Chapter Text
2007
“They’re always hanging out together,” Gabe tells Pete, who is currently busy downing his third beer of that night’s penthouse party and takes a second to notice who Gabe’s pointing to. In the corner are Patrick, William, and Ryan, standing around with red solo cups in hand and leaned in toward each other, deeply engrossed in some serious-looking conversation.
“I mean, I guess,” Pete says with a shrug, and he takes another sip of his beer. “I don’t know. Maybe they just get on well.” He holds his beer bottle out to Gabe. “Want some?”
“No thanks.” Gabe shakes his head wisely. “I’m good.”
“You haven’t drank at all tonight. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly going straight-edge again on me.”
“No, ‘course not,” Gabe says. “I’m just trying to be a little healthier and save all the drinking for the Honda Civic tour. And someone has to drive you home.”
“Sure you are,” Pete snorts, finishing his drink with one last hearty gulp. “That better not be your excuse to get black-out drunk.”
“No, I don’t mean that.” Gabe sighs. “Alcohol is empty calories. I just think if I’m going to drink something that has practically no nutritional benefit, I should make it worth it. I wanna drink with my friends. Not here, around a bunch of rich music execs and producers I don’t care as much about.”
“Don’t get so philosophical when you’re sober.”
“It’s not philosophical,” Gabe scoffs. “It’s common sense.” He glances at the group in the corner again. “They’re still talking.”
“All they’re doing is having a conversation.”
“But they’re always doing it when they’re together.”
“Then go ask them about it while I get another drink.”
“I’m not going to do that.” Gabe crosses his arms and turns to Pete, but he’s disappeared in search of the kitchen counter lined with drinks, leaving Gabe no other choice but to turn back to the group and resolve to ask them why Patrick, William, and Ryan always hung out in their little posse. He doubts it would be anything terribly interesting, but at least it would satiate his curiosity.
Gabe makes his way over to the group, catching a piece of their hushed conversation as he nears. “...like, you would not believe the shit I had yesterday,” William says completely seriously. Patrick and Ryan nod completely seriously in response. Gabe wonders what the hell he’s walked in on, but there’s no going back now.
“Whatcha guys talking about?” Gabe interrupts, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window that takes up most of the wall. His purple hoodie almost blends in against the bright purple and light-polluted city sky.
They all spin to him fast, startled by his appearance. “Oh.” William blinks. He holds a cup of something completely clear, either vodka or plain water, as does Ryan, while Patrick is partaking in delicate, tiny sips of beer and holding a paper plate piled high with appetizers from the fancy charcuterie board, from thin slices of salami to thick squares of cheese. “Well… um, just talking about songwriting stuff, you know?”
“So you’re writing a song about your shit, then?” Gabe asks. “The future of pop-punk music is more dire than I thought.”
“We weren’t talking about that at all,” Ryan defends. “What do you want?”
“You guys are always hanging out together at parties and stuff,” Gabe says, and all three of them bristle slightly. “Why is that?”
“None of your business,” Ryan spits.
“Ryan,” Patrick says, and he turns to Gabe with a kind smile. “I mean, I guess we do talk to each other a lot. I guess we just have similar styles with writing lyrics and music. Poetic kinda stuff, right?” And he stuffs a clump of salami into his mouth.
“You don’t write poetic stuff,” Gabe says. “I mean, not that your lyrics are bad. But compared to Pete’s, I think yours are more to the point.”
“Anything’s poetic compared to you,” Ryan says. “You write about wanting to fuck a cobra.”
“No.” Gabe is very tempted to educate Ryan on the irony of Cobra Starship’s lyrics, but that’s a dissertation he’s already given too many times. Instead, he settles for, “At least, not yet.”
Patrick grabs a handful of crackers from his plate and downs the rest of the beer in his cup. “I’ve got to use the bathroom if you guys will excuse me.” He hands off his plate and cup to Ryan. “Feel free to eat the rest.”
When Patrick’s out of hearing range, Ryan asks, “Isn’t this his third plate?”
“I think so,” William says.
“You guys want any?” Ryan holds out the plate to Gabe and William, who both shake their heads even though Gabe is well aware his stomach will growl in protest later. “I’ll toss this, then. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Gabe turns to William. “You’re all acting kinda weird.”
“If you think we are,” William says with a chuckle, “then pray you never find out why.”
“Or it’s because you guys are drinking.”
“Not me,” William says, holding up his cup. “I’m just having water. Alcohol is just empty calories, y’know? I’d rather save it all for the Honda Civic tour, when people will be watching me more closely.”
The eerie familiarity of his statement sends a chill down Gabe’s spine. “Uh… right. Me too.”
“Really?” William calculatingly eyes Gabe up and down, and the intense observation makes Gabe wish he could disappear right then and there, as if every single flaw on his body is exposed for his past hook-up to see. “Gabe Saporta, not drinking? That’s unusual.”
“I just want to be healthier before tour,” Gabe says. “That’s all.”
William hums understandingly and guesses, “Orthorexia?”
Gabe furrows his eyebrows at William. “Ortho-what now?”
Eyes wide, William brushes it off quickly. “Nevermind. Forget what I just said. Um, good luck with the whole not-drinking-before-tour thing.”
“You too,” Gabe mumbles, straining to keep his eyes from wandering across the bandana tied around William’s stick-thin thighs and the way his shirt drapes loose over his flat stomach, exposing his hip bones whenever he stretches. Ryan makes his way back over as well, and Gabe immediately studies his sharp jaw, his lithe neck.
He feels almost guilty; why does he keep looking at skinny people like this?
Gabe quickly says bye to William and Ryan, and goes off to find Pete.
It’s not until months later, toward the end of the year, that Gabe finds out why those three are so close. He’s on the Sleeping with Giants tour he hadn’t expected to tag along on, but after finishing the record early over the summer, they didn’t have a tour for the fall until William had suggested Cobra come along.
This means Gabe has much less time than he expected to prepare, but not in a musical sense. He knows all the lyrics, all the right notes and sultry stage moves. He just hasn’t lost enough weight, that’s all.
