Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aiden walked into the auditorium, fashionably late for assembly. All eyes - other students’, teachers’, and Harvard’s, big and warm and brown - were on him, because he was beautiful.

He knew he was beautiful because it was objective fact, evidenced by the attention of boys at Kings Row and recently, modelling agency scouts. It was told to him by the ones lucky enough to be graced by his presence, usually through breathy kisses and light touches. He didn’t feel beautiful, but what did it matter? The world saw him as such and, by extension, treated him with a level of reverence and respect he hadn’t been afforded previously. It made him resentful of how he’d been treated in the past - mocked for interests that now made him seem interesting and different, his quick tongue and sharp wit admonished where, now, it was admired and celebrated - and anxious not to lose this newfound privilege. It amused him, and made him feel cynical, to see how fair-weather and shallow the world could be - to see how a fact as simple as a difference in exterior appearance could change people’s perception of him and, subsequently, their behaviour towards him.

Everything, Aiden concluded, was easier when you were beautiful, and therefore maintaining his beauty was imperative. He’d buzzed off the remnants of his hair, badly dyed black, roots showing, and let the natural golden-brown grow out, now falling in waves around his face - though it was more falling out than falling into place. Aiden shoved the unpleasant thought out of his head, then made a mental note to order some volumising shampoo. The point was, he’d shed his former self as easily as his hair had been sheared off by the hairdresser, and he hadn’t had to change a thing about himself; not internally at least. He could still be an asshole, but now it drew people toward him instead of repelling them.

Aiden could practically hear Harvard inside his head, reprimanding him for that last statement. You’re not an asshole, Aiden, he’d say, you just get moody when you haven’t eaten, or drank enough water.

Precisely the point, Aiden responded to Harvard-inside-his-head. He closed his eyes forcefully, then opened them again. The black spots that swum in his sight remained. Hunger ruled his life now; the passage of time was not measured in minutes, fencing bouts, class periods, nor semesters, but rather in the span between his previous meal and his next. Too long. Time moved too slowly. Sometimes, Aiden wished it didn’t move at all.

I feel like shit, he thought.

It’s all worth it, he thought, as darkness consumed his vision and the ground rose to swallow him up.

***

It had all started with - because of course it had - fencing.

It was the summer after freshman and before sophomore year, back when Aiden still gave half a fuck about the sport. They hadn’t made it onto the team the previous year - freshmen rarely do, Coach Williams had told them in an effort to console the disappointed boys - but they were determined to this year. Harvard had made a plan: they would train over the summer - together when possible, alone otherwise - and improve their skills. Aiden was happy to follow Harvard’s plan, with an addition of his own - he was going to try to lose some weight before the next season.

As a kid, Aiden had always been small, as if he were made to tuck into tight spots and observe rather than participate in the world with his peers, or be pushed aside whenever convenient by his father. Fencing taught him to use this smallness to his advantage - to learn the distances at which it was easiest to hit without being hit, to feel the correct timing for a duck-counterattack against a bigger, taller opponent. Somewhere along the way, his movements shifted from awkward jabs to fluid, graceful motions with tactical intent. He was no prodigy by any measure, but he began to progress through the ranks in his club and at local tournaments, which made him learn to hold his head higher and eager to get back to the salle after each practice, each competition. His body was his own, and Aiden enjoyed exploring what it could do.

Then, as kids tended to do, he grew. Four inches in the summer between 7th and 8th Grade stretched him out into all limbs and no knowledge of what to do with them. Every mirror became a funhouse mirror. The drastic change in height within a short span of time meant that Aiden had outgrown his sense of distance and timing for fencing; feelings of tempo and when to parry and when to attack had to be re-developed. Aiden felt like an alien, trapped inside a body that wouldn’t cooperate with its brain’s signals.

