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Tim’s stomach growls, but he ignores it. Like always.
“Damn, Tim, did Alfred suddenly stop feeding you guys? I can see your ribs through that shirt.” It’s part— most —of the reason why Tim stopped visiting Titans Tower as often anymore. His friends there are too observant. They catch the things that the rest of his family misses.
The horrible truth of the matter is that a portion of Tim—the weak, insecure portion; the one that would sooner take a gunshot to the chest than drink a goddamn milkshake —secretly preened at Conner’s words.
And he knows he shouldn’t be proud of the fact that he’s hurting himself, but Tim can’t help the sick sense of satisfaction he gets every time he stands in front of a mirror and sees bones poking through his skin. Every time one of his t-shirts pools on his collarbone and drapes over his thin frame.
“But you’re so tiny,” a particularly outspoken member of the press once said when cornering Red Robin after a brawl. “How do you manage to take down guys twice your size every night?”
Tim can’t remember when it began. Can’t remember why. Doesn’t know if there is even a coherent reason for it anymore.
Because he knows he’s not fat. He knows that, just as he knows from health class and from basic bat training that going as long as he does regularly without eating is harmful to both his body and his mental health. And he’s aware that it could cost him his life if he’s not careful, but he is careful, so that must mean it’s okay, right?
So what if he skips a meal or two. So what if he chews gum to keep the hunger pangs at bay instead of adding unnecessary calories, even if it is just celery. So what if whenever he can’t skip a family dinner he sneaks off to the bathroom as soon as he can and sticks his fingers down his throat until he feels light enough to breathe again.
“Honey, I’m home!” Dick announces as he suddenly strolls into the apartment without so much as a knock, kicking the door closed behind him. He’s swinging a plastic bag in his hand.
Tim halfheartedly glares at his brother from his spot on the sofa. “You know, normal people usually knock before they invite themselves into other people’s homes.”
“Do they really? Shocking.” Dick drops the bag unceremoniously onto the coffee table and takes a seat beside Tim, rummaging around before pulling out a plastic container. “I got off work early and figured you hadn’t eaten yet. Bon appetit, twerp.”
He cracks open the container, and the whiff of Chinese food makes Tim’s stomach turn violently. Not because it smells unappealing, but because it smells heavenly. Tim hasn’t eaten more than a handful of granola in the last two days, and he knows it’s bad. That he should just suck it up and be grateful that Dick thought to bring lunch. And yet...
Stomach rumbling as his head swims, Tim goes back to his calculus homework. “Thanks, but I got a bite with Cass earlier. Maybe later.”
Dick frowns. “I thought she was with Barbara today?”
Tim’s heart stutters, and he tries not to let the panic show on his face. Idiot, idiot, idiot— “It was very earlier.”
Dick still looks confused, but he seems to accept the answer. Or maybe he’s too hungry to care. He digs between the couch cushions for the TV remote before Tim sighs and points to the coffee table, where the remote sits clear as day. As it should, because not everyone lives like Dick Grayson and his uncivilized ways.
Dick settles in with his lo mein and turns on some cartoons. Tim tunes it out for the most part—a skill which gets easier with every day. A few minutes in, and he manages to nearly forget about the hunger; about the smell of hot food curdling his empty stomach.
“For the love of god, Timothy, what in the world do you have to be self-conscious about? Your father and I don’t have time to spend all this money on an eating disorder specialist for you.”
Not like she was wrong. What does Tim have to be self-conscious about? Why can’t he get a bag of popcorn at the movies like a normal person? Why can’t he make it through one meal without wanting to crawl out of his own skin?
“You don’t need to talk about it,” Stephanie said on the day she found out, “but I want to know how to help you. What you’re doing to yourself isn’t healthy.”
Steph helps. Most days she leaves purple sticky notes in places she knows Tim will find them: on the fridge, stuck to the mirrors, looped through the handle of one of his coffee mugs—a silent but firm encouragement.
