Chapter Text
Robert has had eating issues since he was a kid, from scavenging for his own food when dad was out late, to finding scraps to eat while he payed for the suit. He didn’t think it could get worse than it already was. He didn’t see a reason to change it.
Robert stares at the Twinkie in his hand. The thought of biting, manually chewing, and swallowing makes his stomach twist. He tries anyway. He bites. Chews. The sweet bread has an acidic, sour tang. His insides turn, threatening to turn itself inside out if he swallows. He spits out the clump of half chewed Twinkie in the breakroom trashcan, the clump scraping on his tongue as saliva globs around it. Small chunks linger in his mouth. Saliva pools under his tongue. Twinkie clots as he rolls it. He can't get it out fast enough, panic rising as he continues to spit. The coffee he had that morning churns, the careful balance disrupted, then hesitantly settles. Robert has noticed a pattern from the past few days.
Eating makes him nauseous.
His throat, chest, and stomach are tight. He can't tell if his throat is hot or cold. It burns like when he put his hand on a recently powered off stove, trying to reach a cabinet a tad too high, and it was so hot it was cold. He still can't feel sensation in parts of that hand. The hot-cold hurts, if he wants to admit it to himself. He feels shaky. Robert had coffee this morning, picked at takeout the night prior, tried a packet of Twinkies, and had coffee the previous morning; The lack of fuel was wearing on him.
"Robert?"
Robert glances up from where he's leaning over the trashcan, hands bracing the rim for support. Flambae looks down at him. If Robert was optimistic, he'd say that Flambae was mildly concerned. He doesn't know where he stands with him after Shroud. A chunk of Twinkie sticks to his teeth, and Robert wants to let it sit so he can tell Flambae to fuck off and spit it out after he leaves, but his recently settled stomach reawakens to let him know he can spit it out, or his stomach will for him. Robert lays his pride aside. He looks down as he digs it out with his tongue, then spits. He looks back up to find not disgust, but intense consideration. Flambae takes in Robert, eyes roving on his face, neck, arms, and exposed bony wrists. Robert would prefer disgust.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Robert could lie, but fatigue sits heavy on his shoulders. No food and fuel means he's tired. His insomnia and achy, twinging joints add layers. He doesn't know where he would start to fix it. His sinuses burn.
"Twinkie didn't sit right." Robert comes back to himself, drifting a little too far into his head. He feels like he's in between the place of sleeping and awake; his thoughts are slow, and they tend to wonder off if he's not paying attention. He mentally checks to make sure that his stomach won't revolt at the thought of standing up. Robert presses against the trashcan to straighten, and the cold heat washes through his chest and abdomen. Nothing comes up, though, so that counts as a win.
Flambae is still watching him. Prism peeks around the corner and lowers her glasses. "You love Twinkies, though."
Sudden irritation sweeps through him. If he sat with it, he'd realize it was from more people seeing how pathetic he actually is. "Yep." clipped, but the kindest response he can offer. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. Weak. Tired, heavy, and so, so hungry. Robert wants them to leave him alone. He leaves so he doesn't have to deal with their retaliation and see their reactions; have to feel the guilt of reacting to his pain, and how he forced someone else to deal with it.
He sits heavily on his poorly cushioned chair, head thunking the headrest. His headache flares with the jarring movement. He should have dealt with it better.
The walk from the breakroom shouldn't have tired him out, but he finds immense relief to be sitting. The lunch break ends in a blink. The next shift starts. Robert gets at least 20 minutes of peace in the sense that no one invasively asks about his diet. Robert can approximately tell when it gets out that he was found spitting a Twinkie into a trashcan.
"Soo, Robert," Invisigal starts, tone indicating a conversation Robert doesn't want. He sends her on the next incoming call. She keeps talking as she jogs. "You hate Twinks, now?"
Exasperation rises fast, words slipping past his lips before he can shove them back down his throat. "Could you not?" He snaps.
A chorus of oooh's echo through the line. Robert presses his forehead onto his hand.
"A bit touchy there, mate." Punch up pipes in.
Dry eyes and headache pulsing on his temples, Robert huffs. Bitter, biting words sit in the back of his mouth, but he keeps them squished between his tongue and soft palate. Robert expects antagonistic jabs in response to his silence, but the line peters off, oddly quiet when he doesn't snark back. Robert inputs incoming data from the performance reviews into the SDN system, updating stats of different members while he waits for the next call. Robert should care more that he's affecting his team, and he does. He has so little to give when acid is eating through his stomach lining. The shift ends sooner than he thought it would. With a short "well done," he logs out, unwilling to be interrogated from misplaced kindness. He caused his own pain, he should deal with it.
