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Atsushi had not eaten in four hours.
The hunger gnawed at his stomach, sharper pain coming in waves; his hands trembled, cold sweat beading his hairline.
Hunger scared him.
He had become well acquainted with it during his years in the orphanage and his short period of homelessness. Starvation was a constant; a wicked old friend that curled itself sickily inside him and latched its claws in deep. Parasitic.
Spending so much time in the talons of hunger should’ve made it easier to deal with. But it hadn’t. God, no, it hadn’t.
It had weakened him more than anything. Being even the slightest bit hungry was agony now. He chased fullness relentlessly; begged for it.
A full stomach was the highest level of bliss, a temporary grant of divine relief, something so magically comforting that it felt like a cheat. It was a desire, an indulgence, he could not bring himself to resist. It was common for him to restrict himself of sleep, of simple enjoyment, of plain affections—viewing himself as one deserving of having his needs fulfilled was a concept he had difficulty grasping—but not food, never food.
He was a slave to his hunger. He did what it wanted in exchange for salvation.
On his knees in front of the refrigerator, evidence of his indulgence staining his mouth and fingers, eyes closed, cramming seven hundred calories down his throat at once, he remembered what it felt like to kneel at an altar.
This is his communion, more fulfilling than any flesh and blood. When his eyes were open, the white light of the fridge blinded him like the luminance of a halo; the white double doors were wings, lined with the finest gifts known to man. He never felt judged in the act under Her, only in the aftermath.
Oh, the aftermath! How guilt would invade every crevice of this caloric, fleshy machine that is called a body! How the light from Her burned his retinas, judgment radiating from the empty containers that were once Her eyes! He could hear Her scream for his penance in that gentle electrical humming, but those empty calories were his and his refusal came in the form of every thick swallow.
His body was blissfully overfull; the guilt had nowhere to settle. It poured from his mouth instead and leaked from his eyes. It is all that cold, silver angel would ever get.
Atsushi kept his rituals to himself. Only in those first few shaky days at the Agency had his coworkers witnessed his obsessive gorging. The transition to sudden easy food access had not been an easy one for him.
There are two dogs, one previously caged who has observed life only through bars, and the other allowed to roam free. Both are tightly strung with animal instinct. Set them both loose in a park.
Who takes off first?
Atsushi had spent those days in a blind frenzy of eating himself sick, It had been a dumb, dumb move, but there had been surprisingly little consequence. Only a light scolding from Kunikida to not make himself ill.
If Atsushi would choose to give himself mercy, he could blame his behavior on primal instinct.
Ranpo’s eyes had cut through him like emerald knives, though. It made Atsushi wonder, not for the first time, why Ranpo, despite a constant surplus of important intel, often chose to stay silent in the absence of rewards.
Perhaps it was a case of the answer being in the question. Perhaps it wasn’t.
Atsushi was just grateful Ranpo stayed silent.
Nowadays, Atsushi was smarter; more slick. He always ate “normal” in front of others—though his version of normal was still rather large—even if it meant having to endure his stomach eating itself in desperation for overfullness.
Atsushi was always grasping out for relief—relief he felt he did not deserve at all. Fullness was easy. Fullness was comforting.
In, in, in, don’t stop to breathe, don’t stop to think, keep the food coming until the fullness is so alien to any feeling you would’ve felt in the orphanage that it makes it near impossible to think you are there again.
Four hours without food was an eternity.
Surplus of calories. Too much, always too much.
Surplus of weight. He was a sack of meat.
Surplus of guilt. Denial is a river in Eygpt; he read the map, nodded, looked up, and said, “It’s the Rhine.”
Absence of fullness. Four hours. A starved man.
He disgusts himself.
The angel beckons with Her electrical screams.
“Be not afraid.”