Catching Stars
A/N: PLEASE READ: This story does feature eating disorders, bullying, passing mentions of self-injury and child neglect, as a quick warning. I mentioned the eating disorders in the summary, but the rest was a surprise even to me xD
So, anyway, I originally started this as a vent fic back in November, but I ended up getting the idea for Live Wire instead, so I saved the page I had on this to come back to it later - I'd pretty much rid myself of all the bad feelings with Live Wire, so I didn't need to write this anymore. But I need a new vent fic. Because I'm feeling shitty again, which is not exactly a new feeling, but I told myself every time I felt shitty, I would write a fic for it, and try something new every time. I know people who suffer from eating disorders are sometimes offended by others writing stories about the disorder, especially when it's on a whim, but I promise you, I'm not trying to offend anyone; I'm just trying to make myself feel better, and apparently I'm crazy or maybe just a stupid bastard, because giving Hiccup an issue is apparently how I help crawl out of the holes I fall into. But it helps me, and it makes me feel better, so, that's something, right?
Oh, this might be a multi-chapter fic, probably will be, but if nobody likes it, it'll probably die slowly.
Starving.
Sometimes, Hiccup wondered how he himself would describe it.
Other people had said it was loveless, dangerous, pointless, like striking matches just to see them burn; they said it was deadly and faithless, like crackling flames or breathless magic tricks. Said it was horrible; a vicious habit to fall into, said it was useless.
These people did not give it enough credit, because they had never done it for hours and days and impossibly long weeks.
When he thought of it, Hiccup supposed he'd say it was safe. Secure. Controlled. He did not enjoy the gnawing pains in his stomach, not by any stretch of the imagination – all they did was remind him that he wasn't finished yet – but it was also strange, comforting; a kind of sweet agony, he supposed, a slow and exciting torture. Each pang brought on something close to perverse ecstasy, and though he hungered, though his stomach ached, though he felt so empty…it felt so nice.
It felt so good to hear the November wind rustling dead leaves, disturbing naked branches, and when it blew on him, it was really blowing through him, because he was nothing. It felt so good to see yellowing, waxy skin grow taut over sharp, brittle bones; to see the face in the mirror, ugly as it had always been, growing pinched and pale and narrow, to feel so empty that he could disappear with too deep a breath.
And more than that, it was easy.
It was often said that it was easy, and some people might even have thought him a liar were he to say it now, but it was. It was easy. Too easy.
Nobody spoke to him; nobody asked him where he'd been, or if he'd eaten, or why his clothes fell away from his stomach, his flat stomach – but flat was only one letter away from fat, and he was relieved he hadn't eaten lunch. Nobody asked him why they only ever saw him chewing on apples or tearing off bits of bagels; nobody asked him why he was so good with algebra, with equations, with numbers, nobody ever thought that maybe it was because he counted every day: pounds, calories, bites.
Sometimes, it was hard – sometimes, he wanted to take more bites than he needed, longed to grab all the food within his reach and stuff it down his throat, keep eating and eating until he was finally full again, because he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. But instead, he swallowed nothing but air, pretending it was the bite he didn't earn.
But it was easy to conceal it.
He just kept a smile on his face and a hand near his stomach; sometimes, he used the fingers on his hand, and stuck them down his throat, and sticky bile came pouring out in a putrid, vile stream.
And sometimes, when he lay awake at night, he could hear his stomach growling, and he hated it because he was still weak; sometimes, he raked his nails across his cheeks and down his arms, and he didn't like it; sometimes, he cried, and he didn't like that either; but he didn't sleep. He didn't ever sleep.
It was easy, even, to say the words, because if he just kept repeating them to himself, he knew one day they'd be true.
"I don't need to eat."
If he said it enough and lost enough weight, it would make it true.
"I don't need to eat."
Then he wouldn't be weak anymore.
"I don't need to eat."
One day, his stomach wouldn't growl and he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't curl up on his bed and think about food and he'd be thin and perfect and not weak anymore.
"I don't need to eat."
Then his father would stop yelling at him.
"I don't need to eat."
Then Snotlout would stop knocking him around all the time.
"I don't need to eat."
When these words became true, they'd see. They'd all see.
"I don't need to eat."
He would be strong.
Hunger was a monster.
Everyone had one, and hunger was his.
It clawed up his insides and rained fists upon his abdomen, making his stomach growl, and with each sound from his shaking, pale body, there was a voice, low and nightmarish, following him to school and through the hallways and down to his locker, and up to his classes, and then it followed him home and chased him into restless, fitful dreams, and it said, loud and inescapable and insistent, "You need to eat."
But he didn't need to. He'd never needed to.
You need to eat.
"I don't need to eat."
You need to eat.
"I don't need to eat."
Hunger, when it tapped persistent fists upon his shaking, pale body, when it whispered malicious lies into his ears, when it chewed and gnawed and ate away at him, feasting on him as if to tell him that this was punishment for feasting on nothing, told him he hadn't gotten enough. Told him he was weak.
He hated hunger.
