Disclaimer: I do not own death note.
-Scramble-
Matt was hardly all smiles at the lunch table, but he was putting on a show. Moving food around, mashing it to make it appear eaten, anything that will hide the fact that he has yet to take a bite. He wants to, he really does. He just can't stomach it. Literally.
When he eats, the food sits. It does not move, it does not digest. It goes down as far as his stomach, and then when the pressure gets too much, it comes back up. He has not eaten anything of any substance in days. He can only seem to hold very thin, light liquids down. Nothing more. Matt knows there is something wrong, more than what was before. But for the life of him, has no idea how to fix it.
After "lunch" he passes Near in the hall, the boy who he had played chess with more than a few times, and receives nothing more than a passing glance. If even that. He has not spoken to him in weeks. Matt knows it is not something he has done, yet can not understand the sudden change. The way those dark eyes bore into him when Near does look, and the odd fire that seems ignited in them. Something had changed, and if Matt only knew what he could perhaps correct it.
However, he does not have the time to spend to figure it out. There was regular classwork to do, along with the specialty ones, the assignments for father, and so on. It was never ending. Consuming. He used to love working so hard, ready and eager for any challenge...but now he was simply tired.
There was a half hour before his next class—time well spent on case files, or perhaps reading up on the next set of assignments—but when Matt closes the door behind him all he could do was collapse into his computer chair.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes and trying to ignore the soft growls from his stomach that he could do nothing about. He spent a few good minutes blinking away the nauseous hungry feeling, and finally, when there was only fifteen minutes left, he was able to open his laptop to begin working. His fingers trembled on the keys as he typed, and he can't focus. He feels like he's slipping.
He scrambles for something, anything to distract him, and lights a cigarettes.
With a hand in his hair, and not even bothering to hide the smell of smoke anymore, he sat alone in his room, too tired to be afraid of what was happening.