Try to eat a sandwich for lunch if you can. — Steph
If you’re not up to a full meal, at least have a protein shake. — <3
I saw the plate in the sink and wanted to let you know that you’re doing really well today!
You’re perfect.
You deserve to eat.
I’m so proud of you.
Tim’s stomach growls again, and he wants nothing more than to curl up on the floor and stay there for a long, long time. He wants to inhale everything in that bag as much as he wants to throw it down the garbage disposal. He wants to eat and immediately puke it all right back up, if only for the few minutes of fullness.
“Is something wrong?” Dick asks suddenly, as if he read Tim’s mind. He’s looking at Tim funny, and Tim wonders in the back of his mind when that started. His head is so fuzzy with the lack of food that his alertness has been thrown off its axle.
“I’m fine,” he replies, maybe a tad too hastily.
Dick’s eyes are trained downward, a knot between his brows. “Your hands are shaking.”
Tim follows his gaze and, sure enough, he’s right. Tim’s fingers are trembling, and they don’t stop even when he clenches them into fists. Low blood sugar, his brain informs him. And he knows it’s not a good thing. He knows it means he’s unhealthy.
But in a sick way, Tim feels proud he managed to get this far. He ate so little that now his body is suffering for it physically, and he knows he shouldn’t be happy about it. He should be repulsed at his own behavior. But he’s not.
“Tim,” Dick says, and Tim realizes he zoned out again. “You sure you’re feeling okay? You don’t look so hot.”
The shaking doesn’t let up, and Tim finds that he can’t even hold his pencil now due to the tremors. Definitely a bad sign. “I’m fine. Just a cold.”
Then, like an absolute traitor, Tim’s midsection chooses this very moment to let out a starved gurgle. Because he has no allies apparently; not even himself. He tries to go back to his homework and pretend nothing happened, but Dick brings up a hand and lowers the textbook back down.
“Timmy. Look at me.” Dick’s blue eyes are calculating, but not cold. He studies Tim: sallow complexion, clammy skin, sweat beading on his forehead. The hands that still won’t stop shaking.
“Is it back?” he asks, just like that, and Tim wants to run. Run from the room, the apartment, the state. Run until he can’t anymore.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, feigning ignorance.
“You know what I mean,” Dick says, and again it’s not unkind. “I thought you got over the anorexia?”
The word is studded with spikes. “I did.”
“Then why aren’t you eating?”
“Jesus Christ, Dick, I’m sorry if I can’t remember to eat at every single meal,” Tim says, heat rising in his blood for no discernible reason. “That doesn’t automatically mean I have an eating disorder.” He’s a liar. Tim Drake is a big fat liar, and he knows it. He knows.
Dick, by some miraculous feat of endless patience, doesn’t match Tim’s outburst. His voice is irritatingly gentle when he asks, “When’s the last time you ate?”
Lie, Tim’s instincts tell him. Say it was this morning. A big dinner last night. Anything but the truth.
But Tim is weak. So he clasps his trembling hands together tight in his lap, keeping his gaze on them rather than on Dick’s face. “I don’t know,” he says. Because he’s weak. And he’s hungry. And his head feels like someone filled it with helium. “A few days ago, I think. But I have it under control.”
Dick doesn’t yell—doesn’t laugh or give Tim the old, “But you’re so skinny, there’s no reason to starve yourself” spiel. Thank god. Instead, he gives Tim’s arm a patient squeeze and grabs the bag of takeout, taking out a container of what Tim is pretty sure is orange chicken. His mouth waters as much as his stomach recoils.
Dick places the container on Tim’s lap and hands him a fork. “I’ll make you a deal. Eat half of this, and I’ll convince Bruce to let us skip patrol tonight. We’ll go to a movie or something instead—give you time to take a break. Okay?”
Tim’s stomach growls, and he wants to say no. Wants to stand his ground, say no to this, and storm upstairs to purge solely because the thought alone of letting himself eat makes Tim feel like a disgusting pile of shit.
But he wants to be better, too, and it’s that thought that has him nodding. “Okay.”