Over the past year or two, Aiden had begun to fill out. He got stronger, but it also brought forth an unfamiliar softness to his form. Time, effort, and the guidance of Coach Williams helped Aiden feel comfortable on the piste again. He learned, this time, how to use adapt his fencing to his new physique - to use his height and relative brute strength to his advantage - strong parries that pushed an opponent’s blade out of the way, defensive footwork, feints and disengaging into finishes.

Outside of fencing, he tried not to think too much about his appearance; he knew he wasn’t attractive, with round cheeks and features too big for his face, but it didn’t bother him if he didn’t focus on it. However, he couldn’t help noticing the changes in his body; if asked, he couldn’t explain why, but he felt better when his body was covered by fencing whites, where all of the fencers were almost indistinguishable from each other. When he was fencing, nothing else mattered - only his speed, technique, explosiveness. A lunge didn’t have to be perfect to score. Successful, ugly actions were still rewarded.

One day, changing before practice, Aiden found he couldn’t zip up his breeches; they were too small. He didn’t think much of it, simply went into the armoury to borrow some club kit, making a mental note to ask his father to buy him new breeches.

Getting too big for his breeches, he’ll be easier to beat because he can’t move down the piste, one of the other boys had joked, and Aiden had brushed it off at the time, but the words stuck to him like a sweat that he couldn’t wash off.

The discomfort followed him through the rest of the semester, heightened, and brought up prior experiences - small things that now seemed glaringly obvious.

You eat so much, Aiden’s father had commented repeatedly over spring break. His stepmother at the time tried to defend him, saying, he’s a growing boy.

Sarah, or whatever the then-Mrs Kane’s name was, shouldn’t have defended him, Aiden realised. His father was right.

So, Aiden had decided to lose a bit of weight over the summer. Nothing major, just watching what he ate more closely and fencing at their local club for exercise. He weighed himself, under the gleaming tiles of one of the many bathrooms in the Kane family mansion, and set a goal weight.

At the time, he hadn’t told Harvard about it; it felt stupid, shameful, and, for some reason, nothing rational, Aiden had a feeling that Harvard simply wouldn’t understand. Harvard had always been beautiful, strong and solid and open-hearted. He laughed like sunlight, throwing his head back, mouth open, eyes twinkling. Aiden, being madly, horrendously in love with his best friend, may have been biased, but simply put, Harvard was perfect; Harvard didn’t need to change anything about himself. Besides, as much as he tried to hide it, Harvard was a worrier, and Aiden didn’t see the point in giving him something else he could potentially worry about, despite the fact that there was nothing to worry about.

Aiden followed his plan - counted calories, ran miles, and attended every practice session at the local fencing club. Results were slow coming - but they certainly came. The softness his form had taken on started to melt away, giving way to hard, defined lines: cheekbones and collarbones and a generally more linear look to his physique, filling him with a satisfaction that curbed his cravings for things he could no longer eat. He couldn’t quite fit back into his old breeches yet, but they went on better each time he tried them on. All wasn’t yet well, but he had reason to believe it would be.

However, he soon became impatient with how lengthy the process was, the monotony of endless cycles of eat - run - fence - sleep - repeat, so he took to experimenting. Aiden found that he couldn’t add more movement to his routine - his muscles ached, all the time, and whenever he wasn’t already exercising, he was with Harvard, and that was time he was not willing to give up, not for anything - but he could eat less. It seemed like such a simple solution, and he chastised himself for not thinking of it sooner.

This, too, took some time to come into effect, but it was undoubtedly quicker than the previous regime. A wave of relief washed over Aiden each time the number on the scale went down. It only temporarily quelled the disgust he’d begun to be filled by each time he looked at his body, but the momentary high was compelling.

It was thrilling, to succeed at something. He wasn’t the best fencer in the school or the top of his class, but he could do this. He could make himself smaller and, he discovered, could make himself something other people wanted to look at - wanted to do more than just look at. When dragged around Europe by his father and his father’s latest girlfriend, cosplaying as a happy family, boys approached Aiden, and he found himself saying yes to this new kind of attention, to kisses and caresses of hands.

