He's got 206 bones and he want to show every single on. :Frerard: [Warning: Bulimia]
A nose of cartilage
Two sockets for eyes
And he wants to show every single one.
He weighed himself again. And again. Watched the needle spin inside the plastic and hated the time it took for it to settle on that number just above 100. And it wasn’t right. It’s not right. It’s not right, it can’t be. Because he’s been purging himself for all these days and his skin feels so God damn tight like it’s plastic wrap or something and still that’s where it lands?! That number over 100 when it should be below but it’s not it’s not it’s NOT!!
So he stepped off the scale and kicked it with a socked toe. Because it wasn’t his fault. He’s trying so damn hard and it’s not his fault that he’s this way. He wasn’t born asking for this suit, this skin filled with heavy, heavy, heavy imperfection that weighed him down so the needle inside the plastic box spun around and around those black numbers. He didn’t want this and God, he hated it so much that it was burning a hole inside his stomach, the organ that cried and groaned and contracted for the imperfection it craved that made him lopsided and round and ugly.
He knelt down and let his fingers walk past his lips, dancing in the back of his throat and stroking that hanging oval of flesh that make him clean and made him empty and made him pure. It felt hot. It always felt hot when it came up but that was okay because he was cold. And it was always sour. That wasn’t so okay.
So he brushed his teeth to take the sour away, to stop the corroding even though he sure as hell knew that all the fluoride in the world wouldn’t stop his teeth from eventually wearing away. The mirror above the sink was lying. Because his cheekbones were so much sharper than they should have been and his eyes were too large and his arms to thin. The mirror smiled sweetly and whispered as if it was his mother, Lift up your shirt, I bet you can count your ribs- one, two, three…
He didn’t. He left and hoped he didn’t smell like vomit. Routine, routine.
He’d been pouring a mug (how many calories is that like 600 yeah probably ill just get rid of it later) of coffee when a pair of arms snaked around his hips. He turned back and kissed the other boy.
“ ‘Morning.” And he said it with a smile because he felt light this morning. The arms didn’t move and the hands clasped around his front to hold him still. He felt the other person’s forehead on his shoulder. “You can let go, Frankie.”
Frank was quiet for a second before he said thinly, “Gerard…” His voice sounded so small, so frail, he must have been crying and must have been trying not to do it again. Gerard put down his coffee and turned around inside Frank’s circle of grip. Frank’s eyes were just a little bit red.
“Frankie, what is it?” he asked. He gripped the boy tight around the ribs and kissed his forehead. Frank didn’t say anything and Gerard hugged him. “Frankie…?”
Frank buried his head in Gerard’s T-shirt and made a sobbing sound as if he might have broken. Gerard asked what was wrong again and this time Frank did speak. “It’s you.”
Gerard didn’t say anything and his hug felt a little frailer. He said what and Frank sobbed, openly and painfully weeping into Gerard’s pajama clothes.
“You!” he sobbed. “D-d’you think I can’t hear you? I can! I…Oh, God, please, you’re so thin, Gerard. Please…”
Gerard didn’t feel thin. He felt like he was drowning in his enormous skin. “I’m not.”
Frank wept and nearly cried out, “Yes! You are! Oh my God, Gerard!” He ran his hands over Gerard’s chest through his shirt and whimpered. “…I can feel all your bones.”
Gerard stepped away from Frank and saw how tiny the boy’s frame looked, how little and perfect. “No.” And that’s all he said. Frank wiped his eyes and grabbed Gerard by the wrist. He tugged, fighting against the taller boy’s resistance, but led him into the bathroom.
“Here,” Frank snapped, pushing Gerard between his shoulder blades in front of the mirror. He let Gerard stand there, looking at the ground for a moment before he commanded, “Look at it! Look at yourself!” He got behind Gerard and hugged his waist again, the bones prominent and sharp.
Gerard didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see how ugly he was. How misshapen. He glanced up because it made Frank happy. The boy still sobbed.
“Look at yourself,” Frank cried in a whisper. “Please, just look at how beautiful you are.”
The mirror grinned. Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
Gerard lifted his arm, pressed an emaciated finger to the glass, above his reflection. He was still a 100-something. He was still ugly and imperfect and his insides still cried for the things that made him so misshapen. He listened to Frank sob behind him and let his finger fall off the mirror.