It’s the first tour Gabe, in this context, has actually had to put some work into and therefore the riskiest. If any one of his bandmates catches him skipping meals or forcing himself to throw up, he’s going to have to find a way to explain his newfound dieting habits. And if he does too good a job and faints on stage in front of everyone, it’ll be even worse than going down quietly. In the twenty-first century, the event would be captured by cell phones and cameras, theorized about on message boards and blogs, asked about at meet-and-greets for long after.
But Gabe’s worries turn out to be fruitless. Nobody seems to care or even notice that he doesn’t partake in all the hummus taking up half their tour bus fridge. Whenever he spends days in his bunk, complaining about being exhausted and needing another nap, it’s chalked up to a hangover or that he’s still getting used to the exhaustion of tour life. If his bandmates go out to dinner, Gabe stays behind on the bus and lies he’ll eat leftover pizza.
It takes a few shows before they arrive at a venue that has a scale in one of the bathrooms, the big, bulky kind you have to insert a quarter into. Unfortunately, Gabe notices it when he’s walking into the men’s restroom beside Alex, Ryland, Carden, and William, so in order to use it, he has to point to it and ask, “Hey, does anyone have a quarter?”
“To weigh yourself?” Ryland asks.
Gabe nods, and William digs in his pocket for a moment before handing him a quarter. “Here. I’ve got more quarters in my wallet, if you guys want to try it too.”
And that’s how weighing themselves becomes that afternoon’s shenanigan, which Gabe would have much rather not had happen, but fuck, is it triggering .
Gabe gets onto the scale first, but just as he raises his coin to the slot, he becomes aware how heavy his pockets are and empties them of his cell phone and wallet. “Can someone take these?”
“Why?” Alex asks.
“I want it to be as accurate as possible.”
“I don’t think it matters--”
“I’ll take them,” William says. “But only if you hold my stuff while I weigh myself.”
Gabe hands him his cell phone and wallet with a grin. “Deal. Oh, wait.” He takes off his hat. “Take this too. Oh, and this,” he says, ignoring all the judgmental looks he’s shot and shedding his purple hoodie to fling it at William. He catches it easily with his nimble, thin fingers. Gabe would kill for those fingers.
“You might as well take off your shoes, too,” William suggests, glancing down at Gabe’s sneakers.
“Shit, you’re right.” Gabe bends down to loosen his shoelaces. “I gotta do that too.”
“Are you seriously taking off your shoes in a public restroom?” Ryland asks.
“Yes, keep up,” Gabe snarks back, tugging one shoe off and chucking to the floor before getting to work on the other one. William, already holding most of Gabe’s belongings, shoots Ryland a look. With a sigh, Ryland picks up the discarded sneaker. When Gabe tosses off his other shoe, he stands back up straight and looks down. “Okay, is there anything else I could have forgotten?”
“Maybe the rest of your clothes,” Carden jokes.
If this was his scale at home, Gabe would be very tempted to strip down as well, just for accuracy’s sake, but that’s neither here nor now. He ignores Carden and inserts the quarter into the scale, anxiously waiting for the slip of paper to roll out and determine his self-worth.
The piece of paper comes out silently, without much fanfare, and a collective silence falls over the group as Gabe tears it out of the slot and reads it, skipping over his fortune. All his work over the last couple weeks summed up in one number: 147.4 lbs.
A smile grows. He’s lost over three pounds. THREE! Sure, he could have lost more, but considering he’s already eaten today and previously kinda sorta felt like a fat sack of shit, three pounds is remarkable.
“So, what is it?” William asks, unable to help his curiosity.
“Oh, it’s like, a hundred-sixty-two,” Gabe lies, coming up with the number on the spot before shoving the slip of paper into his pocket. He’ll save it for later, to look at whenever the urge to binge strikes next. He practically leaps off the scale, grabbing his shoes from Ryland and shoving them back onto his feet. “Who’s going next?”
Alex opens his mouth, but William is quick to blurt out, “Me!”
Gabe has barely gotten his other shoe on when William shoves his stuff back at him and excitedly bounces onto the scale. William hands his cell phone and wallet to Carden and tosses off his sneakers as well, prompting Carden to remark, “Really, you too? You realize how many germs are probably on that scale, right?”
“Shut up, I’m wearing socks.” William puts in his quarter, exhaling a deep breath and staring up at the ceiling until he hears the light whir of the paper. He swiftly snatches it and holds it up high, hiding the number from anyone who would peek. Eventually, after studying it for a few moments, he says, “Huh,” and puts it in his pocket.
“What was it?” Gabe asks.
“One-hundred-and-forty-two,” William smoothly rattles off, gracefully stepping off and taking his shoes from Carden. “Who’s next? I’ve got plenty more quarters.”
Ryland shrugs and says, “Why not?” and gets on the scale without bothering to take off his denim jacket or heavy shoes.
William moves next to Gabe as he wrestles his shoes back on and whispers playfully, “No way you’re a hundred-and-sixty.”
“Well, there’s no way you’re a hundred-and-forty either,” Gabe retorts, glancing across the woven bracelets around William’s thin wrists, the bandana tied around his lanky legs, the bartskull necklace that accentuates his collarbone.
“Touché.” William manages to get his shoelace tied and leans towards Gabe’s ear, his cold breath making the other shudder. “I have a scale on my bus. I’m really around one-hundred-and-twenty-eight point six.”
“You have a scale?” Gabe’s heart leaps in elation. “Can I use it?”
William tosses back a strand of hair from his forehead, tilting his sharp jawline along with his head as he thinks, before finally saying, “Maybe.”
“A hundred-eighty-three!” Ryland shouts, victoriously holding up his piece of paper. Everyone politely claps, forgetting they’re in a public restroom, except for Gabe and William, who look at each other. Sure, Ryland is an inch taller than Gabe, but even so, Gabe doesn’t understand how he can be so casual about it. If Gabe was a hundred-and-eighty, he’d want to die.