Once he’d reached his initial goal, it seemed like a no-brainer to keep going.

He set new targets, numbers creeping lower, lower, lower, like a clock ticking down through the duration of a fencing match: daily calories, goal weights, body measurements.

He learned to move languidly, to look and look away skittishly through honey-coloured eyelashes, to choose when to let his touch linger. Like, when he caught his reflection in passing - in pools of water, the glass of picture frames, in gleaming épée guards - every fibre of his being screamed to look away, but also screamed, just a little louder, for him to scrutinise every aspect of his appearance. This is what you are, the voice inside his head told him. Call it as you see it. Call it as it is.

He was weak, an impostor and a coward, and reminded of it at every instance. The least he could do was try to look good which, currently, he certainly did not, despite some improvements. He pinched and prodded at the flesh on his torso, arms, thighs, a feeling of disgust not unlike nausea rising in his throat. The skin on his face had broken out in angry, red spots, and there were dark circles under his eyes, like bruises made by the point of an épée, except in fencing, there was protective clothing. He was repulsive; nothing protected from that.

No wonder Harvard doesn’t want you, the voice would say, if it were feeling particularly odious.

Gloomily, Aiden agreed.

Whenever they were together, Aiden would look over at Harvard and feel an intense love for him, followed by a bone-clinging dread that this, too, would not last; one day, Harvard would leave him and move on to better things, boys who didn’t need to constantly be saved by him, and Aiden would be left with nothing worthwhile.

He was a a deadweight tied to Harvard’s feet, dragging him down. But that didn’t have to be true; he could be more than that - or rather, less. He could be thin. He could make himself thinner, and he could make himself beautiful. He would. The fall was inevitable, but he would soften the landing for himself.

This reminder drove his actions and was forefront of his mind as he pushed himself harder. He ran miles and miles on a treadmill when he felt like his legs were sure to give out and collapse under him, just to end up in the same spot as where he’d started. He couldn’t get to sleep at night, so his head often felt heavy and fuzzy, and minute mishaps aggravated him in ways they hadn’t before. The more he listened to it, the louder the voice got; sometimes, always to futility, he pushed back. It became preferable to let it rule his life instead; it did a better job than he did, anyhow.

Are you really going to eat that?

Aiden stared at the food on his plate.

Silverware - knife and fork - were gripped tightly in his unmoving hands. If he’d been holding an épée instead, Coach Williams would’ve immediately told him to relax his grip, to control its point with his fingers primarily. If he’d been holding an épée, it would’ve been much easier to manoeuvre.

He’d been invited over for dinner with the Lee family, a salvation from the empty halls Aiden and his father barely filled, though their raised voices echoed across just fine when they were arguing. Mrs Lee was asking Aiden something about the weather in France and how nice the seaside must be in the summer, but he couldn’t focus on her words. His head spun as he took a sip of water in an attempt to collect himself. A quasi-nausea overcame him again; he was hyper-aware of his thighs pressing down, spreading out across his chair. He thought about the digits on the scale, glowing in the darkness of the bathroom, unmoving for over a week now.

He was so hungry. He couldn't eat anything.

Aiden tried to bring his attention to Mrs Lee’s questions, cutting meat and vegetables and carbohydrates into smaller and smaller pieces as he responded. The action was ritualistic and gave him something to do with his shaking hands. Eventually, everyone else finished eating, and Harvard looked over at him.

“Aiden?” He asked, worry in his expression.

“I’m not hungry,” Aiden lied. “I don’t feel very well, I’m sorry.”

He was ravenous, so hungry he could’ve eaten every scrap on this plate, though it had gone cold and was all mushed up, clumping together now, sauce congealed. He imagined shoving it into his mouth, disregarding the taste and the texture, only heeding the need to fill the gaping hole inside his stomach. Once he started, he wouldn’t stop; he thought about cake, bread, and all of the things he’d given up but wanted more than he’d ever wanted anything tangible. Subconsciously, he bit the inside of his cheek, the sharp pain and the tang of blood on his tongue jolting him back to reality.

