Work Text:
“Eat up, kid.”
Tartaglia jumped, alert and aware in an instant. His office had been quiet, save for the occasional patter of snowflakes against the large stained glass window behind him. The harbinger, exhausted yet still buried under mountains of paperwork, sat at the large wooden desk with a pen loose in his hand. He had been so engrossed in his paperwork (archons why were his subordinates so stupid) that he hasn’t noticed a knock at the door. Nor had he noticed when a fellow harbinger had stepped in, carrying a plate of food and setting it on the desk.
“Pierro?” Was his only answer. He glanced between the sandwich and the man before him, stomach grumbling faintly. “You made me a sandwich? Hah- are you our housewife now?” Tartaglia smirked. A perfect mask of humour.
In return, the eldest snorted. “You wish,” a knowing smile, too knowing; “just eat up and go to bed. You wanted to spare in the morning right? Can’t have you tripping over your own eyebags.” It was the youngest turn to snort, pen carelessly dropped onto the desk.
“Right. You’d still lose.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
Soon, the man left. And Targalia dropped the mask. He glared at the plate, adding up the calories in his head. Too much, you’ve already eaten. You don’t need another meal. It’s not time yet. Have you burnt enough calories today?
He left the sandwich, going to bed with an air of accomplishment and an empty stomach.
That morning, he did his usual workout before meeting with Pierro. The energy thrummed beneath his bones, the need to move and do , burning bright. It didn’t matter that he felt slightly… absent. He had skipped breakfast ( it makes your stomach even fatter), arguably a bad idea. But it didn’t matter. He had coffee and a shit ton of water. He would be fine.
Obviously, like always, he was wrong.
Half away into sparring with the eldest; he looked up too fast and black dots filled his vision. He had thought it was a fly at first, only understanding when they stubbornly remained in the corner of his eyes. He was fine, though. It was a good sign. It means it’s working.
It was late, the moon hanging heavy in the sky, accompanied by blinking stars. Snezhnaya looked beautiful at night, and no one could change the harbingers mind.
Said harbinger was in the kitchen, sporting a loose tshirt and a pair of joggers (two sizes old, but no one needed to know). The man hummed to himself quietly in the large, empty room, as he reached into the cupboard for their box of flour. A tray of cookies was by the fridge, left to cool nearly an hour ago. Bowls, spoons, measuring jugs, knives, they all laid carelessly around the countertops. Icing sugar sprinkled the flour, and if you breathed deep enough, well you’d taste it too.
It was 2am, and the fatui’s most lethal weapon had been baking for 4 hours.
Tartaglia’s tongue peaked out as his grip on the piping bag gently increased; small buds of bright red icing decorating the top of a chocolate cake. One of Ajax’s biggest fear foods, he may add. So were cookies. And pizza. And sandwhiches. And just about everything that had over a hundred calories. The more calories you eat, the more you need to burn off.
You see, Tartaglia has always loved baking. When he was a child, he would stand on the chair by his mother, clumsily pouring cocoa powder into a large jug. He’d always get to lick it clean, too. “ Careful now, Ajax. You’re getting a little plump.” After the abyss, the poor teenager would bake until the sun came up. Alone in the safety of his kitchen, surrounded by food that had been limited for so long. It was comforting, to be surrounded by food after being denied it for months. Even if he would take the cookies he’d made and hide them in his room. Eventually, baking became a way of controlling the food instead. Perhaps that was why he was baking so late into the night, perhaps that was why with every new tray of baked goods, fresh from the oven and filling the mansion with the smell of chocolate cupcakes and brownies, the harbinger felt more and more in control.
Think of the calories you’re burning. Four hours is easily over a thousand. You’re doing good.
Eventually, he took a step back; bracing himself against a clear piece of countertop to perch ontop of. The man glanced over every tray, every ingredient, and he began adding. 200 there. 1000 there- don’t eat that. 150. 400. 200 each. 70 each- you can have one tomorrow.
He cleaned up, 100 calories burned, and went to bed. Stomach once again empty and hurting.
The next day was the same. Wake up, workout, spar, eat lunch, workout, paperwork. Except he missed a step. The part where he grabs a protein shake for his dinner and then heads to bed. Instead, the hydro user stumbled into the kitchen, feeling hazy and weak, and that’s when it was all over.
He spotted the pile of brownies and cookies.
And two hours later he was curled up in his bed, crying silently with a hand around his stomach. It hurt. So badly. How many calories was that? Too many to count. You’ve only burnt one thousand today. Burn more. Burn it off. Now. You’ll lose your figure. You’ll get fat again.
You’re already fat.
Disgusting.
Pig.
Greedy.
Starve.
Starve.
Burn it off.
Burn it off
Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat fat fatfatfatfatfa
The sun rose beautifully that morning; not that Ajax cared, he could still feel how full his stomach was, the food still clawing at his throat. His clothes felt tighter, his collarbones looked hidden when he looked in the mirror. His wrist looked bigger when he picked up his pen.
He didn’t eat that day. It was punishment, one he deserved too. It was a never ending cycle. A cycle he was sick of. He knew the other harbingers had caught on, (it was fairly obvious, the healthy part of his brain wondered how it took them so long).
The day passed slowly, three energy drinks and a river's worth of water later.
Tartaglia’s safe foods changed regularly. He his normal ones; jelly, rice cakes, cheese strings, protein shakes, fibre bars. But every few weeks a new one would crop up, he would eat it until the thought of it made him feel sick, and then it would be back on the ‘bad’ list.
Currently, it was chicken nuggets.
Yes, very strange. But it was better than last months… a week of nothing but hashbrowns.
The youngest harbinger was curled up on the couch, watching a show he’d seen thousands of times, when a finger tapped his shoulder. He was too tired to flinch, instead looking up with a small frown.
There, stood Pierro, holding a plate of chicken nuggets and potato waffles.
“Hey, kid. Hungry?” And for the first time in awhile, Ajax nodded. His mask wasn’t in place, those ocean eyes were void, empty. It didn’t matter, though. Pierro simply handed him the plate and sat next to him; somehow Ajax hadn’t seen the other plate, the one the eldest was eating from. He had his own portion of chicken nuggets and was eating slowly, so, Ajax joined. They’re okay. If he’s eating, so can you.
Twenty minutes later, he stood up and took Ajax’s plate with him. “I want seconds, I’ll get you some too.”
In three hours, the sick part of his mind would scream, loud, louder than it had since the brownie incident. But Tartaglia would fall asleep with a full stomach and a clear mind.
Next week, his safe food will be mochi, and Scaramouche will drag him to inazuma to “try the good shit”. And the week after, it will be chicken skewers, and Signora will give him a recipe.
Ajax would add another workout routine, and his ‘bad’ list will grow. He will feel out of control, he will feel greasy and undeserving of the most basic gestures of kindness.
One step forward and two steps back.