He’s lucky he looks as good as he does, Gabe thinks, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror across from them. The weight must all be muscle. Because although Gabe weighs much less, he’s sure he’s much fatter. His thighs have shrunken, but he’s still achingly far from a real thigh gap, and his arms are covered in layers upon layers of fat that makes him ashamed to wear t-shirts, because if he does, all his arms will do is jiggle and flap around. There’s no way in Gabe’s mind that anything about the way he looks is healthy.
3 pounds is nothing. I can do better than this.
Later that night, after his set has concluded, Gabe binges on a total of forty-six potato chips, three cans of beer, a whole tub and a half of hummus (without crackers, he embarrassingly licks it off his fingers), and two leftover slices of pepperoni pizza (which makes it the first time in years he’s eaten neither vegetarian nor kosher, but his stomach doesn’t care).
The only viable option is to get rid of it.
Rather than stink up the tour bus bathroom, he decides to run back into the venue around the time TAI’s set would be ending, telling his bandmates he left his cell phone even though it’s right there in his hand. After a minute of back-and-forth with a security guard who pretty much refuses to read his name right (really, does it matter whether Gabe’s Sephardic Jewish last name sounds Italian or not when he’s in a hurry to destroy his body?), he’s let back in and heads straight in the direction of the restroom. He races past the scale he paid for earlier and into a stall, locking it shut before dropping to his knees and sticking his fingers down his throat.
He prods. Once, twice. He makes a hacking sound, his eyes water. Three, four. His stomach lurches. Five, six, seven-- the vomit shoots up, dropping from his mouth into the toilet with a plop and the loud sound of his retching. When the vile smell reaches his nostrils, it only nauseates him more.
When it’s all come up, and the back of his throat aches and his knuckles sting with cuts, he finally gets an opportunity to gasp for breath, falling back against the stall door in exhaustion. After a couple of moments, he spits out the rest of the acid in his mouth, tears off toilet paper to wipe his chin with, and flushes before struggling to his feet and pushing open the stall door.
Waiting against the sinks for him is William Beckett, his arms crossed.
“William.” Gabe gapes. “Look, I can explain--”
“So, let me guess,” William says, looking Gabe up and down. “Bulimic.”
“Bulimic?” Gabe demands. “No! Of course not, what the hell? I actually worked hard to lose weight, just because you caught me throwing up this one time means nothing--”
“I get it, just don’t let Patrick hear you say that. But you do admit to having an eating disorder, right?”
“Um…” Gabe purses his lips shut. “No comment.”
William pushes himself up from leaning against the sink and takes a few steps forward. “You can trust me, Gabey.”
“Not really,” Gabe almost laughs. “If I did hypothetically have an eating disorder, you’d tell everyone, and I’d--”
“No, I wouldn’t.” He raises a brow. “Do you remember a couple months ago, when you asked why me and Ryan and Patrick are always hanging out together? Ryan and I are anorexic. Patrick tries to restrict too, but he’s honestly really a bulimic.”
“Oh.” The confession should hit hard, that three of his friends have eating disorders, but honestly, all that washes over is relief. “That’s… um, that’s cool.”
“We’ve taken to calling it ‘The Decaydance Weightloss Competition.’” William giggles. “Not that it actually is, though. We’re not really competing. If we did, we’d be exchanging our stats obsessively, but we don’t really do that. It’s just... we get each other, you know? A little push in the right direction never hurts if it’s asked for.”
Gabe nods slowly. “Yeah… it doesn’t sound too bad.”
“So, are you in?” William asks. “Because I could use someone to talk during tour, maybe even keep me accountable? No pressure, though. I know it’s not for everyone.”
“Sure, why not?” Gabe responds, without much of a thought. “I think it’d be good.”
“Awesome,” William says with a grin. He twists around, grabbing a blue gatorade from off the sink. “I bought this for you, by the way. It’s got electrolytes.”
“But a million fucking grams of sugar,” Gabe says, taking it and studying the nutrition label.
“Just drink it, dude.”
Gabe cracks the cap and takes a gulp, letting the artificially-colored liquid mask the taste of vomit on his tongue.
Before the next show, William lets Gabe hang out in his dressing room as he frantically does jumping jacks and tells him how it all started.
“I was recording Sophomore Slump with FOB,” William explains, feet pounding against the cement floor with each leap. “And I had lost, like, a ton of weight since the last time I’d seen the guys. Patrick noticed and asked how I did it, and I was honest. He told me he was trying to do the same thing, but never got far. So I said I’d help him. Off-topic, but do you want to know how much I weighed then?”
Gabe crosses his legs, reclining into the cushy couch. “Sure.”
“One-hundred-and-nineteen point zero exactly,” William gasps. He stops for a moment to catch his breath and stretch his arms. “That was my lowest weight. I’m so close to getting it again. Less than ten pounds to go. Anyways.” He starts doing jumping jacks again. One of his hands accidentally hits the ceiling, but William doesn’t falter. “It was just me and Patrick for a while, just doing our ‘diet’ shit, but then on the Truckstops & Statelines tour…” He inhales a breath. “Ryan collapsed right after getting off stage and I heard Spencer ragging on him about eating properly. I was... so jealous. Honestly, I’ve always wanted to faint on stage. It’d be... validating to know that... I’m getting skinny, which sounds sick, but I don’t care. But yeah, I asked Ryan later... if he had an eating disorder.”
“And I’m guessing he said yes,” Gabe replies dryly.
“Oh, no. Not at first. He was vehemently denying it and asked if one of his bandmates had…” He inhales and exhales. “...sent me after him, but then he eventually admitted to it…” Inhale and exhale. “...because it gave him a sense of control when he lived with his alcoholic father and then the stress of suddenly being famous and expected to be hot shit all the time. And after he said all that, he started crying and said he wanted to recover… fuck, I’m tired… but I told him he didn’t have to lie in front of me and that I was in a similar boat.” William finishes one last jumping jack before falling back onto the couch next to Gabe. “I better save my energy for the show. But yeah, that’s basically what happened. And now two years later, I find out you’re one of us.” He wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, leaning over and resting the back of his head on the couch armrest. “So, how long have you been at it?”