Stop thinking about what you can’t have, said the voice inside Aiden’s head, ever pervasive. You shouldn’t even want it. There is no way you are eating anything now. If you give in, you are nothing.

“I think I’m going to go home,” Aiden said, gulping down his glass of water.

“I’ll walk with you,” Harvard said, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“If you’re feeling really unwell, I can get the car,” Mrs Lee offered, stepping back into the room. Aiden tried to smile at her.

“Thanks for the offer, but I think getting some air might help,” he replied. She nodded, and told Aiden to text her when he got home.

Aiden stood up - too fast. His right foot missed the floor, but a firm hand caught his shoulder. Harvard held him steadily as he regained his balance. “Are you okay?” He asked, face flooded with concern.

“I’m fine, just lost my balance, you know how I can be.” Aiden tried to laugh it off, but his voice quivered. Hastily, he put on his shoes.

On the walk back to Aiden’s, forty minutes long when taken leisurely, Aiden told Harvard about Europe, making him laugh with imitations of his father’s girlfriend and stories of some of the boys he’d met. Harvard shared his own stories about visiting his grandma and her army of cats - “there’s seven of them now, Aiden, and most of them are fine but the tiny tabby kitten hated me” - and this just being around Harvard filled Aiden with a warmth he hadn’t felt for a while, despite the intense summer heat.

Haltingly, Harvard stopped laughing, and turned to face Aiden with a serious expression.

“How long have you been ill for, Aiden?” He asked. Aiden puzzled over the phrasing of the question and was about to ask him what he was talking about, then remembered the dinner.

“I think I’ve just caught a cold,” he said as lightly as he could. “I’ll be fine in a week or so. Hopefully I won’t give it to you.”

Harvard didn’t look away. He tried to hide it, but Aiden could feel his eyes passing over him, like Harvard was trying to figure out the answer to a puzzle. “What’s wrong?” Aiden questioned.

He sighed. “I don’t really know how else to say this, but you don’t look well.”

Aiden’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

Harvard sighed again, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Well, for a start, you’ve lost weight.”

Aiden flushed with pride at this recognition of his accomplishments, then remembered, despite their closeness, Harvard could not, in fact, read his mind. “I’ve been trying to,” he told Harvard. “Don’t worry about that, I’m fine.”

“But you’ve lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time,” Harvard repeated, as if he hadn’t heard Aiden’s statement. “And you’re not acting like yourself. Please, Aiden, just let me know if something is going on, I’m here for you.”

He’s so kind and lovely, and you are an irrevocably awful person, the voice told Aiden. You don’t deserve this.

Perhaps the voice was right. Looking at Harvard - his brow furrowed, concern flooding his eyes, looking like an angel - Aiden knew. He knew it was right. He didn’t deserve this, and neither did Harvard.

“I’m fine! Don’t worry about me!” Aiden shouted suddenly, blinking away tears. Still, they ran down his face and into his mouth, warm and salty. He could feel his cheeks flush and burn and, in that moment, he hated his body for betraying him.

Catching Harvard’s hurt expression, he turned away and bolted through the door, rushing to the bathroom to weigh himself.

***

(They weren’t the sort of friends to leave a fight unresolved, so they talked about it the next day.)

(Aiden reiterated to Harvard, in as many words, that he was just trying to lose a bit of weight. He was eating healthily, eating a suitable amount, and exercising.)

(Harvard wasn’t convinced, but ultimately let it pass with a please make sure you’re looking after yourself and I’m here if you need to talk about anything.)

(He would, Aiden reassured Harvard, only there was nothing to talk about. He was fine.)

Chapter Text

“You can lunge more explosively than that, Kane, I’ve seen you do it before,” Coach Williams called.

Aiden groaned, recovered from the offending lunge to an en garde position, and lunged again.

