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It’s subtle.
The slight shift in your seat, the way you stare at the plate, brows furrowed, expression scrunching the bridge of your nose as your gaze traces over each item. Rice will be worth a lot, you think, it’s all carbs; so will the tofu, since protein naturally provides more calories; the only safe thing is the vegetables, and, and—
“Pips?” Caleb calls, wiping his hands with a towel, joining you at the wooden table made for two, purple eyes growing wide as he takes in your state, the nervous fidgeting of your hands, the awkward bounce of your foot.
“Are you okay? Want me to make us something else to eat?” he asks, reaching out for the plate, ready to whisk it away and replace it with something new. You shake your head, hand finding his wrist, your fingers cold and a stark comparison to his, the warmth unfathomable.
It’s subtle, but Caleb notices. His hand maneuvers deftly to hold yours, encasing your fingers within the cage of his own, thumb rubbing circles into the pressure points of your palm, bottom lip curving downwards slightly.
“You’re so cold,” he mutters, as if the concept offends him. “Have you been layering up?”
You laugh slightly, but Caleb doesn’t return your mith; his expression steels over, brows knitting, chin tilted slightly downwards as purple irises drink in your figure maddeningly. Again and again, he stares at you, long familiar with the sight yet retracing each feature as if something will change.
It’s subtle, and Caleb notices.
“Pips,” he says, his voice dropping, low, certain, asking you despite knowing the answer himself, “you’re not eating well, are you?”
“That’s not true,” you respond, unable to meet his gaze. It’s subtle, but Caleb notices. With one hand continuing to massage yours, his other comes up to the side of your face, the warmth unfathomable, emanating from his skin as he turns your head towards him.
Again and again, he stares at you, retracing the bridge of your nose, the curl of your lips, the hollowed expression which doesn’t belong to your face. You’re not eating well. Caleb knows this.
He knew from the moment you started checking your weight obsessively in the morning (It’s too practiced, he thought, reading the notification over every time he went to work), the moment you took a little longer to start eating, bottom lip jutted out as if you were trying to assess whether it was worth it (You started hitting the gym at night, he noticed—of course he did, how could he not?—for hours on end, as if you were trying to compensate for all that you had eaten).
It’s subtle, and Caleb notices. He notices because it’s you.
Because, of all the things in the world—from his duty as a colonel to his second life—it has always been for you. Death could not keep Caleb from you, neither could his mind, or the thinned line your lips form, or the calamities of your mind which he brings upon himself to mend.
You will look away; Caleb will bring your gaze back to him. You will run away; Caleb will catch up to you. You will fall apart; Caleb will mend your broken pieces, sealing them with the gentlest of kisses, a childhood promise now reborn into an eternal oath.
You will lie; Caleb will pretend to believe you. You will stare at the plate for a couple moments longer; Caleb will familiarize himself with the sight, waiting with this newfound time, waiting for you to say something yourself.
“Okay,” he finally responds, after much contemplation, the furrow of his brow never once easing over. “Okay, then let’s eat, pips.”
It’s subtle, the way you hesitate to pick up your utensils, the way you pick at the vegetables first, chewing slowly as if it’ll make you fuller. Caleb notices this. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He tears his gaze away from you, matching your rhythm as he picks at the lettuce, chewing meticulously, noticing the way you completely avoid the rice.
“I…” you trail off, voice impossibly quiet. “I, I’m sorry Caleb. I don’t think I’m that hungry after all.”
Caleb stares at you, expression unreadable. His lips draw into a thin line, his brows remaining furrowed, eyes flickering and tracing all over your face, noticing the way you look as if you’re ill, your fingers trembling as you hold a spoon.
His ribs form knots, constricting at his revived heart as he stands up, meeting you on your side of the table, hand guiding yours away from the spoon, away from the plate, away from the food. You don’t look at him, or the leftovers, or anything, really. Your shoulders tense and you look down. Caleb notices.
