A/N: This is a repost from my old account, from which it was deleted. There is only one copy of this story currently on the site. In case the anonymous reviewer from last time happens to see this again, I cannot reply to anonymous reviews. If you're going to ask me a question, at least leave me an email address to reach you at.
Warnings: Eating disorders, angst, vomiting.
Sasuke doesn't notice because Itachi doesn't want him to. Sometimes he'll frown and stare a little at Itachi's nearly-empty plate, dark, thin brows knitting together suspiciously, but all Itachi has to do to soothe him is lay a hand on Sasuke's (thicker) wrist and curl his (thinner) fingers into Sasuke's (he wears a ring with a genuine sapphire in it on his right hand, the evidence of Naruto's summer spent slaving away at the ice cream parlor that Itachi takes Sasuke to but hasn't actually eaten at since he was twelve). Don't worry about me, Sasuke. I'll eat later.
Okay, Itachi. Just make sure you don't forget.
Itachi doesn't forget. He wakes up nauseous every morning, chokes down an apple (for Sasuke's sake) with his coffee; Sasuke's out the door, time for school; Itachi's classes don't start until noon, and he goes to his bedroom with the apple churning in his stomach and has to bend over three times, gagging violently, salivating in preparation to rinse away the bile he forces not to come.
–
Father. Itachi is fourteen and his wrists are sharp enough to draw blood, the bones protruding like they're too big for the skin stretched over them. Father, I think I'm underweight.
Father looks up from his hand of poker, glances over Itachi's body; his friends turn to look too, and Itachi goes hot and shuddering under so many gazes. "Don't look," he wants to scream. He swallows. Bitter.
You look healthy to me, Father finally says. The words hit hard. Itachi flinches, betrayal and fear sinking wetly into his chest.
Don't worry, kiddo; all Uchiha men start out elegant, says Itachi's uncle. You'll fill out soon enough.
Itachi nods and bows and apologizes for interrupting, and on the way back upstairs he seizes a bowl and fills it with leftover snack mix from Father's game. He takes it with him into his bedroom, downs it all in less than two minutes, and spends the rest of the night curled against himself in bed, hands clutching at his aching stomach and tears wracking his body with silent, agonized spasms.
–
Shisui notices right off the bat. He takes Itachi's waist in his hands (big, big and so warm), scowls at the lack of distance between his fingertips in the back and his thumbs in the front.
Fuck this, he says, squeezing against Itachi's ribcage. It hurts—fingers press against bone with too little muscle to absorb the force of it. It hurts. Itachi shuts his eyes, the heat from Shisui's hands radiating over him in waves.
Itachi is off the ground. His ribs hurt again, this time shoved up hard against the muscular curve of Shisui's broad shoulder. We get you a cheeseburger and you eat the whole thing, god damn it, or I'll tie you down and force-feed you.
Itachi feels:
Safe. Protected. Shisui cares enough to force him to eat.
Guilty. Shisui is angry. Itachi's behavior is substandard.
No desire to improve his condition. Desire to please his best friend, his best friend whom he had the misfortune to fall sickeningly in love with, will have to be enough. Shisui is warm and solid, tangible to Itachi's ethereal. He thinks it could be stabilizing, if he let it.
–
Itachi is seventeen. Shisui, and occasionally Sasuke, are the only people who can coax food down his throat, via manipulation and threats and guilt trips and cunning. His ribs are sharply defined, his hip-bones shadowed, his spine unnaturally ridged. He takes to wearing larger and larger sweatshirts, the softness and padding of the material creating the illusion of fullness in his body. His hair is falling out.
He collapses on the way home from school and wakes up cradled against Shisui's chest (safe, protected, guilt, desire, submission). Please don't call an ambulance, he begs.
Shisui stares at him for long moments. Itachi can't think why his eyes are wet, or why he's gathered into a close, melting hold—but gently.
You're going to break apart in my arms, Shisui chokes against Itachi's shoulder.
"Stop," Itachi wants to say, "I'm not worth your tears," but instead he hangs on and strokes Shisui's curls and ignores the growing spot of wetness on his shoulder.
–
Why do you love me? Itachi murmurs, fingers trembling as he smooths them down Shisui's chest. The skin he's touching, the muscle underneath it, shifts as Shisui rolls over, glaring at him. He presses their foreheads together, presses sweet, slow kisses into Shisui's mouth, avoiding the answer to his own question. Shisui wraps his fingers around Itachi's wrists (he can overlap to the first knuckle and it drives him absolutely mad) and pins him back against the bed, weighing him down with his big, hard body.
