Shizuo was hungry. But he also had some good news.
Kasuka hadn't breathed a word of his secret. If Shizuo hadn't known is brother better, than he would have assumed that it slipped his mind. He did know his brother, however; and he could feel his curious eyes burning into his back no matter where he went.
He was hungry, his nails were jagged and brittle, his skin was gaunt and pasty, and days were longer. He couldn't say that he felt any better, but he wasn't one to stop something once he started it.
He would see his experiment through, and if he didn't like it, then he would put it behind him, never speak of it again, and go on with his life like it was nothing because it was.
Two weeks. It's been two weeks, and Shizuo is hungry. His hair was thinning and caught on his fingers in clumps when he ran his fingers through it, his skin was dry and flaky and rubbed sore were he agitated it, and Shizuo was cold.
It seemed that no matter how many sweatshirts he piled on, no matter how many times he paced and bundled up with blankets, the chill persisted. It nuzzled its way between muscles and bones, seeped into every pore, hung in the air around him until he was constantly covered in little goose bumps or whatever they were called.
And because he was cold, he was cranky. And because he was hungry, he was touchy and even more easily irritated than he had been in a long time. He can't concentrate at school or at home and no matter what he does, he's always thinking unhealthy thoughts of food.
All of the different kinds, flavors, mixing and matching and eating his way into next week where he'll surely be set back and have too fast for at least a month to undo all the fat he's surely packed on.
Some days, the churning hunger seems to sleep and putters down to a dull roar while he's crunching on celery because that burns more calories just chewing than it gives and he figures he can afford that if he lives off of celery and air-popped popcorn for a week or two.
And he'll be noisily chomp chomping away and feeling like a rabbit and wouldn't some peanut butter work well with this? But oh no, he can't do that. Shame on him and these traitorous thoughts. Has he forgotten his goal already? Has he forgotten about all of his progress?
No, of course not.
The first time it happened, Shizuo ignores it and takes it with a grain of salt.
Shizuo doesn't remember exactly what happened, but he knows he was mad, and he was hungry, and this idiot deserved a high-five to the head with a pole and he was just the guy for the job. So he marches over in a heated haze and plucks a nice looking stop sign from the ground and ignores the twinge in his arm that he hasn't quite gotten use too and hasn't felt in a long time.
He launches the projectile and watches his victim panic and shy out of the way and it's a good thing his aim wasn't as good as it should have been for if it was, then that guy's face would have been peeled off and melting on the pavement.
So he stops to admire and hate his work and as he prepares to chase that guy down and put him in his place there's a pounding behind his eyes and tumbling over his head in a rush of discomfort and pressure and his vision is swaying and fading in and out of focus.
He takes a step back to steady his self and reaches out for support that isn't there and he feels himself falling before light is there again and he's on his two feet where he belongs and someone is giving him grief for the destruction of public property and his brief faint feeling was there and gone again.
He should have known that it was a warning.
The second time it happens, Shizuo is at his the end of his rope.
Kasuka went out with his mother and his father is working and Shizuo's home alone and oh, god he's hungry. He feels the hunger eating up his insides and swelling in his gut and crawling around inside him, leaving him with nothing, no feelings, nothing except for hunger and that fact that he needs food.
He won't, he can't give in. No, he was strong, he could push past this. Strong, strong, strong. He repeats it in his head like a mantra along with all of the other things that he cannot change. He was better than this. He would make it.
Strong Strong Strong.
He can't take much more of this, oh no, he needs something. His stomach purrs and pushes him towards the kitchen but he's better than this. He can do it. He wants to curl into himself until he feels something besides this burning hunger but that's not happening because he doesn't know if he has the energy to move anymore.
Starvation makes his stomach feel like its going to cave in on itself, taking and taking and he has nothing left to give, it's chewing him up and spitting him out and leaving him to rot until he's heartless, but he feels nothing now and it doesn't matter anyway.
Someone stuffs his head with cotton and the lights in the room are too bright and swimming and stinging and when oblivion sweeps him off his feet, he's ready to go, anything besides this.
He wants to die. He's heartless now and he doesn't care for anything anymore.
Shizuo is weak.
Shizuo is not strong. That is a lie. He is a liar.
His eyes are hollow purple and baggy and he feels like death. He is invisible at school and doesn't see much of Shinra anymore because he's hanging out with that Izaya-flea, that little smug parasite, the only thing that can spark feeling in him anymore.
He's a walking corpse and drags himself through the day and his only friend his hunger. He locks himself away in his room and doesn't come out for anything, and he hears his mother worrying to his father that maybe he's depressed and should go see a therapist.
But that is not why Shizuo is weak, Shizuo is weak because he broke and collapsed and couldn't take it anymore. It's another day with the house vacant except for him and he will not live another day with this hunger and he eats himself into a head spinning stupor with a swollen gut and guilt to last a lifetime.
He eats his way through the kitchen and takes things into his room and stuffs himself with all things until he's not tasting he's just eating, eating because he's weak and if anyone was to see him they would probably call him disgusting and a pig because that's what he was.
He eats in hopes that food will fill the emptiness inside him, but when that doesn't work, he regurgitates it all into the toilet bowl with a splatter. His fingers are coated with sour vomit and teeth marks and he's clutching the bowl with a death grip and it's a wonder he doesn't crush it.
His stomach heaves and he ducks his head and sends another meal to waste and he wonders if he goes at it long enough will he purge out all of his guilt too?
He's shaking and shivering and his face is bleached and his ears are ringing, but he shoves his hand to the back of his throat anyway, because he needs to make sure that he has gotten rid of it all.
He'll have to fast again soon and he doesn't want to go through it all again but he tells himself that he needs too, that it's for the better and someday he'll see the results and wonder why he didn't start sooner.
He doesn't stop until he's bringing up clear liquids, ones that scald his throat and taste sour and rot his teeth and clogs his nose. He brings his hand to cover his mouth and staunch the flow as he retches, swallowing the bitter mix down and flushing the toilet so he doesn't have to look at it anymore.
It disappears in a swirl of shame and it's all his fault.
And now his stomach is jerking violently as he struggles to keep his fluids in one place, he's miserable and a failure and on top of that he's heartless too and he doesn't know if he even has the will to change anymore.