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Dan has not eaten since… dinner last night.
The last bite of food he had was at 7:42pm; a carrot slice from the stir fry Phil had practically forced him to eat. Well, not quite forced, but not exactly consensual either. If it were up to Dan, if he lived by himself and had no one around him telling him what to do and how to take care of himself, he wouldn’t eat for at least a couple more days. Maybe even three, if he really kept himself distracted and put chia seeds in his water.
Aside from dinner yesterday, he only had a couple bites of cereal in the morning. It was very sugary—or at least that was the excuse he told Phil as to why he wouldn’t eat anymore of it.
After breakfast, he quietly entered the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a while. He squeezed the fat on his face and around his hips, as if the more he pulled at it, the easier he could rip it from his body. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking that if only the fat weren't there—if only he didn’t eat so much, he’d be attractive. He’d feel physically lighter, a little more agile like he was a few years ago. Before all the weight gain, before the antidepressants.
After staring at the mirror for who knows how long, he weighed himself. Just like how he stared into the mirror, Dan watched the screen on the scale light up. He let out a breath of relief when he recognized he was down almost three pounds since the last time he checked. This was his first time stepping on the scale in a few days, maybe a week?
No, it’s been four days exactly.
He hates to admit it, but he is keeping track of the times in between weigh-ins and major meals. Any meal at all, actually.
That’s how he knows it's been almost twenty four hours since he ate anything, unless you count water or black coffee. It doesn’t have calories or fat so it doesn’t count. Dan is sure of it—they are appetite suppressants, after all.
He managed to narrowly avoid breakfast this morning. Dan rolled out of their shared bed in the early morning, thankful that he wasn’t usually hungry this early.
Phil woke up far later than him, and asked if Dan had had breakfast yet. Dan lied, saying he already ate. Phil gave him a skeptical look, and so Dan made a bowl of sugary cereal for Phil to sweeten the deal. It took every ounce of courage within him to fight the urge to eat even a single flake of the cereal, stomach churning with anxiety and hunger. As soon as he handed the bowl to Phil, relief flooded his body like a waterfall of accomplishment. He swallowed the saliva in his mouth.
He cannot let Phil catch on anymore than he likely already has. Dan needs to do this alone.
With a busy day of filming and editing videos, Dan has not had contact with any food since. He’s been cooped up in his own room, and is currently chewing his fifth stick of spearmint gum. He is desperately trying to stay distracted, the voice in the back of his head constantly reminding him how hungry and tired he is. Maybe he could take a nap to pass time. It’s better than scrolling through Pinterest or Instagram, picturing his dream body.
He closes the software on his computer, and closes the black window curtains to hide the setting sun. He glances over at his computer screen once more, checking the time. 6:58pm. Almost twenty four hours. Then he walks over to his bed and gently lays down, closing his eyes. Just a couple hours of sleep, and then maybe he could have a small meal as a reward. Yeah, maybe a light salad. Lettuce, carrots, and a tablespoon of dressing.
His eyes shoot open. A tablespoon would be too much dressing, it's loaded with carbs and fats and calories. It will undo all his progress that he is working so, so hard for. His hand falls onto his stomach, pulling at the useless fat that festers on top of it. He needs it gone. The fat on his thighs and calves—that needs to go as well. As soon as possible, as quick as he can burn it off. He always reminds himself of something.
The best way to lose weight is to stop eating.
Okay. No salad tonight. That’s fine. Maybe a rice cake for breakfast tomorrow. He will need to go out and buy some, which he would usually hate. He hates public interaction, especially while he looks like this, but walking to and from the shops will burn calories. It's a good workout. No need to take a taxi, which would cost more money anyway. He forms the plan in his head. Yeah, tomorrow he will walk to the shop and buy some rice cakes, and whatever Phil wants of course. Hopefully nothing too sweet.
For a moment, as Dan finally falls asleep, he worries he won’t be able to control his hunger in the store. There's a terrifying possibility that he will give in to his gluttony, and will buy whatever sweet or salty snack crosses his path. The thought of undoing all his progress, of gaining that three pounds or more back, causes him to toss his head to the side.