It was a typical Saturday morning practice, starting with warm-up and footwork. Coach Williams was walking up and down the hall, shouting out feedback as the boys carried out her prescribed workout. Beads of sweat ran down Aiden’s face from the exertion, though it couldn’t really be described as warm in the salle.

Eventually, the summer had yielded to September, giving way to cooler mornings and earlier sunsets and yellowing leaves, reduced to slush under the trample of the students of Kings Row Boys’ School. It was a relief, Aiden discovered, when those final few weeks of August went by and, all of a sudden, he was packing to go back to school, which felt more like a home than his house ever did. I’m going home to Kings Row; he tried the sentence out in his head, and realised it fit. He was going home. Moving back into the dorm room he shared with Harvard, pushing their beds together, teddy bear on his pillow; welcoming a new transfer, a serious-looking kid on academic scholarship who’d been assigned to room with the unruly Tanner Reed; dinner the first night back, the food as awful as ever, so no one had questioned it particularly when Aiden left most of his plate untouched.

Then came fencing team trials.

Physical tests first, followed by the three-day poule ordeal they’d gone through last year. Harvard was eager, intermittently smiling excitedly at Aiden and saying, in hushed tones, I think we can do it this time, this’ll be our year, Aiden, so endearingly Aiden had to bite his tongue to block the incoherent infatuation that would spew uncontrollably from his mouth if he let it.

Harvard was strong and enthusiastic, and Aiden allowed himself to be swept up in his residual excitement, chatting with wide eyes and emphatic gestures about preparation and feints and second intention actions. He was delighted to discover that his training over the summer had - as well as shaping his body into a form less offensive - meant that he showed some improvements in the physical testing on his previous attempt. He was light on his feet on the balance beam, and the countless hours of point control exercises he and Harvard had done sharpened his accuracy. Everything was going well, until he’d found Harvard in their room the night before the round robin.

“Harvard, are you alright? I couldn’t find you,” Aiden had asked, closing the door of the dorm room behind them. Then, turning his head to their beds - Harvard, head in his hands, legs curled up against his body, shaking, breathing erratically.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He ventured over to his best friend. And, in the way Harvard had done with him so many times before, “breathe with me.”

“In through your nose and out through your mouth.” Aiden demonstrated, holding up his fingers to count in, two, three, four, and out. He continued and Harvard followed his rhythm, their eyes locked and breath in unison. Eventually, his shaking subsided and Harvard stretched, before wrapping Aiden in a hug.

“Thanks, Aiden,” Harvard whispered, his face pressed into Aiden’s chest.

Aiden, in turn wrapped his arms around Harvard, held him for a while, the touch grounding the both of them, then Harvard sat up and turned to face him.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Aiden asked, trying to keep his tone calm.

Harvard stared at his hands for a moment before answering. “I’m really nervous about tryouts,” he admitted. He took a deep breath, then continued. “What if I’m not good enough? What if we can’t be on the team together?”

“Hey,” Aiden said gently, placing a hand on Harvard’s shoulder, “you’re wrong. You’re the best fencer I know, and your insinuation that I would get on the team over you is ridiculous; we’re both going to just fence tomorrow, and we’ll be on the team together. Like we always imagined. We can do it together” He said it with so much conviction he almost believed it himself.

You can’t help him, the voice inside Aiden’s head intruded. You’re not good for anything. You won’t get on the team with him, you’re making empty promises and you’ll just end up disappointing him, like always. You can’t even do something as simple as not eat properly—

“We can do it together,” he repeated. Harvard’s lips slowly curved into a small smile, and Aiden grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s go and get some dinner before they close the cafeteria.”