The trek to the bus stop feels longer. Beef feels unreasonably heavy in his arms. Minute trembles shake the leash as he holds him. An inquisitive nose pressing a cold snout into his collarbone. It's a blur, from waiting by the sign to sitting on deflated seats in the bus. He knows that its essential during recovery to eat. It hasn't been long since he's been released from the hospital. He just doesn't know how to.
A hole sits in his stomach. Robert knows he's hungry, but only out of pain and not a gentle gnawing. It would not be easy to appease like normal hunger is. He's in his apartment, leaning against the suit. His identity and entire life rest behind him, for comfort—even if cold and hard—and support. He wouldn't know what to do with something actually comfortable, anyway. He's not sure he deserves it. He doesn't have the energy to walk to the kitchen to make the packaged mac n cheese. Beef's bowl is nearby, kibble overflowing so he never goes hungry. His throat hurts, both hot and cold.
Flambae plops on the seat in front of Robert, two glass containers clicking as they're placed on the breakroom table. He slides one over to him with a spoon on top of the lid.
Robert breaks his staring contest with the packaged sweet to squint at him. "What are you doing."
Flambae rolls his eyes. "I had extra, and it was going to go bad."
Robert stares at it.
"It's aash. Qeema and noodles will not kill you." Flambae pops open the container. Steam rises from the spoonful. Rather than blowing like Robert would need to, Flambae pops the spoon in his mouth.
Robert glances at the glass Tupperware. He isn't in a place to be picky, but he wants to refuse out of habit.
"If you don't eat at least one spoonful, I'm setting your desk on fire." Flambae eats another spoonful.
Robert sighs, decision taken out of his hands. Although, he's somewhat relieved he didn't have to. He picks up the spoon as he peels off the lid. Steam gently wafts off noodles in a creamy sauce. Diced green, beans, and chickpeas peek through. He would probably say it smelled good if he could smell. He catches gentle notes of spices he can't place. He scoops one spoonful with steam rolling in waves. Apprehension sticks to his gut. He barely shoved down coffee before the shift, how is he supposed to eat such a large portion? His shaky appetite starts to curdle—
"One spoonful." Flambae's seeing him when Robert looks up. Not watching, but knowing. Robert feels exposed.
If his stomach spits it out, then Flambae can't complain. Robert places the warm spoonful on his tongue, scraping it into his mouth with his teeth. Noodles and chickpeas greet him. He chews, the flavors coating his tongue. It warms his throat when he swallows, chasing away the unforgiving cold-heat. He hums. His next bite has noodles, beef, and beans. It's savory, and eases the ache in his stomach.
"Good?"
Robert looks up from his food. He hopes his face doesn't show the odd cocktail of anxiety and satisfaction twisting and soothing his insides. "Very. You made it?" Food, gentle, and with a nutritional value—not greasy takeout or packaged nonperishables—alleviates irritability Robert normally carries. He answers honestly, because it is good.
Flambae is already halfway through while Robert is chewing on his third bite. "Obviously," he snarks. Robert waits for the rest of the biting remark, but Flambae keeps eating. He's messing around on his phone, so Robert eats in silence. Robert gets a few more bites in before his stomach decides he's eaten enough. Robert's only made a dent into one fourth of the dish. Unease presses on his sides. He used to be able eat so much more. Flambae glances up from his phone. His Tupperware is scraped clean.
"You done?" Flambae nods towards the container.
Robert presses his thumbnail into his middle and scrapes off uneven nail. Robert can hear a distinct Clean your plate from his father. "I am."
Flambae reaches over, plucking Robert's spoon and placing it into his empty glassware. He pops the lid back on his almost full dish and stands, opening the fridge and putting it on the top rack. He rinses off the dishes.
Robert waits a few more moments, expecting a critique or jab for not clearing his plate. When it doesn't come, he fiddles with the nail on his index, smoothing it out. "No comments for not finishing it?"
Flambae scoffs. "If you get sick, all my hard work will be ruined. Eating after you're done eating is counterproductive." Flambae sets the rinsed dishes aside, pointing at Robert. "You're taking that home, and whenever you finish it, will bring it back washed. My sister gave me that and I expect it to be taken care of."
Robert huffs a laugh. "Aye aye." He salutes, probably with the wrong hand. His father would have his head if he were still alive.
Flambae quirks an eyebrow and stalks out. The dishes cradled on his forearm ruin any slight intimidating factor he had.
Robert sits, pleasantly heavy and warm in his stomach.