No, no. He will be fine. He can control himself. He’s only buying plain rice cakes. No cinnamon, no chocolate, nothing else. Well, maybe the sea salt flavor would be okay. As long as it doesn’t add any calories, it's fine. Nothing wrong with some harmless added flavor. He closes his eyes again, hands flat on his round stomach.
Either way, he's going out and buying rice cakes tomorrow. Maybe someone will notice he has lost a little weight already. He’s already looking forward to it. His mouth waters at the thought, so hungry it's almost nauseating.
Good, he thinks. The more he’s nauseous, the less he wants to eat.
“Dan?” He blinks his eyes open, bleary and tired.
Phil apologies quietly, “Oh, my bad. Didn’t know you were asleep.” Dan rolls over to face Phil, wiping the sleep from his eyes. How long has it been since he fell asleep? How long since he ate?
He winces that it's practically his first thought when waking up—eating, followed by food. His stomach growls, and he almost groans as he feels the hunger return yet again. This is so fucking frustrating.
Why can’t he just stop eating? Just until he can get skinny enough to gain some weight back.
“Sounds like you're hungry,” Phil smiles sweetly, tooth rottenly sweet, “let's order some food.”
It is not posed like a question or even a request, it almost feels like a demand. Dan does not get the chance to reply before Phil walks away, probably into the kitchen. Dan sighs with guilt, because Phil must know.
He shakes his head. No, no! There is no secret to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of. He reminds himself that there is nothing wrong with wanting to lose weight, with wanting to be healthy. He had plenty of vegetables and protein in the stir fry last night, he really does not need anything else for now. Dan has nothing to feel bad for. It's just a diet, just a healthier routine. He needs to look good for the camera, for Phil, for himself.
As Dan leaves his room to go tell Phil that he’s too nauseous to eat, he catches a glance of the clock on his computer; 8:06pm.
He fights the urge to smile with his accomplishment, because it's been over twenty four hours since he last actually ate anything.
Great, now if only the hunger would just fuck off.
He laments hopelessly about it as he drags his aching body out of bed and meets Phil in the kitchen, who is leaning against the counter and holding a take-out menu. Phil looks good, he always does. He’s thin and lean and healthy and tall but not too tall. All the things Dan is not, at least not yet. But if he keeps this up, he will be soon. Maybe a couple more weeks of this, and they’ll be almost the same weight. One pound per day, if he’s super well behaved about it. Yeah, something like that.
Dan has just got to keep going. He is already three days in, why stop now? Why quit with all this progress he has diligently fought for?
Phil flips the menu over, “Hmm… curry sounds good.” Dan feels his full heart drop into his empty stomach. Curry is harsh on the digestive system and full of calories. It’s too much, too soon. Dan doesn’t deserve it.
Dan mumbles his excuse, “Not real hungry, honestly.” His anxiety spikes again as he tells the lie, “kinda nauseous.” He should get another stick of gum.
He watches as concern washes over Phil, ever so wonderful and kind, “you okay?” Dan only nods, not sure if he can say anything else without saliva spilling out of his mouth. Fuck, curry sounds so fucking delicious right now.
Dan clenches his fist, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. Phil steps closer, placing a palm on Dan’s forehead. He might be sweating, but Dan can’t tell. He caught a glimpse of the photo on the menu, and now he's too focused on trying to not imagine the flavors and textures of warm rice and curry melting on his tongue. Fuck. Why is this so hard? Why is he such a fucking pig?
Phil drops his hand, “if you're not feeling well, we can order something lighter.”
Dan can barely speak it, “s-salad?” It’s like a piece of him dies, which would be fine if it was a piece of fat. But it’s not. It’s his fuckass soul and another shard of his waning self control.
Phil raises an eyebrow, “Salad? Your not usually one for—”
“Nothing wrong with trying something new.” Dan nervously cuts him off.
He shouldn’t have, because Phil gives him another weird look. God forbid Dan doesn’t want—doesn’t need to eat. It's not illegal to not eat. It even saves them a few pounds. Phil gains a few pounds in savings, Dan loses a few pounds in fat. It’s mutually beneficial. There shouldn’t be a damn, fucking problem!
“Dan…”
“Phil.”
Dan clenches his jaw as Phil’s blue-green-yellow eyes fill with concern. Fucking hell!