“Pips,” he says, brushing the side of your face before finding your hands once more, his skin melting into yours, the warmth being shared. “Pips, don’t lie to me. You’re not eating well.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to deny it, the certainty, an observation which a man so violently in love can be, most terrifyingly, expected to make. You’re not eating well; you’re falling into bad habits; you’re treating food as if it’s something that needs to be amended for.
Caleb is used to waiting. But he’s had enough of that—he has waited throughout all of his lives, from when he was your best friend to now, your lover who, really, feels so insignificant in the face of your colossal light. You’re not going to tell me, Caleb thinks—no, knows, you’re not going to tell me, so I’m going to ask you first.
When Caleb was younger, he’d feign ignorance so long as it made you happy. You could go and pretend you’re not hungry all you want; Caleb would leave out leftovers at night, ear pressed against the door of his room, waiting to hear yours open and the familiar pitter-patter of your footsteps echo throughout the hall, relaying your satiation to him. And you’d return to your room, the door closing, and Caleb would remain as he was: waiting. He’d wait to see if you’d go to sleep or if you’d find the bathroom, if the retching would begin. And he’d open his own door, and he’d pretend to wipe his eyes from drowsiness, approaching the door with the tremble of his hands, the shudder of his ribs.
(“[Name]?” he had asked, knocking quietly on the door, the sound of your coughing constricting his chest, the knotted ribs only worsening. “[Name], are you okay?”)
(And you would respond, “Yeah, I’m fine.” And he’d remain as he was: waiting. He’d wait for you to open the door, to wipe your mouth weakly and flash him a smile that didn’t meet your eyes. And he’d wait for you to ask him, most poignantly, voice barely above a whisper, “Caleb, do you, uh… Do you think—” and you’d give up there, because the shame was too much and Caleb would remain as he was: waiting.)
(But he would answer, without needing your question, because he was so certain and because he had truly, wholly believed it: “I think you’re beautiful.” And you’d smile and you’d bid him a quiet goodnight, and he’d watch you disappear down the hall and he’d remain as he was: waiting.)
(And Caleb would remain there forever, if death hadn’t snuck up on him. And Caleb would’ve cried into his pillows for so many nights on end, frustrated at his own incompetence, his uselessness, his lack of words and purpose since you were so many things but not his. Because you were so beautiful and so radiant and so wonderfully you, and you would never realize it. Because he couldn’t do anything. Because all he could do was wait.)
Now that he’s older, Caleb has had enough of waiting. Death took him once already, it left him with so many regrets that the chip planted inside him couldn’t overcome the magnitude of your existence, the enormity of his love, the warmth unfathomable. He will not wait again.
“Pips,” he says, again, trailing after your gaze, leaning forward to get a better look at you, hands still rubbing circles into yours. “Talk to me, please? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating well?”
Caleb knows you check the mirror before every shower. He knows because the time you spend in the bathroom is longer than usual, because the water never runs until after five minutes when usually, you only take two.
He knows you thumb at your own skin, tracing over the places you’d like to change. He knows because you stare at your own reflection with a lost eye, fixating on the shape of your body, your hands raising to feel the fear for yourself, lowering once you notice his stare.
You don’t say anything—but the way your bottom lip is gnawed in between your teeth, and the way your chin tilts down, as if to hide the glossy look to your eyes which he recognizes all too well—but, already, that is enough.
His hand parts from yours to press the back of your head into his embrace, as if you could disappear into his knotted ribs, the chambers of his heart hollowed out and ready for your existence, the enormity of his desperation incomparable.
“[Name],” Caleb says, breathless almost, lips parting to utter the mantra which has never managed to escape his throat in his younger years, the forsaken concept which everyone recognizes but you, “please, tell me why. Tell me what’s wrong.”
If Caleb could, he’d steal you away from Linkon. He’d carve out a sanctuary in the sky just for the two of you, a cloudless expanse where you’d see yourself in the mirror and—instead of thumbing at the skin, squeezing the parts you’d like to remove—you’d smile, and you’d think, most certainly, that you are the most wondrous being to ever grace this universe. Because you are.