Gabe shrugs. “About a year. It’s nothing really interesting. I wanted to lose a few pounds and got caught up in it.”
“Oh, come on, there has to be more to it than that.” William narrows his eyes at Gabe. “It’s always more than wanting to lose a few pounds.” He crosses his legs, so lithely they slot together like stacked sticks. “What made you want to go this far? Shitty self-esteem? Developing a crippling fear of food? Depression? Trauma?” His tone softens. “You can tell me, Gabe, I’ll understand.”
He hesitates, before eventually admitting, “You’ve seen pictures of me when I was kid. I was fat, so fucking fat. But then I became pretty skinny when I was a teenager. Growth spurt, y’know? And suddenly everyone was telling me how good I looked, how skinny I’d gotten… family members would shove kugel in my face and tell me I needed to eat more. It felt good to out of nowhere be effortlessly skinny. And it was that way for a while. I could eat whatever I wanted.”
William nods understandingly.
“But now that I’m getting into my late twenties, I can’t really get away with that anymore.” Gabe sighs, picking at a thread on the knees of his black skinny jeans. “I went to the doctor a year or so ago, for the usual check-up shit, and I didn’t expect anything. But when I was weighed… I had gained fifteen pounds since the last appointment.” He looks up, meeting William’s eyes as he repeats, “Fifteen. My doctor told me it was completely normal, that I’d start to ‘fill out’ as I got to my thirties… but I didn’t want to ‘fill out.’ I didn’t want to get fat again. If I did, my career would be over. Teenage fangirls don’t want to pay for concert tickets to see some gross old fat guy with a beer belly sing a song like Church of Hot Addiction or The City Is At War, that’s absurd. I’m the frontman, my entire band isn’t dependent on just my talent, it’s my image. People aren’t here for the meaning like they were with Midtown, they’re here to get off to my toned stomach.
“So I figured I’d go on a diet and fix it. I tried all kinds of stuff.” Gabe chuckles sadly. “Once I ate only applesauce for three days straight and lost two pounds, even though my stomach hurt like hell afterwards. One week I tried exercising twice a day, and this was at the same time as my applesauce mono, so I fainted twice. Luckily both times were at home, so nobody saw. I was that desperate, but it still wasn’t enough. I needed to do more. And while I was looking up weight loss tips, somehow I stumbled across a pro-ana forum.”
“No way,” William whispers, shocked. “You go on the forums? I’m too scared to do it, that somehow someone will find out who I am.”
Probably for the best, Gabe thinks, because he’s once seen a thread of just pictures of William calling him the ultimate male thinspo, and something like that is best left in the dark. “Yeah. It’s not like I lie about my identity, I say flat-out I’m a guy in my twenties. There’s a couple gay guys on the forum I go on, so I don’t stand out because everyone assumes I’m one of them. And Gabe’s a common enough name that I can go by it and no one suspects a thing. Everyone’s vague about their lives, so nobody cares if I only say something like my job involves a lot of travelling and leave it at that.”
“Does it help?” William asks.
“It helps so much,” Gabe confides. “You heard of meanspo?” William nods, mesmerized, and Gabe continues, “We have a thread where like, you post a photo of your body and people will comment on your post everything they see wrong with it. It’s so fucking triggering, so I don’t do it often, but when I do, it’s super effective. And I have an accountability thread, where I post everything that I eat. It really helps me stay on track, because I’ve got like ten people who get notifications on it and can see how many calories I’m eating and burning off and how much I weigh-in at. People say butterfly shit like “skip dinner, wake up thinner,” all the time, and being surrounded by that is all super encouraging. I haven’t been on it very much lately though. I don’t want any of my bandmates to look over my shoulder and ask what a bodycheck is and why I posted a picture of my ribs.”
“Woah,” William says. “That’s amazing. And really, nobody’s ever suspected anything?”
“Not really. I can literally post pictures of myself in the tour bus mirror and nobody gives a shit about the background. As long as I keep acting completely normal, I could probably keep this up for a long time.” Gabe leans back into the couch, still fiddling with the stray thread on his jeans. “So, what kind of shit do you guys do in the ‘Decaydance Weightloss Competition?’ Anything that extreme?”
“I told you, it’s more of a support group if anything.”
“Oh, come on. When you get a bunch of anorexics together, it’s never like that.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll find out soon enough,” William says observantly, and then he jumps to his feet. “I should do a little more exercise before the show.”
“Bill, you’ll exhaust yourself.”
“I haven’t fainted on stage yet,” William says, doing one weak jumping jack before leaning over and resting his hands on his knees, letting out an exhale. “And… and I doubt I will at this weight.” He kneels down to sit and lay back on the floor, limbs splayed out like he’s a starfish. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t do anymore exercise before the show. But I’ve still got…” He slides his cell phone out of his pocket and holds it over his head to check it. “Twenty-three minutes. So I’ll be good.”
“That means the guys will probably be coming back here soon,” Gabe says, eyeing the dressing room door.
William waves him off. “Yeah, but I’ll be fine before then.” Still holding his cell phone, he flips it open. “I should probably text Ryan and Patrick to tell them you’re in on this now. I’m sure they’ll be excited for some fresh blood.”
“Knock yourself out.”
It’s when Gabe is backstage, watching William practically bounce off the walls on stage with energy that came from virtually nowhere, that he receives a text from Patrick. So cool 2 know ur 1 of us! he says, stats?
Ryan texts the same a few moments later, although more bluntly. txt ur hw, cw, lw, gw, ugw pls. From experience on the pro-ana forum, Gabe immediately knows what he’s referring to. Highest weight, current weight, lowest weight, goal weight, ultimate goal weight.
Gabe types out the same text to each of them. hw 194.8 cw/lw 147.4 gw 145 ugw 120
“What’s that?” Vicky asks, suddenly beside him and glancing at his cell screen.