Why does Phil have to care about him so fucking much?
“When did you last eat something?”
Dan lies through his teeth once again, “Told you—had a big breakfast.” Dan isn’t sure if it's his heart, brain, or stomach that hurts more right now.
Phil tilts his head towards the other side of the kitchen, “There was no bowl in the sink.”
“I cleaned it.” Dan feels his shoulders drop with disappointment because he knows Phil isn’t buying this. He knows the other can see right through him. He feels terrible about it, but this is how he needs to get what he… needs. He can’t let Phil interfere with achieving his goal.
Phil starts to speak softly, but Dan can’t bear to hear the horrific accusation. “Dan, are you—”
“Just get me a fucking salad!” Phil recoils away, eyes wide with shock.
Dan regrets it immediately. Knowing he needs to do damage control, he lowers his voice to barely a whisper. He feels dizzy. He feels weak. He feels sick. He feels guilty.
“I’m—I’m so, so sorry Phil.” Worst of all, he still feels fucking hungry.
Phil seems shaken up, but pulls himself together. Dan isn’t sure how he does it, how Phil puts up with him. He doesn’t deserve it. “It’s okay, Dan. I can order you a salad.”
Dan looks away from Phil’s face, trying to hide his terrible guilt. “Thank you, Phil. Sorry for—”
“It’s fine, Dan.” Phil glances at the menu in his hand, and then back up to Dan, “did you take your meds today?”
Dan bristles. He hates when Phil does this. Anytime Dan fucks up in anyway, that's always the first question. Phil doesn’t ask him as much as he used to, but every once in a while he does. Dan struggles to understand why Phil can’t just accept that maybe this is just how Dan is. That the anger and the depression and the guilt and hunger are just a permanent part of him. This is just the way he is—fucked up mentally and physically.
All Dan can bring himself to respond with is a meek “Yes.”
Phil nods in simple acknowledgement, his eyes continue to scan the menu. Dan tells himself that he’s just imagining the tears filling those beautiful blue-green-yellow eyes he fell in love with almost a decade ago.
Dan stands awkwardly for a moment as Phil dials the number for the restaurant on his phone.
As the phone begins to ring, Phil’s pink lips curl into a gentle smile. “I’ll get you some fries as well, and all your favorite dips.”
Before Dan can refute, the person on the other line picks up the phone and starts talking to Phil. He stares in utter defeat as Phil walks into the living room, away from Dan.
Damnit. Phil knows him too well.
Dan’s eyes water with a horrific realization. He knows how this is going to go, because this is the cycle. It repeats, over and over. As soon as he starts eating again, he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s already ravenous as it is, the sight of French fries and the sauces he misses so much will render these past few days pointless. Worthless. He will just eat so much and make up everything he has worked so hard to lose.
He hears Phil hang up the phone from the other room. The food has been ordered.
God, what is he doing? What made him think he could actually do this? He can never commit to anything, he can never give up the things he loves. One of those is food, of course, but he can’t give up the one thing in the world he loves more than carbs and flavors—
Phil. He could never give up Phil.
He could never disappoint him or concern him like he is now. He just can’t bring himself to do it. He can’t scare Phil anymore than he already has. The guilt is too much.
He mopes his way into the living room, still tired and still fucking hungry. Phil sits on the couch, flipping through one of their many streaming apps on the TV. Dan assumes he must be searching for something to watch while eating dinner. Dan glances at the time on the corner of the screen; 8:21pm.
Just over twenty four hours is still an accomplishment, right? Some progress is better than none at all, right?
Phil speaks lightheartedly, as if nothing happened just minutes ago. “Would it help if I fed you?” He chuckles at his own idea.
Dan sighs, knowing it's probably just a joke. Yet, he nods his head anyway. At the very least, he won’t be the one shoving the poison into his stomach. If it's at the hand of Phil, maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it will help.
Dan flops onto the couch, arching into Phil’s warm embrace. Phil presses a soft kiss against Dan’s forehead, just under the hairline of his dark curls. His stomach flutters with lovely butterflies, but is quickly chased by yet another growl of frustrating hunger.
“I ordered us a pizza.”
The cycle repeats, but there is always tomorrow.