Title: Crawling In My Skin
Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, k??/??
Warnings: Songfic, eating disorder, rape, blood, slash, het
I open my eyes
I try to see but I'm blinded by the white light
I can't remember how
I can't remember why
I'm lyin' here tonight
And I can't stand the pain
And I can't make it go away
No I can't stand the pain
Eric scrutinizes his shirtless torso in the bathroom mirror, maps out everything that still needs to be fixed. Tummy too paunchy over the waistband of his boxers, a much too thick layer of fat hiding his ribs from view. He turns to the side and gives his reflection a furious stare. Sucks his stomach in. Holds until he can't stand it any longer. Finally breathes out again and lets his abdomen expland to it's actual size, choking back a helpless sob as he convinces himself that it's already grown larger. It's already larger.
Tears well up in his hazel eyes, turning them a dark shade of emerald in his grief, and spill over his cheeks. He thinks grimly of the carrot he ate that morning at Kitty's command, of the bite of Fez's birthday cake that Donna fed him last week that he wasn't able to vomit back up in time.
So weak, Foreman, so weak…
Even now his stomach is grumbling, and he finds himself falling to his knees, curling in on himself and wrapping skinny ( not skinny enough, Eric, not skinny enough… ) arms around his own torso. His hesitant sniffles have graduated to full-on crying now as he rocks himself on the tiled floor, chartruese eyes closed against the blindingly tacky wallpaper.
He can't let himself give in today, he tells himself, can't let them convince him that eating is something that he wants to do. Because it isn't, not at all; even now the thought disgusts as much as it entices, and he can't imagine trying to force anything past his dried and cracking lips. No, he won't eat today. He won't give into this failing weakness that continues to keep him from achieving his most sacred of dreams. He has heroes to make proud.
He forces himself to stand on shaking legs, hands furiously wiping away at the tears now drying on his face. Breakfast started nearly five minutes ago, and he doesn't want Kitty flouncing up to see what's wrong and find him in such a state. One last look in the mirror before he pulls his shirt back on. He has to bite his lip to keep from bursting into tears once more.
His prized Bobba Fett action figure stands, unmoving, ever judging, on the edge of the sink. Eric strokes his head with a gentle finger. He has heroes to make proud.
"I won't let you down," he says before taking a deep breath and opening the door.
But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
I don't care if it hurts,
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
Kitty is unabashedly pouring whiskey into her tea when Eric wanders into the kitchen. He's returning home from Donna's after a particularly painful visit, hoping to find solace in some dark corner of his bedroom. It figures that it would be his girlfriend - the love of his life, his tortured mind offers - that ends up hurting him so. Even now, safe in his own house, it is so, so hard to forget the harshness of her words, even if she was unaware of just how deeply they had cut him…
"Eric, I haven't seen you eat anything in weeks."
"We should go out and get ice cream. You love ice cream."
"I love tickling your lovehandles!"
"FATTY FATTY FAT FAT FAT."
All he wants to do is crawl into his coccoon of a bed, read his limited edition comics and weep until the gaping hole inside of him is gone.
"Oh Eric, there you are," Kitty says, seeming just now to have noticed his presence. She takes a large gulp of tea before setting the cup back in it's saucer. "Did you want me to get you something for dinner?"
It hurts to have to turn her down. Hurts enough that wetness threatens to spill from his hazel eyes. "No mom, I'm fine."
"Oh but honey, you're looking so thin lately. I've got to fatten you up!" She giggles, punctuating this sentiment with another pull from her teacup.
It's true. Now when he looks in the mirror his clothes hang off of him as if here were a child in his father's wardrobe. His ribs are starkly visible beneath the skin. They protrude enough where he can run his fingers down them, fancy himself a musician playing on a rather morbid xylophone. Even his face, once full and rounded by baby fat, seems to have shrunk that much closer to the bone. He can trace over his cheekbones easily now, and they are sharp and unforgiving.
A sandwhich wouldn't kill him, he thinks, even though the thought of actually consuming makes his stomach churn and his throat tighten. Donna's words come back to him once more, and he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse.
…your lovehandles! …
…lovehandles…
"No mom, I'm fine," he finally says, and hurries away to the sanctuary of his room. He pretends not to see her smile falter, her head tip back as she drains her cup.
Everybody's screamin'
I try to make a sound but no one hears me
I'm slippin' off the edge
I'm hangin' by a thread
I wanna start this over again
Donna's left him. He is in his room because he has nowhere else to be. The lights have all been switched off, the blinds lowered and the curtains drawn. There is absolute, crushing silence, save for the panting of his own breath.
He's ashamed of what he's doing. So ashamed, and yet as usual that doesn't stop him, doesn't make him remove his hand from his cock. He's half-heartedly stroking himself and has been now for twenty minutes. He can't exactly recall when exactly he's last eaten or drank and so his erection is a pitiful thing, sluglike and only semi-hard even in his tightened grip. Scattered before him are photographs - all of the perfect body, slim and sleek, tight in all the perfect places. He's glued Bobba Fett's head to the pages, painstakingly placed his idol over each model's poster child face. That cold, emotionless mask locks eyes with him. Mocks him. Inspires him.
In the middle of the scattered photographs, settled on delicate china, is a single cupcake. Kitty had caught him taking it after dinner and had smiled, had looked so relieved, and took him into her arms and sighed, "Oh, Eric…"
When he comes he's already crying - dry, heaving sobs because his body can't quite bring itself to produce tears. It's such a shock to his system that he immediately faints.