Gabe snaps his phone shut and irritably says, “It’s none of your business, don’t look.”
She shrugs innocently. “I was just curious. Chill, dude. Anyways, do you want to come back on the bus? Nate brought a DVD for Night At The Museum.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Gabe says. His eyes light up when he catches a glimpse of William leaping onto Butcher’s bass drum. So fucking skinny. William must feel ethereal. “But thanks.”
“You’ve seen TAI play plenty of times, aren’t you bored?”
“Nope.” Gabe could watch those legs all day and never be bored. “You guys can start the movie without me, I’ll be there after.”
“But we’re going to take shots every time they say the word ‘museum.’”
“That sounds great,” Gabe says dully. “Hope you guys have fun.”
Unsatisfied, Vicky glances at his eyes and then in the direction he’s looking, straight at William. “Don’t tell me you’re hooking up with him again. I’ve heard those times were truly insufferable.”
“No!” Gabe defends. “Just go watch your fucking Day At The Museum movie or whatever.”
“Night At The Museum,” Ryland corrects, suddenly beside him also. Vicky glares at him for having arrived too late to help convince Gabe to come back to the bus. “Are you sure? We’re going to do shots--”
“I told him already and he doesn’t care,” Vicky interrupts. “We’ll leave you alone, Gabe. Let’s go, Ry.”
Gabe watches carefully as Vicky and Ryland leave, and as soon as he’s sure they’re gone, he takes out his cell phone again and sends off his text of stats to both Patrick and Ryan. Ryan is first to respond; before following up with his own stats, he says, didnt xpect ur stats 2b so high but i get it ur tall
Gabe furrows his brows at Ryan’s words before texting back, do u think my ugw shd b lower?
mb, Ryan says. i dnt want u 2 kys, but u cud prbly live wo 5 xtra lbs. js.
Gabe glances down at himself and decides he’ll make that decision when he’s at his current UGW. Still, he texts back, thx. also ur stats r rly good.
thx. i wrkd hard 4 it. unlike some ppl. r u ana?
Gabe figures explaining he’s a mix of both anorexic and bulimic would take up too much time, so he answers, yeah.
good, Ryan says. bulimics r weak.
Nausea rises up in Gabe’s stomach, and he hasn’t even thrown up since yesterday. Since then, he’s been good. He ate an apple and five almonds for breakfast, and a granola bar before his own band’s set. He’s so empty it’s glorious. So then he’s not a bulimic, not weak if he can do this so well.
ur right, Gabe says. they r.
Mid-afternoon the next day, Gabe is woken up by his cell phone’s incessant ringing. After fumbling around, he grabs it and flips it open groggily. He groans, hungover from last night, mostly because Nate had come backstage and egged him into watching Night At The Museum because, “Don’t you want to see Robin Williams play Theodore Roosevelt?” That didn’t convince him, but then Nate had mentioned pulling out Gabe’s favorite vodka and Gabe supposed he could indulge in the useless calories just this once instead of staring at William’s legs all night. So he fell asleep drunk, and now hungover, he’s not particularly excited he’s being woken up by a call.
“Hello?” Gabe asks, his voice rough. His stomach growls in protest of its emptiness, stabbing at him and begging, food, food, FOOD NOW.
“Hey,” William says hoarsely and detached. “Um… I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt you doing anything--”
“No, you’re fine,” Gabe says, stretching his legs by kicking them upward until they reach the bunk ceiling. “What’s up?”
Hushed, William whispers desperately, “I want to binge. But I can’t-- fuck, if I do, everyone will see and I’ll be so fat during the show tonight. Can you talk me out of it? Please?”
“Oh. Um, yeah, sure.” Gabe sits up slightly to wake himself up, being careful so as to keep his head from hitting the ceiling of the cramped space. A headache hits right back, but it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need to think clearly for this. He’s discouraged people from binging several times, usually successfully, but that was different, all times online. This is real, this is his friend. He has to be careful of what he says.
Keeping that in mind, Gabe asks, “What is it you want to binge on?”
“Gummy bears,” William moans. “And I want to make hot chocolate. And then eat an entire chocolate bar, and the entire bag of potato chips. I might ask Sisky Biz if I can eat his leftover burger in the fridge, too.”
“Think how many calories that all would be,” Gabe says. “Probably hundreds of calories for just one pack of gummy bears. And there isn’t even anything nutritious about it; it’s all just sugar and gelatin and food coloring. Is that really what you want to waste your calories on?”
“No,” William says shamefully.
“Hot chocolate would just be liquid calories, too. It’s not worth it. A chocolate bar would just be as bad; literally, just look at the nutrition label. It’ll say it’s like, three servings for one bar. You’re not even supposed to eat that much. And an entire bag of potato chips would have to be well over a thousand calories of fucking salt and grease. You would feel like shit after all that.”
“What about Sisky’s burger?”
“Where’s it from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t even know where it came from and you still want to eat it.” Gabe tsks. “You would have no idea of how many calories are in it. You’d have to severely overestimate the calories in the burger to keep yourself on track. And isn’t fast food made to be addictive? If you ate that burger, you might never stop.”
“Fuck, you’re right,” William says. “You’re so right.”
“Did I do good enough?”
“Way more than enough. Thank you so much. That really helped.”
“No problem,” Gabe says. “I mean, now that we’ve got each other on this tour, we’ll be skinny in no time.”
Although, Gabe’s stomach has only been made more painfully empty since imagining all the food on William had described on his bus. This might not be a good day.
So logically, the only solution to keep himself from the urge to binge too is to fast.
On an empty stomach, the alcohol affects Gabe quickly when everyone’s drinking after the show; tonight is a hotel night and tomorrow is an off-day, so why not get piss drunk and deal with the consequences later?
Although the liquid warms Gabe’s stomach, it quickly makes him realize just how achingly vacant it is when it splashes down. The hunger he’s been successfully avoiding all day prods and pangs like it's poking a bear with a stick, again and again until he’s ravenous.