Itachi feels breakable and childish, surrounded by heat.
Because someone has to, and god knows how much you suck at it, Shisui says, voice sour with resentment. His dark eyes are miles deep as they hold Itachi in an almost-hypnosis.
I don't deserve you. Itachi slides his hands against Shisui's neck, into the thickness of his hair, and melts them together into another kiss. "I don't deserve to be loved," he wants to say, but that will hurt Shisui.
He desires to please Shisui, even if it means pretending he can love his twisted, ugly self.
–
At fifteen, Itachi attends a birthday party, manages to choke down almost as much food as Shisui does, and ignores the dull ache in his stomach. I ate too much,Sasuke complains after, and Itachi smiles and doesn't say anything, pretending the words don't burn him inside. "I ate too much" versus "I have a terminal illness"; the difference, to Itachi, is insignificant.
He goes to bed and lies awake for two hours, so sick his skin is going clammy with sweat. The stomach shrinks when it's not fed properly for too long, and normal amounts of food will digest the same as over-eating.
Everything hurts, everything feels heavy and wrong. "See what happens when you eat," Itachi's mind whispers, synching with a wave of nausea so intense Itachi feels bile scorch the tender skin of his esophagus. He rolls out of bed and stumbles across the hall to the bathroom, barely making it in time to kneel down in front of the toilet and purge the contents of his stomach.
It's perverse, he thinks, how cleansed he feels, with vomit in his hair and violent spasms wracking his entire frame.
–
You can't just stop eating, Fugaku says. He's solid and imposing, and Itachi gathers his books and plucks a banana from the fruit bowl and smiles obediently.
"Watch me," he wants to say. "Notice me. Help me." He'd give his soul for his father to notice how thin he's gotten; how hard it is to walk up a flight of stairs; how weak his grip is. Fugaku wants a perfect son, and has no room in his world-view for disordered thinking.
I won't starve, Itachi says, placating, shoving his thoughts into a strongbox. His cognitive processes are wrong wrong wrong—imperfect, and therefore he will pretend they are not, and pretend he is the perfect son his father refuses to believe he cannot be.
–
Itachi moves out of the house at eighteen and goes to college. Without his mother's prepared leftovers and Sasuke's threatening dinner excursions, he tells himself the lack of food in his dorm is a result of 1. forgetting to eat. 2. saving money for textbooks. Itachi is the perfect son and the perfect student, and school comes first.
I eat emotionally, he tells his roommate. I lose my appetite at the slightest provocation. Annoying, really. He spends three days eating crackers, tries to get in a sandwich on the fourth, and spends the rest of the night vomiting. He calls Shisui in the morning and can't remember why.
What did you eat today? Shisui says, first thing.
Nothing, Itachi replies. I think I'm sick. I haven't been able to keep anything down.
Shisui hangs up.
–
You haven't been able to keep anything down because your stomach is so used to being empty. Shisui drags Itachi out of his chair, hands so big and so solid against his shirt. Itachi could disappear in him, smoke whispering inside wood as though it was never there at all—intangible and feather-light. No. Lighter. It thrills him somewhere dark and warped.
I have trouble processing food that isn't organic, Itachi says. The words fall, limp and pathetic.
Itachi is on the floor, face stinging where Shisui slapped him. His elbow, hip, knee all hurt (too much bone, not enough muscle to cushion the impact). Shisui falls to his knees and gathers him up in his arms, gasping. Oh, god. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. Oh, god, you can't even hold yourself up anymore.
Don't cry, Itachi says, hollow, wrapping his arms around Shisui's chest. It's fuller and harder and much more real than Itachi's frail imitation. Shisui smells real.
Hypocrite. Shisui's lips move against Itachi's shoulder as his fingers smooth over Itachi's sharp cheekbones, smearing wetness against his skin.
Itachi desires to see Shisui smile, with no consequence to his own condition or well-being. He is unworthy of devotion or returned affection. Underneath this, the background music of his existence from the age of thirteen, runs a current of fear.
Self-love.
Itachi is gagging on mucus before it registers that he's sobbing. Shisui is warm and solid and keeps him from disappearing. I'm dying, Itachi moans, over and over. I'm dying.
Shisui rocks him and cries with him and for the first time, Itachi experiences the comfort of staying weighted to the ground.