Chapter Text
Part I: It Always Starts Small
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“I think you could stand to lose a few pounds.”
Clyde furrowed his brows and looked over at Bebe from the other side of her room. “What?”
They’d been having a small hang out that Friday, pretending to finish procrastinated homework, the quiet sound of random show tunes playing from Bebe’s phone, occasionally punctuated by ads.
The comment broke what Clyde had thought to be comfortable silence.
Bebe shrugged, looking up from her bio work that she really hadn’t been focused on. “Summers in a few months. I thought you’d like to at least be a little fit before swimsuit season.”
She looked away. Clyde still stared at her from the desk, pencil dangling loosely from between his fingers.
Sure, he’d never exactly been the thinnest kid in class, but he’d shaped up a bit. He was on the football team for a little bit back in freshman year (it didn’t work out for multiple reasons) and he didn’t eat candy all the time like back in elementary school. Bebe’s words were as out of place as they were like a knife in his gut.
He cleared his throat. “I– It’s not that bad is it?”
Bebe looked up, rolling her eyes as if it was an inconvenience. “It’s just a suggestion, Clyde. It’s more for you than anyone.” She looked at Clyde for a long moment. He must’ve been awful at trying to keep his face from reacting, because her annoyance lessened. She sighed. “I can help, if you’d like.”
“I mean, I-I guess.” He tapped his pencil on his knee. “I just didn’t think it was a problem.”
“It is if you want to look your best.” She sat up, throwing her thin legs over the side of the bed and crossing her shins. “Don’t you?”
“I… I guess.” His head was still swimming a bit from how sudden it felt.
“We can start small.” She stood, wavering for a moment before nudging Clyde out of the way so she could reach a drawer on her desk.
She pulled out a plain white notebook and undid the elastic holding it in place. She flipped past a few pages that already had writing and clicked a pen to write.
“Excersing is good. Running is the easiest. Something you can do before and after school.” She wrote in her perfect, practiced, shaky handwriting. “And dieting. Nothing serious at first.”
“I- uhm…” Clyde rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t know if he planned on adding something. Whatever it was, it died in the back of his throat. “Okay…”
“How much do you weigh?”
“I dunno.”
She hummed, unsatisfied. “Once you figure that out, let’s aim for 10 less than whatever it is now.”
Clyde laughed, a bit drily. “Geez, anything else?”
Bebe considered his question seriously. “You could always take better care of your skin.”
That felt like a low blow, a jab at something he’d expressed discomfort over with Bebe before. Clyde self-consciously picked at some random pop of acne on his chin.
“That, I’m a bit helpless on.” Bebe continued, as if Clyde didn’t feel like he was shrinking in on himself. “I’ve always had pretty good skin, luckily. You can Google it or something.”
“Uh-huh.” Clyde agreed a little numbly.
Bebe ripped out the sheet, the loud tear startling him a bit. “Alright, remember. Starting small: ten pounds less, running before and after school, dieting a bit, and, mm, skin care, I suppose.”
Clyde shakily took the page. Honestly, he was still partially back several sentences ago on summer coming in a few months.
Heathers the Musical kept playing in the background. Bebe went back to her bio work effortlessly. Clyde’s eyes kept tracing the paper she handed him, over and over.
“Okay.” He mumbled. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
-—-
137.
He weighed one hundred and thirty seven pounds.
Was that a lot? He couldn’t tell. Bebe thought it was a lot, so it probably was.
He kicked the scale under the bathroom sink and looked up in the mirror. His hair was a bit disheveled, his brown eyes a bit hazy, but all he could focus on was the ugly clusters of zits scattered across his face.
- He wanted to weigh one hundred and twenty seven pounds.
His phone buzzed next to his hand, reminding him of the text message he was waiting for.
You [6:18pm]: hey, dude, can u ft?
The Hobbit Hater [6:21pm]: yeah. give me a sec.
He didn’t even really get a moment to read the message when the call came through, Tolkien’s profile picture flashing across his screen.
Clyde clicked his camera off and accepted the call.
“Hey, dude.” Tolkien’s voice came through. They were placing their phone down next to themselves, some tinny video game music playing in the background. “What’s up?”
Clyde took a moment to take in… Tolkien. The entirety of him. He wondered, oddly, how much he weighed. Definitely not one hundred thirty-fucking-seven.
“Uhm, yeah, I was calling to see if you…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry, this is weird, do you have any, uh, skin care tips?”
Tolkien’s brows furrowed and they turned their head to look at the camera. Their concern seemed to grow when they noticed Clyde’s camera was off. “What?”
Clyde put his phone down, angling it just under the mirror so his gaze could dart between Tolkien and his own reflection. “I was just wondering. It’s fine if you don’t, I–”
“I mean, yeah, sure.” He rubbed his eyes, turning away from his phone and back to his game. “Sorry, it just caught me off guard. Where’s all this coming from?”
Clyde swallowed thickly. “Uhm, I’m just… getting irritated with all this acne. Kinda itchy, I guess.” He lied easier than he would’ve liked.
Tolkien hummed. They pressed pause on their game, then stood, grabbing their phone. “Lemme check what stuff I have. It’s not a lot, but I can suggest some starting stuff.”
Clyde tried his best to mentally retain brand names and scents and types of lotion, wishing he brought paper when his friend said something that had some kind of Russian name he couldn’t even re-pronounce in his head.
“You get all of that?” Tolkien finally finished.
“I, uh, yeah.” Clyde rubbed his eyes.
“I can get you some stuff tomorrow. I’ve got enough to spare. You are coming to the party tomorrow, right?”
“You mean the same awesome party you throw every week that is my only reason to make it to Saturday?” Clyde asked, a light smile gracing his face for the first time in the last three hours.
Tolkien huffed a laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
They fell silent for a moment while Clyde’s smile slipped away as soon as he looked in the mirror.
“Dude, your acne’s not really that bad…” Tolkien tried helping. “You’re 16. No one expects your skin to be perfect.”
Bebe does. He pushed that thought aside. “I’ll see you in gov. Bye.”
Clyde hung up the phone before Tolkien could respond.
He turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on his face, internally wincing when it rolled down his sleeves, and rubbed his skin until he didn’t feel as greasy.
He looked back up in the mirror.
127.
Yeah. Yeah, he could do that. No problem.