Everyone is crowded into one of Armor For Sleep’s rooms, and Gabe pushes past a crew member he can’t remember the name of to get to the door. There’s probably a vending machine down the hall, and Gabe will go to the room he’s sharing with Nate to get one dollar and only a dollar to buy one bag of chips and only a bag of chips. And then he’ll wait twenty minutes until his stomach stops complaining, he’ll fill up on more alcohol, and then he’ll be fine.
However, as he steps into the hallway, Gabe runs into something even better; William. Gabe stumbles toward him and grabs his shoulders, taking him aback, and slurs, “I’m hungry.”
“Oh, okay,” William says innocently. “I’ve got some forty calorie popcorn in my suitcase--”
Gabe shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to eat,” he clarifies, looking William straight in the eyes. “I want to avoid it. Let’s fuck.”
William raises his eyebrows, but shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
Gabe grabs the back of his head and plants a sloppy kiss onto William’s lips, his tongue prying between his teeth and burning like alcohol in William’s slightly-more-sober mouth. William grabs Gabe by the belt loops of his jeans, forcing his hips against him. His thumbs dip underneath Gabe’s shirt, the skin stretched over his protruding hipbones so hot that for a moment he forgets he’s kissing someone who’s practically killing himself. They slot together practically like two pieces of a puzzle, so perfectly they both wonder why they haven’t done this in quite a while; it won’t long until they stop wondering.
Eventually, William tugs Gabe in the direction of his hotel room. They only pause for a moment so William can text Sisky a warning him not to come into the room for about an hour or so, and then they fling open the door and resume, so lost in the way they lick at each other’s soft lips and thin necks William almost trips over a suitcase and Gabe has to catch him.
It’s all drunken giggles and wanton touches until William pushes Gabe onto the bed, crawling over to straddle his hips, and Gabe reaches up for the hem of William’s shirt, intending to push it over his head. Instead, William freezes, the coy smirk wiped off his face and being replaced by wide-eyed fear. Gabe stops. “You okay?”
William blinks and nods in a rush. “I’m, uh, it’s fine.” He reaches up, using his finger to anxiously comb his hair back and avoids Gabe’s eyes as he admits, “It’s just that since the last time we’ve hooked up, I’ve gotten more self-conscious of my stomach.”
“You don’t even have a stomach,” Gabe says, bewildered. “And you’re always lifting up your shirt during shows--”
“I know, but it’s different when people touch it. If I take off my shirt--” William looks back down at Gabe and pleads desperately, “--you have to promise you won’t touch my stomach at all. Please?”
“I swear.”
“Good.” William inhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Okay. You can take my shirt off. Just… be slow.”
“I will.” Gabe gently takes the hem of William’s shirt again, raising it above his chest and pulling it over his head before tossing it to the side. William keeps his eyes closed the entire time, and shivers once his upper-half is exposed. “You good?”
“I’m fine. I… I’m not awful to look at, right?”
“No, I promise you’re the exact opposite,” Gabe says, although that’s an understatement. He can see the outlines of each of William’s ribs, so much so he can count each of them. His stomach is as flat as a wall, and the valleys of his collarbones resemble caverns. “You’re hot shit.”
“Good.” William breathes in shakily to steel himself before reaching for the bottom of Gabe’s shirt. “You’re fine with me taking your shirt off too, right?”
Panic surges from the pit of Gabe’s stomach. He’s nowhere near William’s level. It’d be humiliating to let him see the stubborn pouch of fat glued to his stomach, the way he has to suck in his stomach for even a glimpse of ribs. His hip bones, while present, are ultimately shadows that would disappear if he put on only a couple more pounds. And there’s rolls of fat under his armpits, albeit miniscule, but still, they are there. If he were to look up the definition of “failure” in the dictionary, Gabe’s pretty sure he would see a picture of his own torso..
But refusing would be admitting defeat so early on. Gabe can’t do that. And if William trusted Gabe to see him shirtless, he reasons it’s only fair to do the same, even if it’s hardly anything to be proud of.
Gabe hesitates, but just as William’s opening his mouth to say something and starts to get off, Gabe says, “It’s fine. You can take it off.”
William nods, and Gabe sits up, allowing William to gingerly peel his shirt off him in silence. He reaches out, running his finger along Gabe’s collarbone. “I wish I looked like you do,” he whispers longingly, eyes prowling across Gabe’s body with yearning and want.
“Are you kidding?” He has to be lying to make Gabe feel better. “I wish I looked like you.”
“Everyone says that, and I never believe it.”
“Me neither.”
William bows his head to kiss Gabe again, an attempt to infuse heat back into each of them. But it’s still not there, no matter how hard they try, no matter how hard Gabe presses his tongue against William’s with such pressure that William can taste bits of stomach acid that burns in his mouth like acidic pop rocks. It doesn’t help that Gabe has to hold back from touching William’s chest and stomach; he used to be able to kiss and lick anywhere he wanted, he used to be able to make William writhe at the slightest touch. It’s an entire third of William’s body that’s off-limits.
Meanwhile, William does have access to that part of Gabe’s body, but even so, he feels the sudden need to be careful. He starts to think things are going somewhere when he leaves Gabe’s lips to swirl his tongue over his nipple and Gabe reacts favorably, moaning and thrusting his hips up, but then William’s hand wanders down Gabe’s ribs and it stops. Gabe falls eerily silent. William looks up and asks, “Did I do something?”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Gabe says, although he sounds short of breath and his eyes are squeezed shut. “Um… just, fuck. Maybe we should stay away from my ribs.” He laughs suddenly. “As if I have any ribs. But you know what I mean.”
“No, I get what you mean.” William lifts his hand away. “Uh… what should we do, then?”
“I mean, I guess we can just skip to the good stuff.”
William looks down and then back up at Gabe. “Neither of us are very hard.”
“That’s fine.” Gabe sits up with a groan, sliding out from under William and then getting on top of him to push him down, reaching for the zipper of his jeans. “I’ll get you turned on, and then you can fuck me, and then I won’t be hungry, and then we’ll be fine.”