And it’d be the two of you, sailing the skies, intertwined. And it’d be the two of you, and you’d eat all that you wanted, and you’d exercise for the sake of being healthy and not for the sake of making “amends,” and you’d tell him you’re hungry when you are, and you’d pair your meals with a sweet treat instead of sacrificing one for the other.
And Caleb would love you, wholly. And you would recognize that. And he’d never wait again, and you’d never suffer again, and he’d love you, sealing the irrevocable distance, intertwined, knotted. You, him, together. A world made for two.
“I’m scared,” you mutter, “I’m scared to eat. And I,”—your words are interrupted by a spasm of hiccups, sobs wracking your chest, Caleb’s hand pressing you further into his arms, as if you could melt into him, as if his eyes could coalesce into yours and you could see just how wonderful you are—“I, I just can’t. I feel like I want to vomit.”
You’re scared; Caleb won’t ask why. He won’t thumb at your fears, retching the unutterable from your throat—there’s no need for that. Caleb knows you.
He knows you more than he knows himself. He knows your fears, your habits, your nights that you spend vomiting and regretting having eaten, refusing to look in the mirror since you know it’ll only make it worse. Caleb knows.
He knows and he loves you anyway; love is unconditional in that regard, stretching across the sky, a blanket of blue.
“You are loved,” Caleb whispers, gently patting at your tears with a tissue, purple eyes peering into the depths of yours, separated by a thin layer of grief. “You are loved, always. I love you. No matter who you become,”—he presses you against him once more, swaying lightly, his weight shifting to and fro, like the gentle bob of a plane, the endless ripple of the sky—“I will love you. You are loved. You are beautiful.”
Who couldn’t love you? Whose existence could you possibly fail to fulfill, in all your wonder, all your radiance? You are beautiful; a creature crafted with wonder, adoration etched into the marrow of your bones; unfathomable. Caleb knows this. Everyone must know that, he thinks, bitter, everyone but you.
“But if I eat, people will treat me differently, and—” A sob cuts your words, the sound painful, tying his already-knotted ribs, his heart spilling through, desperate to split his chest and lurch towards you.
“People will treat you differently?” Caleb echoes, voice frighteningly low. “Who?” His hold is firmer, arms encasing yours as if he were a cage and you a bird, as if you could fly away the moment he lets go. Disappear here, Caleb thinks, into him. Disappear into him. Into his ribs, his heart, carved away, waiting since forever ago. Disappear. Disappear. Into the sanctuary, the expanse of the sky, its horizon paling in comparison to the enormity which rests within him, colossal.
“Just,” you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt, “people. I’m scared. I’m scared, I don’t know.”
“Then,” Caleb replies, firm, certain, “forget them,”—they will disappear, most certainly—“you shouldn’t live for others. You are loved. I love you. If you want to eat, then eat. Don’t make amends, just eat, just live. I will handle the rest.”
Live for yourself, eat for yourself, stare at the mirror and look at yourself. Beautiful. Divine. Incomparable. There’s no need to make amends; Caleb will handle the rest. You are loved. You will be loved, until the sky itself shatters, until the universe fails to expand. You are loved. Caleb has already dealt with that.
You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.
Caleb presses his lips onto the bone of your tearstained cheek, his hand coming to thumb at the ridge of your brows, expression scrunching as he drinks in the sight of your grief-ridden form. Never again, he thinks. Never again.
“Want to take a nap, pips?” he asks, voice hushed, barely above a whisper. “We can eat later.”
Nodding, your hands come to wrap around Caleb’s neck, the violent furrow of his brows softening as you fall into his arms, letting him take you to your shared room, his steps light as he treks across the halls of his home, made for two, his life, stretched across the sky.
Two. For Caleb, everything has always come in two. Two pillows, two blankets (you complain he’s a blanket thief), two people. You and him, together. Forever.
You are loved.
It started as a promise; now, it’s an oath. Two.
You are loved.