Aiden almost laughed out loud at the irony of his last statement, but Harvard acquiesced, went to the bathroom to wash his face, and they headed to the dining hall. They carried their trays over to where Tanner and Kally Jenkins - Aiden learned, was the scholarship kid’s name - had saved them two seats next to each other. Surprising himself and Harvard, Aiden took a forkful of whatever was on his plate to his mouth, and chewed, swallowed. Seeing Harvard visibly smile at the action, he forced himself to smile back and, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he took another bite. He had to admit that whatever it was he was eating, it wasn’t too bad, if unidentifiably mushy and over-salted in the way school food always was. Harvard started eating his own dinner and turned to answer a question Kally was asking him, on the way to being back to his usual helpful, sociable self.

Aiden kept eating.

To get through tryouts and get on the team, he consoled the voice in his head, screaming tirades. To help Harvard.

Tryouts could’ve gone better (but wasn’t that to be said of literally any competition?), but somehow, by the skin of his teeth (a 15-14 victory over a junior who walked around looking dejected afterwards), Aiden made it onto the team. Harvard did too, but that wasn’t a surprise.

In the morning, and in the days following, he’d been able to manage his nerves and the spiralling thoughts - Aiden ached, thinking about Harvard having to deal with them - and performed at his usual high standard. He’d shouted triumphantly at the end of his final match, and Aiden had cheered for him until his voice broke. Aiden had cheered even more when Harvard’s name had been called out at the announcement of the sports teams the following day. They had done it; he had really done it.

Now that he was on the team however - as reserve, but who cared, still on the team - the novelty of the challenge had worn off, and it felt more like an obligation than a privilege; it was another expectation placed too high for Aiden to reach. Case in point: being at practice on a Saturday morning, when he was still more asleep than anywhere near wakefulness.

At least it burns calories, he thought.

“Take a quick break, boys,” Coach shouted, “then get your kit on.”

Aiden and Harvard followed the rest of the team and headed to the changing room. On the threshold, Aiden took a step then - misplacing the next step - felt his head spin and the effects of gravity, but Harvard caught hold of his shoulder and pulled him back up firmly, gently, using the same care he held an épée with.

“Are you alright?” he asked, as Aiden steadied himself and went into the changing room to fetch his water bottle. Harvard followed.

“Fine,” Aiden responded. He uncapped his water bottle and drank from it. The rush of cold water down his throat and into his stomach, deliciously empty, made him feel as though he would throw up, but he kept drinking.

“Aiden, are you sure?” Harvard’s voice was infused with concern. “What happened?”

“I would much rather be in bed right now,” Aiden admitted, a half-truth. Then, because he couldn’t just say something without a sassy follow-up, “it was cruel of you to drag me up so early on a Saturday morning, Harvard.”

Harvard rolled his eyes and smiled at Aiden. “Should’ve gotten in earlier last night, then,” he joked. There was no malice in his tone but Aiden still flinched, the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit, before turning his expression into something closer, as close as it could be to a carefree smirk.

“Less chatting, more changing,” Coach Williams shouted from the salle. “Ten press-ups for every minute you’re late onto the piste.”

Exchanging a horrified look with Harvard - who was, of course, already fully dressed, mask and épée in respective hands - Aiden hastened to put on his whites. Breeches first, running his thumbs over his hipbones, comforted by their protrusion, as he pulled the stiff material over his hips and criss-crossed the straps over his head. Then the plastron, slipped on over his right upper arm and covering part of his chest, his eyes stealing a glance at the mirror in front of him as his fingers fastened the strap swiftly, muscle memory formed over years of repetition. Green eyes winced back at him under heavy lids, pale skin blotched with acne. His jaw looked more defined, he thought, but infuriatingly, there still remained a softness in his cheeks that he could never seem to get rid of. He turned away, reaching for his body wire, then running it up the length of his arm before pulling on his jacket, flinching at its coldness against his skin. Finally, Aiden still zipping up his jacket, they made their way back into the salle.

Coach directed Harvard to carry out an exercise with one of their fellow team members, then told Aiden to follow her to the small side room used for individual lessons.

“Stand en garde,” she instructed, doing so herself as she adjusted her mask with her free hand.

