Work Text:
Fry POV
My famous potluck, and everyone's favorite meal– their words, not mine. The only problem now is I can’t find Newt; he disappeared right before dessert, and apparently, no one has noticed except me.
After I finish serving dessert, I make my way around the house to look for Newt.
It’s fine, I know it is. He is probably just overwhelmed, and in my bedroom, or maybe he’s… – No, I absolutely cannot think like that. He has been fine, better, for months. He is okay; I just know it.
And he is, he’s fine, everything is fine until I hear the worst noise imaginable coming from your second-story bathroom containing your frighteningly underweight friend with a binge purge disorder. The quiet splattering of vomit irks me, and the fucking audacity of this man to do it in my own home.
Oh my goodness, I can't do this; this isn't my job, he is not my responsibility. I should go get Minho, or Zart, or, for goodness' sake, Thomas could do better than however badly I am about to mess up.
But the fresh round of reaching pulls me to my senses; this is my best friend, who needs me. There is no time for anyone else.
I paste on a smile and prepare the arsenal of dad jokes to distract this mentally ill boy from whatever shame spiral he is currently in.
My gentle knocks on the door give no time for Newt to place himself in a less compromising position.
Head in the toilet and fingers, presumably, still down his throat. I allow him to finish a final heave before speaking, “Well, I know my food is bad, but come on.” I try my damn hardest to make it come out like a joke, like the situation I just walked into won't haunt me forever, but by the look on Newt's face, it was the wrong thing to say.
“Just please,” Newt rasped, “don't tell Minho.”
Do I know what to do? Absolutely not, there is also no way in hell I am not relaying this to his main caretaker, ESPECIALLY, if this was more than a quick setback.
I KNOW THAT HEALING IS NOT LINEAR, but if Newt is back on one bad habit train, who knows how far this could go.
Start of Newt POV
Bloody hell, I am stupid. I walked into this fucking potluck thinking I could get in and get out with a calorie loss.
Psychotically, I did research, looked up on MPA, ‘How to purge quietly at a party?’, and I hate purging, digestion starts in the bloody mouth, and it's mostly the sugars. I am hitting none of my macros today and way overdoing it on the calories, which means I can’t eat tomorrow, and Minho will be suspicious. ANA, when no one suspected anything, was so much easier.
I waited all day for Fry’s famous potluck(his words), and this ED had me consuming nothing but my own bloody fingernails to prepare for the insane amount of fucking oil in these dishes. Was it so kind of my friend, yes, do I give a shit, no, because I am a selfish and awful scum of the Earth.
I GET to sit down at a table full of people who care about me-even though I don’t have the energy to text them, let alone show up most days-and eat fantastic food that makes my mouth run. PREPARED BY the top student of a nationally ranked culinary school, and still I sneak my way up to the bathroom, not full of shame but of guilt over the heaviness in my stomach.
I shove my dirty fingers down my throat, stroking my gag reflex to coax food up from my stomach.
I do hear my stupid therapist's advice ringing in my ears,
“You need food, food is fuel.”
And I helpfully acknowledge it; however, it doesn’t apply to me.
I don't need food.
I need to be a skeleton and constantly on the verge of death.
Even better, I need to be in a ditch overdosing on-” Well, I know my…”
Fuck, this is not happening. My face gets hot with embarrassment, and I feel shame drag my stomach into my throat, making it hard to breathe.
I can’t do this, not again.
“Just please,” Bloody hell, I beg now, how low can I go? “Don’t tell Minho.”