When Ivan went home that night, he started his research on how to be prepared for the next class. Alfred had been wearing sweatpants, gray things that had hung loosely to him and let him move freely.
He would start there.
He searched for them online, looking for which ones would be best for dancing. His goal was to find ones that would help him to move like Alfred.
Even if he thought Alfred was a cocky guy who jumped to conclusions, the man could dance.
He could appreciate talent, at least.
Pants probably wouldn't make him dance as well as the people in Alfred's class, but, at least he would look the part.
Once he had written down what kind of pants he needed, he wondered about shoes. The class had been in mostly tennis shoes, if he recalled right, so he might be able to use the pair he wore to the gym every now and then...
Ivan walked through his lavish apartment to his room, throwing his closet open to look around for anything he might be able to use.
Suits lined the rows of his closet in perfect form, looking less like a closet and more like the racks of a men's clothing store.
Jackets and dress pants on one side, dress shirts on the other.
Nothing suitable (hah) for dance class.
The floor of the closet had a few pairs of dress shoes, just enough for every day of the week. No tennis shoes there.
With a sigh, he shut the door, deciding that if he had anything that might work for class, it would be in his chest of drawers.
He pulled each of the drawers open one by one, the underwear drawer, the sock drawer, the drawer for his white shirts... The last few drawers had a few pairs of athletic shorts in them, a few 'Team Building Exercise' shirts, and his pajamas.
Not much there, though he supposed he could just wear a team building shirt and athletic shorts if he had no other options.
He found his neglected tennis shoes near the bedside table, heels turned towards the wall neatly. He smiled, that would solve the shoes problem.
Though, he didn't feel comfortable with wearing athletic shorts to dance class, everyone else had been dressed... it seemed professional to him, even if they were just in sweat pants and such.
He was sure some of them had been wearing shorts, but he couldn't imagine himself dancing (He could hardly imagine that at all) in them. He sighed and headed back to the living room to get his keys- if he had to dance, he would be as comfortable as possible doing it, and if Alfred was going to wear sweatpants and dance like that, then so would he.
As he headed to his car, the keys swinging from his hand loosely, he had a thought.
Why was he getting so worked up about this? He didn't even want to dance at all, why did it matter what he wore?
And why did what Alfred wore and did have any effect on him?
It didn't matter, Alfred didn't control him.
Yeah, Ivan did what he wanted; Alfred had nothing to do with it.
And therefore, he was going to buy himself some sweatpants.
Meanwhile, Alfred was crouched over the porcelain toilet in his apartment, upchucking the dinner of McDonalds he'd had after some dance practice. It did not taste as good going the other way.
He sat back and panted when his stomach was empty, wiping his mouth and flushing the toilet as he got up to clean his face. Sure enough, he looked like a mess.
You always look like a mess, an internal voice told him, and he splashed water onto his face, muttering, "Shut up" under his breath.
It had been like this for a while now, and he was getting sick of it. It was the reason he'd even signed up for therapy, that goddamn voice had started making him feel bad enough that he was taking it out on himself, and his digestive system.
He huffed over the sink and dried his face off, heading back to his bedroom and flopping down on the bed heavily. He felt awful. He always did feel awful after that.
It wasn't as bad when he took diuretics, Francis had called them, or just worked out until he could hardly walk anymore, but those were still hurting him. Francis had said that it would take some time to get him out of those behaviors, but for now to try and stop throwing up.
And he was. He really was trying.
But after a big dinner of McDonalds, his favorite food, he felt like a greasy slob, and his mind echoed the feeling back to him harshly. So harshly that he couldn't take it anymore and just got rid of the problem.
But now he'd done what Francis had told him not to, and that almost made him feel worse.
You can't do anything right, can you?
"Shut the fuck up," He snapped hoarsely, picking up his cell phone from the bedside table. He flipped to Francis's number and pressed call, hoping he would pick up. On the second ring, he heard the Frenchman's voice.
"Alfred? How can I help you?"
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I have caller ID, cher. It is not so hard," Francis chuckled a little, "What is the matter?"
Alfred sighed deeply and rubbed at the back of his neck, "…It's not a good day."
Francis made a noise of understanding, "Ah. I will take that to mean you had an encounter with the commode, then?"
Though Francis couldn't see it, Alfred nodded sadly, "Yeah. I tried not to, I did, but… he kept picking at me and saying terrible things…"
"I understand, Alfred. It is okay. It is not going to be that easy to stop; I know that," Francis said calmly, "You do not like doing that, either, I know that, too. That voice will start to go away, little by little. For now, take one of the pills I prescribed and try to get some sleep. Do not think about it. Remember the exercises we went over and try to relax yourself. You can get through this."
Alfred nodded again and gave a shaky exhale, "Okay, Okay."
"There is a good boy. Breathe."
The dancer breathed in slowly and let it back out.
"Good. Are you going to be okay, mon ami?" Francis asked quietly.
"Y-Yeah," Alfred took another deep breath and let it out, "Yeah, I'll be okay. I'll go take one of my pills. Thank you, Francis."
"Anytime, Alfred. You can do this, remember that."
Alfred closed his eyes and nodded, "I'll remember. Goodnight."
He hung up his phone and set it back down on the bedside table, taking a few more deep breaths before nodding and getting up to go back to the bathroom for the pill Francis had given him.
You're so weak. You can't stop on your own. You need a pill to keep you normal. So weak.
Alfred bit his lip and tried to remember what Francis told him, "It's not a sign of weakness to ask for help, it's a sign of strength. It's a sign of strength." He started thinking that in a mantra to himself so that he couldn't hear the voice and could take the pill in some semblance of peace.
After he'd washed it down with water, he headed back to bed, tired and moody.
So weak.
"Shut. Up."
