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He ate too much. A whole tub of ice cream, a bag of chips, three cookies. At least three thousand calories, right? Too much. No, too much. Fuck. He was crying, he remembers. They had gotten into a fight, something about Alastor, something about Angel Dust, something about his big fucking plan, and Vox had yelled at him and left. Leaving him alone in the big empty floor with nothing to do. Shame coils in his body. Why couldn't he control himself? Why did he have to go and ruin it? Why did he have to eat so fucking much?
They were all judging him, weren’t they? The vee employees. Vox. Angel.
Valentino clutches his stomach; hands digging into the unnecessary fat. You’re such a pig. You’re fucking ugly. No wonder he doesn’t love you.
It’s okay. Valentino stumbles into his room—does a line of snow, inhaling that feeling, that rush and heightened everything, and shuffles around his bedside table, looking for the bottle of tablets. The first time in hell, he had borrowed from a whore. But it started long before that, when he had to be skinny for his clients.
Good.
He takes two, and then another one. Small, white, inconspicuous pills. The bitter taste makes him want to gag but he swallows them whole.
He sits and waits for it to happen. He wants to believe he's used to it now. Waits. Time passes slowly. Soon, his body convulses. Valentino runs towards the toilet, kneels on the floor, and that familiar bile comes up and over him. He leans over the toilet and throws up everything he’s consumed today. A disgusting pile of vomit, liquid pink sits in the bowl, half-eaten food and chunks mixed with his aphrodisiac saliva. It smells horrible. Smells sour, rotting, wrong. He blinks away reflexive tears.
His throat burns—rough from years of doing this. It makes blowjobs more painful; scratching his mouth lining until the sensitive flesh wears out to blood, but he’s so fucking fat and ugly and unwanted—
Valentino feels snot and tears streak down his face, but he can’t bring himself to clean it. It’s his fault. He ate too much today. His thighs are growing thicker in the wrong places. His shoulders are too wide, too masculine. He can see that little pudge in his lower stomach. Fuck, it’s still not gone. Valentino closes his eyes. He stays there-- head tucked under his arms, knees up against his chest, for a while. Rocking against the porcelain toilet and the sharp, cold bathroom tiles.
That chronic migraine returns to him. Pounding between his eyes. On and on and on and on. Instinctively, he reaches over and takes another tablet. It dulls the pain slightly, a faint lessening of everything.
Eventually, he throws up again. He gasps and heaves. His throat burns and his body trembles, as little stringy bits of saliva droop from out of his mouth and dribble down his chin. This time, the vomit is mostly just his saliva, a watery diluted mess. Nausea heads him, and the room spins. His body shakes, his breath uneven. Humiliation marches its way through his system. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Valentino lets out a sob, digging his claws into his arms. They leave behind red, shaky lines. Pulling out chunks of flesh and skin. If he ate less, then maybe then he’d be more attractive, more skinny, more feminine, and then he’d love him again.
Angel weighs less than him. Angel.
In the end, vomiting is not enough. He can try as much as he wants to, but the fat that worms its way under his skin won’t go away. He needs to stop eating. It’s fine, he doesn’t need to eat. He does another line of snow. Takes some Adderall, too. Feels his pulse quicken. This’ll increase his metabolism, right? Suppress his appetite. He’s not hungry. Maybe if he physically tears off the fat, grabs his sharp claws, or a knife, and digs under the skin, then he'll get thinner. He regenerates fast, right? It'll work. Surely. Maybe he'll try it another time, whenever that time comes, but right now he's too fucking tired.
Valentino crawls into his bed, blood still dripping from the open wounds. The lights are still too bright. Where are they? He tries to call Angel, but of course he doesn’t respond. He lies on his side, staring at the bright screen, phone ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. He's probably off skipping along in his fucking hotel singing happy songs. Isn't he? Fucking piece of shit. He then goes to Vox’s contact, tentative. Hesitates. He stares at the unsent messages, at the screaming. He wants to call him. He doesn't. He can't. Vox hates him, doesn't he? Of course Valentino has to ruin it all. Fucking pig. Valentino feels tears running down his face, but he puts his phone away. His vision crosses and blurs, and his throat aches, screams. He can still taste the vomit in his mouth. Still smell it. Vox isn't even watching him on the cameras right now, probably off in his little hole, dwelling and sulking there. Thinking about his big grand plan. Thinking about heaven. Thinking about Alastor.
Vox is repulsed by him. He thinks he’s fat. Of course he does. He’s always thinking about Alastor. Alastor is skinner than him, isn’t he? All bones. That’s what Vox wants. That’s why Vox doesn’t love him.
He buries his head into his pillow. It smells rancid. It sort of smells like Vox, too.