't know what to say, how to help, but her voice was softer now, quieter, "Honey, please. We’re just trying to help you."
Alexander’s chest heaved, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing. George kept a firm hand on his shoulder, but there was no more forceful grip, just a steadying presence, as if waiting for the storm to pass. Alexander stood there, trembling, his fists clenched, heart still racing. He wanted to fight, to scream, to break something—anything that would release the pressure that had built up inside him.
Alexander struggled against George’s grip, his body thrashing violently as his pulse raced. Every muscle in his body tensed, his teeth gritted with frustration. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, a boiling storm of rage and helplessness.
“Let me go!” he shouted, his voice raw with fury, his breath coming in sharp, jagged gasps. He tried to twist out of George’s hold, his hands slapping against George’s arms, trying to break free. But George, calm and unyielding, only tightened his grip, pulling Alexander back from the door.
"Calm down, Alex," George said, his voice steady but firm. "This isn't going to help."
"I don't care!" Alexander screamed, his fists pounding uselessly against George's arms, his legs kicking out in futile desperation.The cold hardwood floor beneath his feet felt like it was shifting as he fought to break free, his entire body on edge. His thoughts were a whirlwind of panic and rage, everything a blur except the need to escape, to get away from this suffocating, controlling presence.
But George didn’t release him. Instead, he stepped closer, his body pressing firmly against Alexander’s, ensuring that he couldn’t get any further.
“I’m not going to let you go, not like this,” George said, his voice low but firm. “You don’t get to run away from this, Alex. You’re not alone in this fight. I’m not letting you push me away.”
Alexander's breath hitched, anger and desperation warring within him. His heart thudded in his chest, the pressure of it all crashing down on him, but even through the haze of emotions, a part of him felt the weight of George’s words. There was no escape this time. No running. No hiding.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Alexander’s body went limp, the fight draining out of him as he sagged against George’s chest. His breath still came in shallow, ragged gasps, but the fight had gone out of him. He wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion, the realization that he couldn’t outrun this anymore, or if it was something else entirely.
And then, slowly, reluctantly, Alexander let out a breath. His body shuddered slightly, the anger dissipating, leaving a raw ache in its wake. He didn’t pull away from George, but he didn’t lean into him either. He just stood there, trapped in the tension between what he wanted and what was happening, unsure of which was worse: fighting or surrendering. George’s grip remained, constant, unwavering.
And for the first time in a long while, Alexander wasn’t sure if it was a burden or a lifeline.
"Pretty normal, I would say," Alexander repeated, his tone flat and defensive as he leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest.
Dr. Warren raised his eyebrows in slight disbelief, clearly not buying Alexander's attempt to brush things off. He set down the clipboard and looked at Alexander with an expression that balanced curiosity and concern.
"If it's 'pretty normal'," he repeated "then what's stoppinh you from reaching your calory goal?"
"Well, first of all," Alexander said, lening forward. "It's not really MINE calory goal, is it? It's yours."
Doctor Warren let out deep sight, clearly not in mood for Alexander’s bullshit.
"Which meals are you skipping the most often?" he asked. "You said you made a little progress on breakfast, do you still feel nauseous in the mornings?"
"Yes, but yoghurt and granola work fine for me."
"It’s good to hear. What about lunch? You said last time that you don’t like eating at cafeteria. Did you manage to work something out with that?”
Alexander nodded, although still without any enthusiasm.
"George arranged for me to eat in empty classroom," he answered. "But still, most of the time, yeah, I skip lunch. It’s kinda easy, when there’s clear time limit."
Dr. Warren made a note on the clipboard, his expression more focused now. "Alright, so lunch is still a challenge. Just for your information, I will suggest Mr. Washington to arrage for you someone to supervise you during lunch. What about dinner? How’s that going? Do you find it harder to eat when you're at home, or is it the same issue everywhere?"
“I eat dinner when George is home, so around four or five days a week," Alexander said.
"Do you feel any different physically after meals? Or does it still feel like you're just going through the motions?"
Alexander cried for what felt like an eternity. George’s hold had shifted from restraint to a steady, grounding embrace, his arms wrapped around Alexander with a firmness that wasn’t meant to hold him down anymore—at least, not physically. The dining table resembled a battlefield more than anything else in that moment.
Martha had eventually left the room, her face pale and unreadable, fingers clanched on empty spaghetti plate, clearly shaken but silent. George stayed, unmoving, watching him with that same unyielding look that now only grated further, cutting into Alexander’s last frayed nerves.
Alex could feel, more than hear, George whispering something into the top of his head, words he couldn’t fully make out amid his own sobs of frustration and despair. "I'm sorry," he thought he heard multiple times, but each one he must have been mistaken, bacause how could he be sorry? "Just breath, son, it's okay," made just as little sense, as clearly nothing was okay and Alexander didn't need instructions to breath. Forcing air down his lungs was the last scraps of control he had over his life.
“Nauseous.”