They went through the motions carried out at the beginning of almost every lesson Aiden had ever had with Coach Williams - moving up and down the piste, keeping distance, reading the signals in the placement of her blade or the pace of her footwork and blocking or evading her blade, attacking or breaking the rhythm between them. The number on the scale was going down, but Aiden felt heavier than ever - limbs leaden and clumsy, familiar movements requiring monumental amounts of energy and effort. Eventually, Coach held a hand up.

“Halt there, that’s good,” she told Aiden, who could hardly hear her above the sound of his own panting. “Let’s try something new.”

She took her mask off and smiled conspiratorially at him. “Today, let’s start working on your flick.”

The flick.

Aiden beamed, trying to hide his excitement and failing. Coach Williams, seeing everything, chuckled.

“To flick, you must first bring your point up, elbow bent.” Aiden copied her movement, lifting his épée above the usual en garde position.

“Then, you bring your point down at the right timing, like this.” She demonstrated with her own épée, the blade making a whooshing sound as it bend and hit the mannequin, tip clicking.

“You steel your elbow and your arm stops at a certain point, but your blade will keep moving and bend and hit. That’s the point of a flick; to allow you to reach target area that straight hits cannot.”

Coach Williams demonstrated once more, then guided Aiden through the movements as he attempted the action.

His didn’t land. Instead of the blade bending, bringing the point onto the target with a click, the side of his épée tip slapped onto the mannequin awkwardly. He brought his arm up as Coach had demonstrated, and tried again.

“You’re not flicking; you’re not bending the blade, you’re just bringing the point down and trying to hit straight.” She flicked the mannequin with her own épée, then showed Aiden the hand movement another time.

He didn’t get it. Over the duration of the lesson, he tried over and over again, with input and guidance from Coach Williams, and he didn’t get it, not once. With each unsuccessful attempt, his irritation built. Sometimes, he got the arm motion correct, but not the timing of when to steel his elbow; other times, he didn’t generate enough force with his wrist to bend the blade.

Just get it right once, and you can leave, the voice inside Aiden’s head said. You’re wasting her time.

At some point, Coach Williams stepped aside and took off her mask. “And we’ll stop there today,” she told Aiden. And, seeing the dejected expression on his face, "don’t get discouraged. It can take a while to get your flick, and even longer to get it consistently. But we can keep on working on it together, and I’ll give you some exercises to build the strength in your wrist and elbow that will facilitate the actions.”

She put a hand on his shoulder in an encouraging manner, and steered him in the direction of the other boys, calling another up for his lesson.

Aiden made his way over to the piste Harvard was at. His stomach let out a loud grumble; mortified, Aiden uncapped his water bottle and drank from it. Harvard - fresh out of a match, sweat glistening on his brow like drops of dew, one hand holding the spool - gave him one of his signature I’m worried about you looks.

“I didn’t have time to eat breakfast,” he said to Harvard, by way of explanation as he took the spool and plugged his body wire in, stepping onto the piste. “We should lobby for later practices.” And he wasn’t lying - about breakfast nor about practice starting later. Aiden had never been a morning person, and he wasn’t about to change that for fencing, not when it worked so well in his favour; the more he slept, the less time he had to think about - or, god forbid, actually eat - the food he didn’t allow himself to eat. It was easier to skip a meal than to eat less, so he slept through breakfast. He also enjoyed sleeping, so it was a win-win situation.

He hated being hungry, but couldn’t deny the rush that emptiness brought, like he was light and ethereal and floating through the world, there and not there at the same time. The fencers on the piste saluted each other, then Harvard, who was refereeing.

“En garde,” Harvard said. “Ready? Fence!”

Even less could he deny the results that enduring a bit of hunger brought about. The outline of his body in the mirror, shrinking; he hardly recognised it anymore. Some days, it was acceptable, giving him conviction in what he was doing, other days something monstrous and repugnant, to be transformed, restricted, controlled. But on the good days, he was infused with euphoria, a renewed sense of purpose and motivation to keep at… whatever all of this was to be called. If someone had asked, and Aiden were able to verbalise the mess inside his brain, he would’ve insisted the good outweighed the bad; it was all worth it.