William lays back, lifting his hips so Gabe can push his jeans off. “Sounds good.”
Once Gabe’s gotten William’s jeans and then his briefs off, he ducks his head between William’s spread legs, kissing and nipping up his thighs, grabbing whatever’s left of his flat ass. William shudders, and Gabe translates it as pleasure, continuing his teasing. But then William makes a sound, this one strained. Just as Gabe stops to look up, William’s hands fly up to cover his face as he releases a loud, gut-wrenching sob.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “I’m sorry, I-- I don’t know why, I just… I didn’t think it’d be that bad, but my thighs are gross and… and…”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Gabe reassures him. “Dude, your thighs are not gross. They’re, like, the size of some people’s arms. You have no idea how many people would kill for your legs. You’re fucking thinspo.”
“I’m not,” William bawls. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t want to ruin this.”
“Don’t worry, you didn’t ruin anything. I know how you feel, but I promise you, whatever your brain is telling you is--”
“Blow me,” William interrupts.
“What?”
“You heard me,” William rasps, sniffling back the snot in his nose.
Gabe nods, and without a sound, sinks his mouth onto William’s cock.
At least he can pride himself on his gag reflex, so there’s that.
Even though the hook-up is pretty much the worst disaster of all time, they eventually manage to finish. Gabe’s hunger ebbs away temporarily, but only temporarily; after laying in bed, arms wrapped around William’s tiny waist underneath a blanket so they don’t have to look at each other, the pangs of his stomach return after only ten minutes. But he’s too exhausted to even get up to binge, so oh well.
“Maybe it’ll be better when we’re skinny,” William murmurs.
“I think so,” Gabe agrees, because he wants to believe that it can only go uphill from here.
After a while of that and then helping William to clean up, Gabe puts his clothes back on and stumbles to his room. He flops onto his bed on his back and stares up at the ceiling, causing Nate to glance up from the game he’s playing on his cell phone. “Where were you?”
“William’s room.”
“Ah,” Nate says, needing no further explanation. “I feel like getting room service. Do you want to? I bet you’re hungry after whatever you did with William.”
Gabe rolls over and buries his head in a pillow. “No.”
“But I was looking through the menu, and they have--”
“I don’t care,” Gabe interrupts, almost like a growl. He forces himself to sit and stand up. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Suit yourself,” Nate says with a shrug, and then he looks back down at his cell phone to keep playing Tetris.
Gabe ambles into the doorway of the bathroom, but just as he gets a grip on the sliding door to shut it, his knees suddenly become jelly, black fuzzy dots multiplying in his vision. He collapses against the sink with a clatter, causing the paper-wrapped soap bars and tiny complimentary bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo to roll to the floor. He barely keeps himself upright, weakly grabbing the edge of the sink with his thinning fingers and hoping he doesn’t slip away.
At the commotion, Nate peeks into the bathroom and comments, “Wow, you’re fucking drunk.”
“Mhm,” Gabe hums, slowly letting himself drop to the floor because he can’t keep himself up any longer, and if he does, he feels like he’ll pass out. That’s right, he’s drunk. That’s a great excuse for fainting. “Could you make me coffee? That might help.”
“Sure,” Nate says, taking a step into the bathroom. “Let me help you up--”
Gabe waves away his arm and protests, “No, I’m good.”
“So you’re going to stay sitting on the bathroom floor?”
“Only for a minute,” he says, resting his head against the wall. “I need a minute. That’s all. Don’t put any creamer or sugar in the coffee. I want it black.”
“Black? That’s gross.”
“I don’t care, go make it.”
Nate sighs and leaves the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a mug to fill up with tap water. “Are you sure you don’t want me to order room service?” he asks. “Because some food might help you sober up--”
“I’m sure.”
“--and I don’t know if I’ve seen you eat at all today.”
Gabe falls silent, and Nate finishes filling the mug with water, turning off the sink as he stares down at his vocalist. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I did,” Gabe said, pressing his head harder against the wall. “I guess just not in front of you.”
“We share a bus,” Nate deadpans. “Look, I don’t know if it’s because you’re forgetting or you’re stressed--”
“I’m not forgetting to eat,” Gabe snaps, “and I’m not stressed either. How much I eat is none of your business. Please, just go make my fucking coffee already.”
Still, Nate persists. “Ryland and Alex told me you guys weighed yourselves a few days ago, and… I don’t know, but there’s no fucking way you’re--”
“Nate!” Gabe interrupts, struggling to his feet and gripping the edge of the bathroom counter. “I didn’t ask to be interrogated. If you want to fucking order room service, go for it! I’m not stopping you! Just make me a coffee, please!”
“Fine,” Nate huffs, picking up the filled mug. Although conceding for now, his eyes harden on Gabe with glint of determination before he turns around and leaves the bathroom.
Nate ends up ordering mac n’ cheese. The fragrance fills the room, clinging onto Gabe’s nose and tempting him. He can’t help but stare at each dripping, cheese-coated noodle on Nate’s fork as he lifts it to his mouth and eats it, licking a stray drop off his lips. How can he do that? Doesn’t he care that the room service menu has no calories at all on it, that he has absolutely no idea what he’s consuming? Why would anyone order a bowl of mac n’ cheese when there’s literally ten different salads on the menu?
Nate takes notice of Gabe’s staring and asks, “You want some?”
“No thanks,” Gabe says. He turns his eyes back to the TV, crosses his legs, and picks up his cup of watery black coffee from off the nightstand to sip on. It still burns, bitter and sour, like a really bad soup. Nate shamelessly licks his fork and shrugs.
Gabe’s weight isn’t brought up for another week until one day Vicky plucks something off the bus floor and holds it up to ask, “Uh… whose is this?”
Gabe glances up from his laptop on which he’s been browsing the forums on (it’s not like he’s stupid, he turned down the screen brightness and nobody is sitting next to him) and finds himself sucking in a breath to see the object in question is a roll of measuring tape. He has no idea how it could have fallen out of where he’s been hiding it underneath his bunk mattress, but there it is, staring him down with its stupidly menacing inches and centimeters.