Dr. Warren observed Alexander closely, noting his subdued expression and the simplicity of his answer. He made a quick note, not allowing the silence to linger for too long.
“Nauseous,” he repeated. “Consistently, or mostly at specific times—like when you’re about to eat, or perhaps right after?”
"After," Alexander replied, his tone flat. "Almost always after dinner, especially with meat. The portions you gave me are too big."
Dr. Warren didn’t flinch at the response. His gaze remained steady, clinical, as he scribbled a note on his paper with precise, practiced movements.
"Your portion sizes are based on your caloric needs, not your preferences," he said, his voice flat and without hesitation. "If you’re struggling to tolerate them, we can make adjustments. But you still need to eat. It's not optional."
He paused, meeting Alexander’s eyes with an unflinching stare. “Nausea after eating, particularly protein, is something you can work through. It’s discomfort, not an excuse to avoid meals.”
His words were matter-of-fact, without any trace of sympathy.
"Whatever," Alexander muttered, already bored and irritated by the conversation. "Anything else?"
Dr. Warren set the clipboard down with a soft thud, narrowing his eyes slightly as he observed the shift in Alexander's demeanor.
"You’re not stupid, Alexander," he said, his tone blunt. "You know what’s ahead of you if you don’t start cooperating. You may not like me, but believe me, you’ll hate a rehabilitation facility far more than you hate me."
Alexander couldn’t imagine hating anything more than he hated Dr. Warren at that moment. But, oddly enough, he also couldn’t picture a different relationship with his doctor. Dr. Warren was insensitive, sometimes downright mean, dry, and annoyingly focused on the task at hand. In their own way, they were oddly compatible.
"Impossible," Alexander answered, slim parody of smirk glimpsing on his face. "And I think it takes more than just your decision to put me in mental facility. My physician seems to think it's unecessary, George would have to go along with it and I honestly don't think he will."
Dr. Warren’s expression remained unchanged, his gaze steady and unfazed as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
"Maybe," he said calmly. "But at some point, George won’t have much of a choice. If you keep ignoring your health, it won’t just be about your relationship with him, or your physician, or even me. It’ll be about your ability to function. And no one can protect you from that.”
"Whatever," Alexander said plainly. "You're just trying to freak me out. I wouldn't let things get that far."
Dr. Warren gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging the deflection in Alexander's tone without responding immediately. The room was quiet for a beat.
"That's the problem, Alexander," he said eventually. "You keep thinking you can control it, but you’re already past the point where denial helps. You may think you can avoid the consequences, but they’ll catch up with you eventually. And when they do, it won't be about what George or your physician want. It’ll be about what your body decides it’s willing to tolerate."
He paused, watching Alexander carefully. "You might be able to hide it from others, but you can't hide from your own body. It has its limits. And you’re already pushing them."
He sat back in his chair, his posture unwavering. “The fact is, you’re not in control here, no matter how much you want to believe you are."
Alexander stared at him, seemingly unmoved for few, painfully long, silent seconds.
"Honestly," he spoke finally. "You can go fu-".
The ride home was mostly silent. The hum of the car engine filled the space between the few words they’d exchanged, but soon enough, the quiet started pressing down on Alexander. He stared out the window, watching the city blur past him.
George’s focus was fixed on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, his jaw set in that particular way it did when he was lost in thought. Occasionally, his gaze flicked toward Alexander—brief, sidelong glances, as if he were gauging his mood, hoping to avoid triggering another outburst like the one they’d left back at Dr. Warren's office.
“We’ll stop by the store on the way,” George said, eyes on the road. “Dr. Warren updated your plan. There are a few things we need. If that's alright with you.”
Alexander shrugged. “Not like I have anything better to do.”
They turned into the store parking lot, and as George slowed to a stop, he hesitated, his hand still on the wheel, as though weighing his next words carefully.
"Dr. Warren suggested we might need to consider a treatment facility," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Alexander didn’t even glance his way. He kept his eyes on the rows of cars outside, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he felt the impulse to say something cutting, something that would shut George up—but he swallowed it back, knowing where that would lead. "I don’t—"
“Dr. Warren is an ass,” Alexander interupted sudenly, deeply uniterested in I don't want to, but I will if I must speech. "There’s no way any of you actually believe sending me off to some ‘facility’ would do any good.”
“Alex, it’s not—”
“I’d rather kill myself.”
"Alex." Geaorge interupted this time, not even raising his voice, but slightly changing its intonation and succesfully shutting Hamilton up. “You do realize,” he said calmly, “that saying, ‘I’m going to kill myself’ is exactly the sort of reaction that confirms a facility might be necessary?”
George pulled into a parking space and put the car in park, but he didn’t get out right away. He turned slightly to face Alexander, giving him space to breathe, but not quite enough to escape the conversation.
“I don’t want that any more than you do,” George said, his voice low and steady, but with a kind of finality that made Alexander pause. “I really don’t, Alexander. All I want is for you to get better, and if that means stepping things up to keep you safe, then I won’t have a choice.”
