Work Text:
Sometimes, Lyle sat up in bed late at night, unable or unwilling to go to bed, not even when he had to wake up early at 6:00 for breakfast.
He sat on the bottom bunk and listened to the sounds of the prison: the coughs and snores, the squeaking of mattresses and the low murmuring of other prisoners and guards. His expression was hard and angry as he stared at the wall.
Luke sat awake on the top bunk sometimes and tried to make small talk with Lyle, but Lyle wouldn't talk back to him. When they got up in the mornings, Lyle’s face was drawn and tight, his brown eyes so dark they looked black.
Lyle’s tense silence lasted for days, and even when it started to wear off, Lyle looked different. His face took on a stoic, sullen look. One day, Lyle stopped eating and shoved his dinner plate away angrily.
“Goddamn it!” He cursed, clenching his hands. “My little brother hasn't been eating, so what the fuck have I been doing? Some brother I am!”
“Lyle,” Luke said sadly. “What good is that going to do? What are you two going to do, starve yourselves until the criminal justice system sees the error of their ways, and puts you and Erik together again? That didn't work out too good for Gandhi, or that Irish guy, Bobby Something-or-other.”
“Shut up!” Lyle screamed, and slammed his fist down loudly on the table. “Don't give me that shit, Luke. Just shut the fuck up!”
Luke froze, one hand holding a spoonful of mashed potatoes. His face was like an old photograph, black and white, his brown eyes huge dark shadows and his skin blanched. His mouth fell open and he gaped at Lyle, stunned.
Lyle dropped his head into his hands and gave a thin, soft whimper that immediately gave way to sobs. Luke dropped his spoon, locked his fingers tight, gripped the edge of the table, and stood up. He glared at the prisoners in the cafeteria around them, daring them to say something.
Lyle’s face was red and swollen as tears ran down his cheeks. Luke's eyes combed over the room like searchlights, and finally settled on Lyle.
Lyle stood up and moaned, stumbling around the table, his hip knocking against the edge, rattling the trays. “Oh my god, Luke, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you.” He hugged Luke and pressed his hands to the sides of his face.
“I know, Lyle. It's alright.” Luke smiled and gently pushed Lyle away. “I know how much you love your brother.” Lyle sobbed and nodded, holding Luke's shoulder. When he let go, Lyle’s fingers had left a pinkish red bruise.
Hunger made Erik restless, gnawing at his empty stomach like a rat gnawed a block of cheese. He dreamed about food, about the horrible meals that Kitty used to make, the beans and stews and meat that he only picked at out of politeness. He dreamed about takeout Chinese food, In-N-Out Burger, pizza and buffalo wings.
In spite of his hunger, Erik couldn't force himself to eat. When he was starving, Erik could not stop fidgeting. He would scratch at the dry skin on his arms and legs, breaking the skin, bleeding. He would pick open the old scabs, and bleed again. He tugged at loose tendrils of his brown hair.
He chewed his fingernails to the quick, and read some of the books in the library frantically, a copy of the King James Bible, and a red paperback of Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.
Andy pleaded with Erik to eat until he wept, blue in the face and fat, shiny tears trailed down his cheeks. Occasionally, to get Andy off his back, Erik would choke down a biscuit with bacon or gravy. Once in a while, Erik would eat a small bowl of tomato soup or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Erik kept losing weight, his face angular and hollow, his eyes shiny and sunken. “Damn!” Andy whispered softly, holding Erik's face in his hands, biting his tongue to keep himself from crying again. “Goddamn, Erik, please; you have to start eating more!”
There was a long, tense moment while Andy waited to hear Erik's response. Erik sniffed and slipped out of Andy's grip. “Alright,” he said reluctantly, as if he was concluding some sort of long conversation with himself. “Alright.”