A/N: Still no Spottery because still no inspiration. Sorry for those who are waiting on it. And, if you think about it, this couple isn't that odd. But I like it anyway.

--

David touched himself under the covers. Felt his hips jutting like animal skulls against his pearly skin, ran his hands up to where he could feel the outlines of his ribs. He rested his head tiredly on the bed. He was so tired lately. So tired and hungry. But he wouldn't eat. No, he wanted to be thin. Thin and pure like a glass cup. His body didn't allow him. It growled like a cat was under his skin, clawing to escape and yowling into the night.

He turned on his side to Jack, his lover. "Jack, I feel weak."

"Den eat somethin'," he said gruffly, not looking at him.

That was how it had been for weeks now. Jack had been distant, curt even while David just starved himself and watched the dark circles grow under his eyes.

"Jack," he mewled again.

Jack rolled over and pulled the sheets over his head. David sighed and rose from the bed. His legs felt weak, too weak to support his body. He felt like he was walking on two spider legs, too weak to keep him up. He staggered out the door.

--

"Youse need ta eat," the voice that sounded like leather and lace whispered into his ear, sending David into a wave of memory.

He was sitting on the Brooklyn Bridge, staring down at the water and feeling like he was about to throw up. But he didn't because he knew that nothing would come out.

He locked eyes with Spot, feeling that it was obvious that he felt that way.

"Heah," Spot pulled a hunk of bred out of his pocket, lint stuck to it.

David didn't realize how hungry he was. His stomach felt like an empty hand, making a fist to try and feel full when all that was in the fist were fingers. He took the bread and chewed it. His throat felt pinched. To his surprise, Spot placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright," he muttered gruffly.

David swallowed.

"Come on," Spot said, offering him a hand.

--

There was so much food on the table. David could hardly catch his breath. Spot grabbed a chicken leg and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Youse hafta eat," he commanded. "Chew."

When Spot Conlon told you to do something, you did it. David obediently chewed, not making any protests. His throat still felt pinched but he swallowed the chicken and the bread that followed.

Then there was no more eating. Just him and Spot on the table. All of Jack's distance over the weeks made him oblige readily to his advances. They rolled around on the chipped wood, tearing carnivorously at each other. Or, rather, Spot tore carnivorously at David.

Afterwards, David awoke sticky and full. His stomach quivered as he made his way to the floor. He stuck two fingers down his throat and vomited onto the wood.

"Don't," Spot commanded, rising. "Don't."

"I have to," he said in a gravelly voice he didn't recognize.

"No," he said adamantly. "Don't."

Spot pulled him close and kissed his forehead in a way that was very un-Spot that David may or may not have imagined.

"Don't."