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so very special
I wish I was special
The mere mention of food starts to make him physically ill. They're in the basement one day, the whole gang, and Jackie describes an expensive designer chocolate that Kelso ought to be buying her for Valentine's Day if he knows what's good for him. Eric rushes off to the bathroom without another word.
When he comes back out not ten minutes later, he has to shamefacedly blame Donna's cooking.
How could this happen to me?
I've made my mistakes
got nowhere to run
the night goes on
As I'm fadin' away
I'm sick of this life
I just wanna scream
How could this happen to me?
Hyde told him to meet him at the Hub. He's been sitting at the usual spot for what feels like hours, resolutely ignoring the fries he's ordered so as not to look too suspicious. Every once in a while someone walks by and the smell wafts towards him, invades his senses, and he has to resist the urge to gag.
Another half hour drags by. Still no Hyde. Some friend of Kelso's who he's only met once or twice and who's name he's never really bothered to remember has taken the liberty of filling his seat until he decides to show up. She's ordered a hamburger and milkshake and has been helping herself to Eric's neglected meal.
She eats sloppy, scarfing it down. Like she hasn't eaten in months. Like she feels exactly how Eric feels. And suddenly it's just too much, the scent and the sight and the feel and oh god he's going to vomit. He excuses himself and rushes to the bathroom, knowing even then that he'll only bring up bile and acid. It's all he ever brings up anymore.
He slams into the bathroom and trips to an open stall. Only when it's too late does he realize it's not empty at all. There's a familiarly brown-headed body curled up there, lying helpless and shivering in a pool of it's own blood.
"Oh my god…
Hyde, what happened?"
Hyde coughs and tries to crawl backwards, but there's nowhere for him to go in the tiny stall. There's a look of horror and revulsion in his eyes, and for a split second Eric thinks he's scared of me because I'm so fat. But a spark of recognition lights up Hyde's face and the horror is gone. Now he only looks frightened.
Eric kneels beside his friend, pulling his broken body into his arms. Or at least that's the plan, but he's so weak that he can barely lift him for fear of his arms simply giving up and falling off. He settles for cradling Hyde's curly head in his bony lap.
"Oh Hyde, who did this to you?"
Hyde struggles to speak. His voice is worn and raspy, and he sounds so, so tired. "I don't know, Foreman. I - I think he was a foreigner."
"Go on," Eric encourages. To himself he says foreigner? I knew we couldn't trust those goddamned Communists.
"He had this weird accent, and he was wearing a suit… and - and he just kicked open the door while I was pissing, and he pointed at me, and he just -"
"Come on, man. It's okay. I'm here."
"He just - he said, 'Tonight, you.' And…"
"And?"
"He raped me."
He raped me…
The words echo around Eric's skull, forcing out every other thought. He raped me, he raped me, he raped me… How could this happen? And of all people, to Hyde? Hyde, who was always so strong, so handsome, so perfectly built…
Hyde, who he … loved.
Eric tried as best he could to hold Hyde without breaking any of his fragile bones, and they rocked together and wept for the things they had lost.
She's running out the door
She's running out
She run run run run...
Run...
Time has passed. Wounds have attempted to heal. Together Eric and Hyde have clung to one another, acknowledging just how fucked up the other is and ready to drag the other out of the well of sorrow he is drowning in. It's a symbiotic relationship at first, each drawing strength from the other. Eventually it blossoms into even a deeper friendship. It is only logical that this be the next step.
Eric is holding a package out to Hyde, beckoning him to take it. Hyde is reluctant, but eventually takes it from his lax grip. Gives it a shake with unenthusiastic results. Finally he gives in and just opens the thing, pulling off the girly bits of ribbon and Star Wars wrapping paper that Eric had deemed necessary to decorate it with. After a few tense moments, the package's contents are revealed.
Hyde stares.
There's a jar of vaseline and a Hostess cupcake staring back at him.
"I love you, Hyde," Eric says, and his voice is tight with emotion. The threat of tears pulls at him but he bravely holds them back. Can't go spoiling the mood by having a breakdown like that. Even if there isn't a mood to spoil. Eric chances a look at Hyde, who has remained silent so far; frighteningly silent, in fact, and for a long moment Eric thinks that he's going to be punched in the face. But then their eyes meet, Eric's hazel depths to Hyde's ever-present sunglasses. And Hyde smiles. Everything is going to be alright.
They don't need words.
They make love right there in the basement, and it's everything Eric could have hoped for. Hyde is pliant and soft beneath him, easily taking him in to the hilt. And while he thrusts, Hyde is there to press cupcake to his mouth, bidding him part his lips and take in the sweetness of it and finally feel good about it, about himself, about the things he can accomplish. Their kisses taste like chocolate, and when they come together, Hyde licks his own come from Eric's fingers like cream.
They cuddle in the afterglow, still licking crumbs from their lips.
A sudden pair of footsteps on the staircase and they both start, trying to untangle their limbs and hide their nudity, but it's too late and before they can move farther than an inch Red is towering over at them, eyes hard and mouth set in a line.
"Dad, I can explain," Eric starts. Red cuts him off with a sharp smack to the back of the head. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Dad…?"
Red turns from them, stomping grumpily back up the stairs.
"STOP BEING DUMBASSES."
I don't belong here...