A/N: For general info, see my profile, please. (I put stuff there so I wouldn't have to put it on everything I do ever.) Also, I believe now is when I give the constant "DON'T LIKE DON'T READ" slogan. Heed this, please.
Warning: This is pretty totally a weight gain fic. Please, if you don't like that sort of thing, ignore this it's fine.
"We need to talk."
Alfred sits on the couch, one arm across the back, torso twisted around to better to see behind him.
Ivan freezes in the hallway towards the living room and kitchen. He dreads these four words and what they mean, but can't help himself from asking, "About what?"
Alfred's expression and position don't change. "You. Us."
Ivan's legs feel impossibly heavy as he makes his way to the couch to sit beside the other man. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't think of anything to say. Instead he closes his mouth and nods weakly.
Alfred continues, "This isn't working." And, as Ivan's (probably-not-anymore) partner launches off on all the things wrong with him and why he's a terrible boyfriend, he can't help but think that this is awfully sudden. He begins to regret ever waking up, and thinks that, perhaps, this is only a dream. But no, everything feels far to regular to be any sort of dream Ivan has ever had.
Just as Ivan thinks they're done and he can crawl back to the bedroom, Alfred delivers the kicker. "And your weight."
Everything in Ivan goes cold. He stares, mouth slightly open, as he tries and tries to find something to say. After far too long, he comes up with a measly, "It wasn't a problem before."
Alfred gives him a look somewhere between deadpan and sympathy. "Before you were just kind of chubby. It was cute, how you were awkward about everything and stuff. Now you're just fat. Have you looked at yourself recently?"
He feels faint. He feels feverish and sick and like the ground should hurry up and swallow him up because there is nothing more for him here. His brain simply turns off as he tries, again, to find a reply. This time he can only say "oh".
"Yeah." Suddenly, Alfred is at the door, leaving. "See you around, I guess."
The door slams and Ivan can think again. He thinks this is shallow of Alfred to do, and mean. Well. He didn't want such a mean boyfriend, anyway. "Yeah, " he says to his empty house.
He stays seated on the couch and can't remember what he even came in here for. He stares at his knees and doesn't cry. He would smash some picture frames or decorations, but the room is sparsely decorated. He doesn't have picture frames or decorations.
His stomach lets out an angry growl, and he glances at it, before looking at his kneecaps again.
It quickly lets out another angrier, longer growl, and Ivan stands up and goes to the kitchen. Once there, he opens the freezer and reaches for the Double Chocolate Fudge With Mint And Cookies that Alfred bought the other week. He reaches and reaches, and suddenly he isn't reaching anymore. His arm drops back to his side, and he stares. He doesn't need it. He doesn't want anything Alfred bought.
Moments later, however, he finds himself shoving as much of it in his mouth as he can manage, along with nearly everything else in the kitchen. He eats until he can barely move, and then eats some more.
When he finally declares himself full and finished, he lays on the couch and stares at the ceiling. Not at his stomach, that is distended and sloshing and hard and so full oh god it hurts to breathe-
After a few moments he sits up. When his stomach settles, he stands up and walks back to his bedroom. On the way, though, he passes the bathroom, with the mirror visible from the door, He tells himself he won't look, he won't, but he does.
As usual, he dislikes what he sees. This time, though, he can maybe sort of see where Alfred was coming from (though it was still horridly unfair). His cheeks are too round, his jawline is all but gone, he almost (only almost) has a second chin, his thighs rub together, and his stomach is too, too round, and now sags a bit over the waistband of his pants. His shirt fails in a noble attempt to keep it covered, but after his binge it fails miserably, riding up and stretched taut (like his skin) everywhere.
He still doesn't cry, though, as he pokes and prods his stomach (which hurt) and cheeks. Then, as if possessed, he turns away and all but runs to the bedroom.
As he falls asleep staring at the ceiling, he thinks he'll call in sick at work for a few days.
A/N: I swear I'm working on the second half of this and the third chapter of that other one and maybe a sort of sequal kind of for that O:GRF thing. Just. Don't hold your breath.