Misa wasn't an idiot. She felt with each hug how thin Light was getting. At first, she had assumed that he was merely losing muscle mass from being kept inside all day. But she recognized the way he stared into the distance, unseeing, for a just second too long when he stood up. She recognized the twitch of his face when L was eating a particularly sugary pastry. She recognized the way he avoided his reflection at all costs. She had seen it many times-she was a model, for Christ's sake! She knew all about the pressures to lose weight by any means possible. Even she had been tempted at one point or another. She knew how it always ended. It made her sick to her stomach thinking about those terrible things happening to her Light.
No, Misa wasn't an idiot. But there was one thing she couldn't figure out. How had nobody else noticed the shift in Light's eyes? L was at his side 24/7, how had he not taken note of her boyfriend's unhealthy habits? World's Greatest Detective, her ass. She was at a complete loss. There was no way for Misa to confront him about this privately, and she wasn't insensitive enough to bring such a sensitive matter up in front of L. The only way she could think of was to spend more time with him, to subtly effect change in his life. It was sneaky and a bit underhanded, but she couldn't let her Light waste away while nobody did a thing about it.
It's well-documented that Light had always been the model of perfection. Grades, looks, personality. Each was crafted in order to serve the needs of every person he met- he thrived on the praise, the worship. It used to come so easily to him; it wasn't fun but it was necessary. So maybe it had started with boredom, hair-pulling tedium. He would forget to eat, drowning in apathy and disinterest. Soon, though, it couldn't be written off as forgetfulness. As Light moved into highschool and stopped playing tennis, he felt the sharp stares of his admirers. They were always watching, so critical in their devotion. All it took was one offhanded comment- wow, that shirt looks great, Light, it's very slimming- it was clearly meant to be a compliment, but the seed of doubt was already planted. Was he gaining weight? No, he couldn't be. He was perfect. Perfect people didn't gain weight. Then why would he need a 'slimming' shirt to look good?
He found himself looking in the mirror more often, taking note of any unflattering bumps and bulges. Did his thighs always look like that? Wasn't his jaw more prominent before? His resolve strengthened to reverse these disgusting changes. After all, he wasn't disgusting. He was perfect.
Well, it's easier said than done. The stomach pains kept him up at night, the headaches rung his skull, stabbed through his eyes, blacked out his vision. But he had been managing. He had been doing so good. He hadn't eaten the whole day, not dinner the night before.
It was 3AM when he crept into the kitchen. He was careful to make no noise, feeling his way over to the pantry. Sachiko hadn't gone shopping in a while, but his hand brushed a bag of stale tortilla chips and he snatched it up. A chip shakily made its way to his mouth. He was hungry, God, he was hungry. He closed his eyes- just for a second, a single lapse of judgement- and the bag was empty. Light felt nauseous, trudging to his bedroom and locking the door behind him. He glared at his bed, suppressing a gag. Such a fuck-up.
He laid down, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep with how sick he felt. Bile rose in his throat. He tamped it down.
This became something of a routine. Starve. Binge. Hate. Rinse and repeat. It got easier to not eat, but the hate just got bigger and bigger each time he finally did. He was losing weight, alright. Realizing it was another story. The periods between eating got longer and longer. He didn't see it. All he saw was an ugly kid with no self-control. And if his hair started getting thinner; if walking up the stairs became a chore; if his breaths became less steady; his eyes more distant; wrists smaller, face paler, voice weaker; well, who were others to point it out? He was fine. He was still conscious, right? Gods don't need food. All they needed- all he needed- was the adoration of their followers. That was what would sustain him. He had a system, and he stuck to it. Until L.
Confinement was terrible. They gave him three meals a day, and wouldn't leave until he ate all of it. The first week, he threw up after most meals, the stretch of his stomach just hurtand hurt and hurt. No one cared. The second, he managed to stomach maybe one meal a day. No one cared. The third, he pretended to sleep during meal times. No one cared. The fourth and fifth, he openly denied the food. Eventually, L thought he was just being stubborn and, in spite, cancelled his meal plans for the next three days. No one cared. The sixth week, Light ate as much as he could tolerate, he pushed down the nausea. It was euphoria, it was sickening. No. One. Cared. The seventh week was much the same as the sixth. And, oh, how he hated himself. Eating felt awful, and he couldn't stop. He found himself wanting more.
Light was taken out of confinement. When his father had a gun to his head, all he could think was: maybe he would believe you- maybe he wouldn't hate you- if you weren't such a fat, disgusting disappointment. He decided that if he somehow survived this, he would be better.
He survived, but he wished he didn't. He wished the bullet was real.
Then came the handcuffs. Light wanted to return to his previous system, but L was always there, he couldn't possibly sneak off to eat like this. Eating with L during meal times was also out of the question- he couldn't stand people watching him eat, seeing how little self-control he had. There was no other option but to eat even less than before. But it might work faster, Light reasoned, so he had to do it. After so long eating so much and not exercising, he had a lot to make up for.
He only ate enough to throw off suspicion. It still hurt. He felt as if his insides were eating themselves- well, they probably were, but that's besides the point. Fire seared behind his eyes. His limbs ached, joints twinged. He couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe. His vision blurred and blackened when he stood. He heard but couldn't focus enough to listen. The smell of food made him want to gag. He relished in the pain. That's how he knew it was working.
L was good at noticing things. He was the World's Greatest Detective, after all. It came with the territory. Still, he wasn't above personal grudges, and willful ignorance was a whole other story. So, sure. He saw how little Light was eating these days. He saw how long and aggressively he brushed his teeth after each meal- if you could call them 'meals'. Of course he did.
He just couldn't bring himself to feel all that bad about it. Light was Kira; a mass murderer. Kira saw himself as a god, he wouldn't actually be struggling with something like this. For all L knew, he was just trying to gain sympathy.
He could turn a blind eye if it meant catching Kira.
Darkness swam through Light's vision. He was supposed to be working on the Kira case, but all he could focus on was his stabbing migraine and the too-sweet smell of cookies coming from next to him. He was fine. Winded- even as he sat- but fine. Aching all over, but fine.
It would all be worth it when he could finally look in the mirror and see someone worthy of praise. He just needed to lose a little more. And anyway, soon enough, he would hit the high, and all of this pain and hunger would give way to the perfect emptiness.
"Light, would you like to take a food break?" L stared into Light's eyes, a knowing, almost challenging look. The boy couldn't seem to care. The thought of eating felt...dirty. It was messy and greasy and only served to work against him. He needed to be empty, to be clean.
Light shot him a carefully casual smile. "No, I could work a bit longer." He paused. Maybe he was misinterpreting that look. Maybe L was just legitimately hungry. "Unless you want to take a break?"
"Hm. You know, I could go for some food." And the look on his face was just a little too innocent. "You don't seem to be making much progress, anyway. One might ask if you're even trying."
Ouch. That one stung. He was trying his best, but it took every bit of his will to not shiver in his seat. His hands felt numb, nails tinted a faint purple-ish blue. Cramps ran deep through him, it traveled through his stomach up to his neck and down to his legs. Each muscle felt a different kind of weak and shaky.
Even so, he followed L to the kitchen. He wasn't weak. He wasn't afraid of food. That would be ridiculous.
A/N: Alright, boys, here's the sitch. I tried my best to describe the way I sort of fell into my eating disorder, but I don't have much memory of that time in my life. Anyway, I just wanted to say that this is not indicative of what others have experienced, yadda yadda. I sort of went through phases of starving myself and binging to just binging without control to run from my emotions. This is a long-winded way of saying that I am projecting hard.