The match was tough. Aiden, his head pounding and muscles fatigued after the lesson, reverted back to old habits - stupid mistakes - overextending and committing too much too early. Sweaty and grunting, he managed to bring the score to 4-4, then lost on the fifth hit, missing his attack and getting caught by his opponent’s counterattack. He managed to salute, tap blades and shake hands, but made his way to the changing rooms as fast as he could afterwards without drawing suspicion. Locking himself into a bathroom stall, he let the tears he’d been holding back fall freely, salty and stinging.

Why can’t I do anything properly? he thought, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Why can’t I even fence?

You’re not good for anything, the voice inside his head responded.

He clawed a hand through his hair in frustration. It came away, strands entangled, and he stared at them for a moment - dull and lank, slick with sweat - before brushing them off into the toilet and flushing.

Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him from the cracked bathroom mirror as he washed his hands. When he returned to the changing room, it was thankfully empty. He stripped off his sweat-stained kit and stepped into the shower.

When he emerged, dressed in clean clothes and towelling his hair dry, Harvard was sitting on one of the benches, scrolling through his phone, which he put down as he saw Aiden.

“Hey,” he said, gentle as ever. “How did your lesson with Williams go?”

“We started working on flicks,” then, seeing the excitement on Harvard’s face, he continued, “I didn’t land any, though.”

“Oh,” Harvard pursed his lip in thought. “Well, I can’t believe you convinced her to let you start! And flicking is notoriously difficult, I’m sure you’ll get it next time.” He smiled encouragingly.

“Yeah,” Aiden said noncommittally, looking down. “I fenced really shit against that guy.”

“You were tired after your lesson,” Harvard consoled him, “and that last point was just unlucky.”

Aiden hummed, still staring at his shoes. He could feel Harvard - observant, worrying, caring Harvard - tense up, but he didn’t know what to say to lighten the mood again. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth in the first place; he ruined everything.

“Wanna eat snacks and watch old movies tonight?” Harvard suggested, presumably trying to make him feel better in that kind, sincere way of his.

Yes, Aiden thought.

No, the voice inside his head countered. You’ll ruin it, you’ll ruin his evening, just like you ruin everything else you touch. And you don’t deserve to eat.

“I’ve got a date,” Aiden snapped.

The tones of his words echoed in his ears, hollow and tinny, and he immediately hated himself for it. He felt his cheeks burning, hot with shame and horror.

Harvard’s earnest expression fell from his face. “O-okay, another night then-“

“Harvard, I’m so sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” Aiden cursed himself as he scrambled to find the words to make the situation right. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I didn’t mean to snap at you, I’m so sorry, and I can cancel on the guy if you want to hang out, and-”

“It’s okay,” Harvard said quietly. His level tone would’ve put anyone else at ease. Aiden, however, could read the quivers in his eyes and tell that it was very much not okay, but Harvard didn’t want to cause conflict. He opened his mouth to speak once more, but no words came out. “Have fun with the lucky guy.”

Their walk back to the dorms was silent, only punctuated with footsteps falling into a familiar rhythm and the thudding of Aiden’s heart. Harvard set his fencing bag down beside his bed once they reached their room. Then, he walked out of the door, shutting it gently, and didn’t turn back.

Aiden knew he’d fucked up and he knew he didn’t deserve Harvard’s goodwill, but he had been too weak to reject it, and now everything was ruined. He didn’t know how - if, even - this could be fixed, nor where to start.

You know what you need to do, the voice said.

When Aiden returned late that night - breath heavy and legs burning, not from a date but from the gym, seeking fruitless comfort not from the embrace of another human being but cold metal, ticking digits - Harvard was fast asleep. Climbing into the bed and lying very still so as to not wake him, Aiden was lulled to sleep by the growling of his stomach.