Alexander opened his mouth to argue, to protest, but George continued before he could find any words—which, honestly, might have been for the best, because he had no idea what he’d even say.
He looked down, his gaze fixed somewhere on the car's console, a mix of anger and helplessness twisting inside him. He wanted to lash out, to throw the same walls up that had kept him insulated so far, but something in George’s tone—the finality, the quiet frustration—cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
“I don’t need to be sent away, though,” he muttered, barely audible. “I just… I don’t need that.” The words came out rough, defensive, but there was something else there too—a hesitation, a sliver of doubt he couldn’t quite hide.
George leaned back in his seat, the tension in his shoulders softening just a bit. “Then work with me, Alexander.”
There was a long silence, and then George’s voice softened. “I know you’re used to doing things on your own. But this isn’t something you can fight alone, no matter how strong you think you are. If you let us help you now, we won’t have to go to those other options.”
Alexander’s grip on his seat tightened as he fought the urge to snap back, to reject everything George was saying. But instead, he just sat there, staring at his hands, unable to shake the feeling that this was a conversation he’d lose no matter what he said.
“I’ve been consistent with it,” he forced out, the words sounding vague, hollow. “It’s just… something I’ve always done, more or less drastically. It’s always worked for me. And yeah, it sucks. It’s not like I want to be on the edge of starving all the time, but it’s…” He hesitated, struggling to put the feeling into words. “It’s mine—pathetic and stupid as it is, it’s mine. And I don’t like the idea of you, or anyone, taking it away.”
He finally looked up at George, who listened with that calm, unreadable expression.
“All of you act like I’m just doing something reckless or stupid, like I’m this… out-of-control kid. I've always been that way, at least since I remember and it never stopped me before and I always could sense my limit, I always handled it. You make me feel like I'm an idiot and the more you push, the more I just want to keep going."
“I understand,” George said after a few seconds of tense silence. “And when no one pushed... in the group home or with your previous foster families... was it better?”
Alexander paused, his fingers drumming lightly against the seat as he considered the question. He didn’t want to admit it, but the truth lingered in the back of his mind.
“It was better,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “Objectively, I ate more. Probably not perfect, but it was better.”
George took a slow breath, then exhaled softly. His eyes stayed focused ahead, but his posture softened just a little, as if he were trying to absorb what Alexander had said without pushing too hard. Alexander, in turn, took the opportunity to study George’s face more closely, searching for something beneath the mask of composure that Hamilton knew all too well was carefully sculpted over something else. Was it just worry? Concern? Or, just maybe, guilt? The thought twisted something deep in Alexander’s stomach, eventually forcing him to look away.
"Okay," George finally replied, his voice calm but firm. "Is there anything I can do, besides completely ignoring your eating habits—because that, I can’t do—to make it easier for you?"
Alexander’s gaze dropped to his hands, his fingers clenching into fists before loosening again. His chest tightened, and his mind spun, searching for something—anything—that would make this conversation feel less suffocating. He wanted to say something. He needed to say something. But the answer, whatever it was, didn’t come. He had no words. Nothing felt right. And even as he set aside all the fears he’d always held back—fears of sounding weak, pathetic, giving in—there was still nothing.
Because truly, he didn’t know.
Because no one had ever asked before.
His vision blurred unexpectedly, and for a moment, he just couldn’t see clearly.
George’s steady gaze lingered on him, but Alexander couldn’t bring himself to look up. The question hung between them like an unspoken challenge, raw and honest, and the absence of an answer gnawed at Alexander's chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he needed—it was that he couldn’t even imagine what role someone could play in this part of his life. The people who had come before had never stepped in—not in any real way. It was always something he had to manage, always something he had to do alone.
He let the silence fill the space, each second dragging heavier than the last. It wasn’t until the tightness in his throat felt unbearable that he muttered, barely above a whisper, "I don’t know."
It felt pathetic saying it, but it was true which made it even more pathetic. On some level Alexander wished for George to take it as another excuse, something he would say to make it harder, but on another level he knew he wouldn't and felt good with it. It was pathetic, of course, but it was progress. Or at least, it was his will for progress.
George didn’t answer right away. Instead, Alexander felt his hand brush gently through his hair, right at the back of his neck—slow, grounding, and comfortable in a way Alexander hadn’t known before. Not until he woke up with fever on the couch in Washington's house, hours after he'd fainted in church.
"That's okay," George finally said, and though Alexander still hadn’t dared to look up, he could hear the gentle smile in his voice. "We will figure it out. Do you want to stay in the car, or should I wait for you to come inside?"
The question was annoyingly textbook, the kind of thing someone would say when trying to sound like they respected your space, but Alexander didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Instead, he just shook his head. It wasn’t really an answer, but George must’ve understood it for what it was. Without waiting for more, he withdrew his hand and reached for the door.
"I’ll just grab a few things," George said, his tone light, though there was an undercurrent of something more serious. "I won’t be gone for long."
Right.
If only it were that easy.
