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There is a word in their head, stuck on loop over and over and over again. Visions accompany it, because of course they do, of course they cannot eat one bite without these horrible cacophonies of words and sights and smells and sounds and-
Their utensil drops with a final clatter beside the dish, clanging on the edge of it like their mind on the teetering precipice of sanity. In reality, they know they are fine; the food is fine, the food is safe, but in their mind they cannot be certain. It is loud, their thoughts too swirling, stuck on repeat like a broken record, still round and ever-moving, but only ever playing the same thing time and time again. It hurts. The cycle hurts, and seldom ends (does it ever end? or does it simply wane longer before repeating on occasion?).
Palms dug over their eyes, a groan escaping them as they abandon the notion of eating for now, the thoughts continue to repeat without their approval, obsessive over the most obscure notions that plague them even as they make to move. Shaking their head, pleading with their mind to stop for just one moment, they stand to clear their dish, unable to stomach the sight of the food they had so lovingly prepared.
Biting their tongue just enough to ground themselves a bit, they hold the offending dish away from their body, keeping it out of sight. Good food should not go to waste just because they do not have the fortitude, they think (this keeps them up at night, sometimes, the things they cannot change about who they are and how they function that society may deem wrong and wasteful, their lover had made this easier with time), and they patter carefully down the hall towards where they know Phainon will be, stopping only to double check that the kitchen area was clean and at no risk of bursting into flames from the remnants of their cooking prior. They try to ignore the nagging voices in their head at each and every compulsive behavior, each quirk that their mind says keeps them safe, by attempting to direct their thoughts towards their lover. He always appreciates a good meal, and they think he does not need to know where or why it has come from for now.
He knows anyway, observant as he is. Noticing the tired ache behind their eyes even as they offer him something delicious and warm and homemade, noticing the quiet relief mixed with new tension every time he graciously accepts the offered platters, Phainon catalogues this information away. They do this, this repeated, cyclical thing, in waves. Some months, some days, some meals, some moments are better than others, and he can see the way they question themselves; it makes his heart hurt for them.
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This time, he thinks, is the time for something new. They have been getting good at breathing through their thoughts, letting their mind pass through the things it needs to without succumbing to the compulsions it often brings, and Phainon is certain that they are ready for a little bit of help- something they have talked about at their own pace, something he can offer, ever the heroic boyfriend that he is.
Their need to please outweighs the voices in their head, if only slightly, and their need to be socially polite comes as a close second as well; this will be part of the motivation he intends to leverage - kisses and praise and self-satisfaction, the reward. Lovingly preparing them a dish, instructions from Mydei scrawled on the paper nearest his elbow as he works, he puts every ounce of care and hope into it as he can. If he is the one who makes the meal for them, then surely they cannot refuse? A sneaky tactic is perhaps the best tactic for this, even if it is one they have discussed at length and know to expect someday just leaving it to him to figure when, and the food is soon ready to be delivered.
Delectable aromas wafting towards them where they are sat heralds their visitor before his footsteps do, stealthy and precise. A stroke of luck and an answered plea grants them a moment to simply enjoy the scent before the thoughts and words and images plague their mind yet again. Phainon's hopeful, cheerful grin is almost enough to smother the cacophony; he offers them the platter anyway.
Moment stretching before them, time standing still or winding too fast, they stare into the depths of the dish he has so painstakingly prepared for them, one of their favorites (and they recognize Mydei's touch, as well, with fondness). Swallowing heavily as their mind spirals, a cycle that never seems to end starting up yet again, they try not to gag; their lover only sets the food down before them gently, and lowers himself to sit at their side, relaxed yet vigilant (keeping an eye on them to see if it will be too much too soon, always ever-caring and attentive to their needs; surely, they can meet the moment just this once, for him? and just like that, their resolve is strengthened).
The utensils provided feel awkward in their hands, too sensitive to the way everything feels. World still swirling its cycle in their head, their vision narrows to just that which is in front of them; their awareness shifts to only their hands and Phainon's hand rubbing tender circles at their back (he hovers it just away enough to give them the opportunity to tell him, silently, that his touch would be too much, but this evening they crave his steady warmth and so he has obliged, as he always does and always will; they really do love each other). A single bite is taken; swallowing the small bite is an arduous and silent affair, accompanied only by the hideous faces they know they must be making. To Phainon's credit, he does not comment or laugh, only holding them a little tighter at their display of discomfort. Another bite follows, then another, and another, and-
Half the meal is gone; it was a small portion to begin with but this is progress, such progress, and when they push the rest of the platter away silently Phainon swoops in to clear it for them without argument, letting them collect themselves and cool off. They make grabby hands at him when he returns, a bit childish maybe but he laughs a tinkling sound all the same, and he offers them as many pecking kisses as they can stand until they are both laughing (and their mind is quiet, a reprieve from the cycle, how does he do that, they wonder).
They are shy when he tells them he is proud of them, tucking their face into his chest as he pets at their hair, but the hands that clasp the back of his shirt and hold him close are resolute, secure in securing him to themselves. Nuzzling closer, sitting together some place comfy and cozy, their mind finds reprieve in the stability he brings (they know him, they know him, and isn't that wonderful; he knows them, and that is perhaps the most wonderful). Phainon seems to melt into a ray of pure sunlight as he lounges with them, content at their side as always, as ever, and they hope this peace lasts. Wishful thinking yearns for this to be the end of their mind's cycle, words stuck on loop over and over and over again, but at least the cacophony does not seem so unbearable when their lover's hair tickles their neck and his warm hands hold theirs and his eyes shine as he looks at them (theirs shine right back; Phainon is enraptured).
One day, perhaps soon, they will finish a meal together, a complete portion for each of them cooked hand-in-hand in the kitchen left with lights on that they will not bother to double back to check for no other reason than to follow Phainon's laughter as he regales them with a story from his day. The food will be as satisfying as the weight of his hand in theirs; they will still sit together. That is called love.