A/N: want to make this very clear before you proceed. This story is based off of my actual experiences and those of my closest friends. I am doing my absolute damnedest to give those who don't live with these disorders a real, raw, honest experience of what it is like to live in these cages. As such this story can and will be extremely triggering. And if you too live with any of these conditions mentioned in this fic, please know you are not alone, no matter how often you feel that way.

He could feel the eyes on him as he slouched in the stiff office chair, trying to make himself even smaller in the cold waiting room. Across the waiting room, his mother spoke pleasantly with the receptionist, the two acting like good friends. Probably they were. Sounds about right, his mother friends with the secretary, bet she had access to his private files. Probably called his mom when he was at school to tell her about how fucked up her kid was and that they needed to upgrade from one session a week to two.

Which was exactly why he found himself here, in this freezing little waiting room with a woman reading an outdated and overused fashion and gossip magazine. She had short blonde hair tucked behind her ear, and some huge breasts. Like those were real. Then there was his mother and that bitch of a receptionist chatting it up at the front. Glaring, he looked back down at his basketball shoes.

Shoes were good. Shoes were safe. Familiar. He really liked these shoes. The laces were starting to fray and one of the leather loops on the left one had totally broken, making them tie unevenly. He'd need new ones soon, but he hated going out. He hated shopping, it took forever and cost too much energy. After school was out of the question, and he needed his weekends to recuperate. Maybe he could talk his father into buying them off the internet, that saved everyone the trouble.

The door clicked open leading further into the little suite, Gilbert fighting the instinctive urge to look, he could feel the eyes again, every time someone came or went, they always looked at him. They always looked.

His skin was crawling all over again.

"I'm so happy you came today Natalya," the therapist practically cooed. Perhaps he was trying to be enthusiastic, but really it came off as condescending. "Same time next week. You will show up, yes?"

Boobs smiled, standing and grabbing a small bag. She looked younger now that he could see her face better from the corner of his eye. "Yes we will."

"Payment was already settled, so I'll see you both in a week. Take care."

He watched them leave without moving. Moving drew attention to him, attention meant looks, looks were judgments. He was so fucking sick of people judging him. The girl, Natalya, walked several paces behind Tits McGhee, scowling at nothing in particular. Oh, well at least he wasn't the only one coming here under duress.

"Gilbert."

He glowered, refusing to budge. He had just been here Monday! He refused to make this easy. He liked schedules and any change made without his explicit okay was absolutely unacceptable. His entire schedule was fucked now! He would be late for dinner and that meant the Hunger would come and gnaw at him.

"Gilbert," his mother scolded loudly, making his face flare in a blush self-consciously. Was the public humiliation really necessary!? It didn't matter that there was literally no one else in the room, it was the ethics of it all. Giving the blonde woman his filthiest glare, he stood stiffly, his vision going black a moment as he realized how bad of an idea that had been just a little too late. He refused to show weakness, however, walking blindly and doing his best not to sway too bad.

"Right this way, Gilbert," Francis Bonnefoy smiled, standing aside to let him into the dimly lit little room with the couch and coffee table.

It wasn't like those red couches in the movies and all the jokes about therapists. No, it was a regular couch in some boring beige colour that fell in a little too much from all the asses that had sat on it. He scowled at the cup of water Francis set in front of him, of course the bastard would have noticed.

"I'm sure this isn't the real solution, but it should help you make it through," Francis spoke plainly, settling in a plush blue arm chair on the other side of the table. "How have you been Gilbert."

"Dandy, until someone decided they should spend two days a week wasting my time."

Francis smiled sadly, shoulders dropping slightly in some silent sigh, "So more of the same, is it? Remember when we could talk? Why don't we go back to that?"

"Sounds fucking beautiful," the albino barked a ragged laugh that actually hurt his throat, forcing him to actually accept the plastic cup of water. Francis waited patiently until he was done, not done drinking mind you. No, even something as simple as that was a ritual. Sip, swallow, feeling the coldness travel through his body before pooling in his stomach. His real stomach, behind his left ribs. It spread from there to his arms, his legs, his heart. God why did it have to be so cold.

But it did the trick, his fiery temper cooling as he shivered under the baggy sweatshirt. Francis took the subdued look in the teenager's kaleidoscope eyes to finally shift his legs into a more comfortable position, drawing the boy from where ever he had wandered off to inside himself. "You used to be more open Gilbert, I don't understand what happened."

"Of course you wouldn't," he muttered bitterly, he had given up. The look was not attractive, rather it bordered on heartbreaking. "You wouldn't understand what it's like to have the whole goddamn world know you are pathetic. To go to school and have your teachers watching you during lunch, have them judging your food. Having the other kids whisper about what is going on. Rumors about you everywhere. To go home and have your family, your friends' families, your mom's friends' families, even her fucking coworkers! Literally the entire fucking planet knows there is something wrong with me."

"What do they say?"

"What are they gonna say!?" the boy snapped. His hood fell off his head, he looked thinner again. His cheekbones and jaw more defined, sharper, but not naturally. A little food would round out the edges, give him those boyish features he used to possess when he first started coming here. Now he just looked tired, like he could sleep for a thousand years and still wake up tired. "How are you? Are you eating? Your mom told me everything."

'Ah,' Francis thought, rubbing his temple with a knuckle as the truth came out. Three weeks and all Gilbert had to do was tell him. Perhaps he should have figured that out himself, however. Helmine was that sort of parent; she hovered, tried too hard. She did only have the best intentions for her oldest son, but that was how the road to Hell was said to be paved.

His attention was drawn back when he noticed Gilbert move, drawing in his knees to his chest, hiding his face. "Even Ludwig. I don't know what is more fucked up, the fact that my mother cages me with her spies or that my own little brother treats me like an infant. I don't need to be taken care of. I don't want to be."

"He doesn't understand."

Red-violet eyes, now more red than violet as he blinked back tears, stared balefully from across the room. "Do you? Does anyone? No one but me understands."

"You're right-," Francis started, but was cut off.

"You have hundreds of patients I bet. Girls. All of them are girls, Because it's so stupid. It's weak . Boys don't get eating disorders!"

Francis let those last words echo in the little room, the waiting room couldn't hear anything, so it was trapped here, between them. But it wasn't welcomed here either. "Gilbert, that's obviously not true." He could see it, the little light in the boy's irises. The little bit of validation.

If only validation was the magic cure.