Work Text:
Nutritionist
Billy rolls his eyes as he sits on the couch. “Another progress meeting, huh?” he says, crossing his arms. “I think I'm doing pretty good.”
“You are,” says Finnley. “This is Darryl.”
Billy nods to the dark blue axolotl. They've had people sit in on the meetings several times: Marie Cuttlefish, the first week when she signed his papers; his Octarian teacher, when he was ready to move up a class; and once their bus driver, after that terrible day in Turf. “It's nice to meet you,” he says.
“The same,” says Darryl, brushing back one of his gills; it flops back over his face, and he frowns, reaches in a pocket, and comes out with a clip. He gathers all his feathery gills into a knot on top of his head. “I wish it could've been sooner, but you've been skipping all our appointments.”
Billy's legs go weak, and it's good he's already sitting down. The nutritionist.
“Care to explain why you've been skipping this one thing?” asks Finnley. “You've been doing great everywhere else. You're nearing conversation levels in Octarian, you've mastered every chore in the life skill's class, your budgeting skills are... improving.”
Billy's ears lower, and he looks at the floor. “I don't need to see someone just to tell me I'm fat.”
“So you don't look like the cover of Haikara Walker,” says Darryl. “Neither does the model on the cover. That squit's inkshopped.”
Billy looks up.
“If I see a thousand people, there'll be a thousand bodies, and at least five hundred different best ways for them to eat,” says Darryl. “Your file has some things that worry me—parents said you ate too much, you were hungry enough to eat your own tentacles before coming here, and cafeteria workers have reported you skipping meals. None of that's good.”
“So what?” Billy crosses his arms and scowls. “I'm still fat!”
“And why is that a bad thing?”
“I'm not in shape!”
“Round is a shape. More inklings should be round. Makes them cuddlier, and not everyone wants to cuddle in swim form. But if you don't want to be round, skipping meals is a terrible way to go about it.”
Billy stops with his mouth half-open.
“You skip meals or don't eat enough, your body thinks there's some suffering going on, and the first thing it gets rid of is muscle,” says Darryl; one of his gills escapes the clip and flops onto his nose. “Then you have a harder time playing turf war, and you end up hungry and angry and still not looking the way you want.” He pushes the gill out of his face. “Tissues on the table beside the couch.”
Billy touches his face. He's crying.
“Perhaps I should go,” says Finnley, getting to his feet. He's out the door by the time Billy's blown his nose.
Darryl stands up, only to move to the couch beside Billy. “I see a lot of Octolings, too. They never had a chance to choose their own food before, so they've never heard of junk food. Ever tried to explain why cake is bad to a teenager who doesn't know?”
The idea makes Billy snort a laugh. “Really? They don't know that?”
“Nope,” Darryl says; another gill escapes the clip and lands on Billy's head, and he fights the smile. “Inklings have a lot of wrong ideas, too. Everyone does. We'll work together for a while, figure out what does and doesn't work for you, and what you want. There's foods that will help you get there, and if need be, I'll put in a word for a personal trainer, too.”
This doesn't seem real. He's... it's... “Are you sure?” Billy asks. “I know I wouldn't want to work with someone like—”
“Absolutely,” Darryl says; the clip pops off, and he scowls. “Swamp's mercy... let me just get my gills taken care of and we'll start getting you sorted.”