A collective silence falls over the front of the bus, and then there’s a chorus of, “Not me,” and “I dunno,” before Vicky says, “Well, I guess I’ll just throw it away--”
“Wait!” Gabe slams his laptop shut and shoots up, grabbing the measuring tape out of her hand and thereby incriminating himself by shoving it into his pocket. “It’s mine. Sorry, I forgot I had that.”
Alex, who’s sitting across from him, asks almost jokingly, “Why’d you bring measuring tape on tour?” like he’s waiting for some funny answer. There is no funny answer, unless Gabe’s eating disorder that causes him to constantly compare the width ratio of his arms and thighs for a forum thread could be considered funny. Maybe someday.
“Um… I don’t know,” Gabe says, sinking back into the seat and placing his laptop back onto his lap. “Just in case I need to measure something?”
“The crew has plenty of those, though.”
“Well, yeah, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s good to have one that’s meant for like, measuring myself?” And then Gabe realizes fuck, he practically just admitted to measuring himself, and he’s so screwed.
Everyone stares, but then Alex shrugs and says, “I won’t ask,” before turning back to his own laptop. Gabe breathes a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t open his laptop again, just in case.
The thing is, though, even though Gabe’s weight wasn’t specifically brought up that time, it will be during that day. This is only the calm before the storm, a sign of things to come.
Gabe is prancing around the stage, singing Guilty Pleasure for the crowd of endearing fans and shouting into the microphone, hoarse by now, when all of a sudden, the exhaustion that had lay in wait decides to strike.
But he holds tight to the microphone and keeps going. After all, he did eat a salad earlier when they ate lunch at a nearby restaurant. And he’d avoided eating all the croutons, and only dipped his fork into the little container of dressing instead of pouring it over the salad. But still, that counts. It totally does.
He starts missing notes, the volume and willpower of his voice wavering between normal and concerning. Ryland and Alex and Vicky constantly exchange looks, but continue to play.
Gabe’s head aches, and so does his knees and his hips and arms and everything. The lights are bright, and he has to move so much, and he has to sing so much… and how much longer does this all have to go on? There’s no way they just started the set.
He makes it to the end of the song and takes a swig from a water bottle. Ryland asks him something, but he doesn’t hear, and he doesn’t care.
Now, as the riff to the next song starts, Gabe’s head pounds. He remembers he’s supposed to say something witty at this point before he starts singing, but he completely blanks. He just stares out at the crowd, who are murmuring in confusion as the same riff is played over and over and Alex nudges Gabe and has to whisper the line to him. There’ll definitely be rumors he was sick or drunk or high while performing, and Gabe really, really, cannot fucking wait.
Gabe starts singing the next song, purely from whatever the voice version of muscle memory is, although his head confuses the words. He’s completely off. He has to stop himself from singing the chorus five seconds before it starts.
He catches a glimpse of William at the side of the stage, waiting to sing Snakes with him. Although William looks the opposite of pleased. His arms are crossed, and he glares at Gabe, cold and fierce. Gabe doesn’t think he did anything, until words escape his mouth and the microphone starts to slip out of his sweaty fingers.
And then he realizes, just before everything goes black and he collapses to the ground, that he’s fainting on stage, causing an uproar before William could ever have the chance for his own theatrics.
“He fainted before me,” is the beginning of William’s rant as soon as Ryan picks up his cell phone, connecting him to the three way call with William and Patrick. “I can’t fucking believe it. How does he do it?”
“Wait, hold up,” Ryan says. “Who fainted?” He’s standing near the door of his apartment, waiting for the pizza man. He’s ravenously hungry and has therefore decided it would be appropriate to break his streak of sixteen days without a binge, so he had ordered pizza only minutes before William had called.
“Gabe did!” William says, his pacing more of a storm as he stomps back and forth in his dressing room. “It’s not fair! It should have been me first--”
“Then maybe you should have worked harder?” Ryan suggests, with a hint of contempt. “Just a thought. But he is also taller than you, so he does burn more calories.”
“Taller by two inches,” William feels the need to point out. “But I swear, I have to have a lower BMI than him, I have to be working harder. I’ve been doing this so much longer than him, I know it. He upstaged me! Everyone’s going to be worried about him and not me!”
“Are you really jealous that Gabe fainted before you did?” Patrick asks, leaning back from his laptop and glad to have an excuse to stop watching cooking videos. “Like, think about it. It’s going to be hell for him. People are going to force him to eat, and they’re going to send him to the hospital--”
William stops pacing. “They’re not sending him to the hospital.”
Ryan’s stomach growls, and he asks, “What do you mean?” as he peers through the peephole of his door. Just in case the pizza man comes early.
“He came to when everyone was trying to drag away,” William explains. “He got up and was able to walk away just fine. He convinced everyone it was low blood sugar, ate a cookie, and went back on stage to finish the set. I still sang fucking Snakes with him. Nobody’s even making it as big of a deal as they should be! If it had been me, I would--”
“So he’s okay?” Patrick asks.
“Yeah, I think so? I don’t know, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk with him--”
“Can’t you just stop complaining and be inspired?” Ryan says. “Just fucking accept it. If he fainted, he’s probably doing better than you. If you want to faint on stage, you need to work harder. You need to prove yourself if you want attention, too.”
“But the hell am I supposed to--”
“Fast,” Ryan says. “You can handle it. You don’t need food.”
“I’m on tour, I can’t do it.”
“At least try to do it for twenty-four hours. You can handle twenty-four hours, right?”
William hesitates. “I guess so--”
The door to William’s dressing room door swings open, and he rushes to take his cell phone away from his ear, fumbling with it in his grasp and finally managing to snap it shut when the rest of his bandmates come walking into the room. He puts on his facade of concern and asks, “Any updates on Gabe?”
“Surprisingly well?” Carden says with confusion, flopping down onto the couch but not before grabbing a handful of potato chips from the snack table William never dares to touch. Before cramming the chips in his mouth, he comments, “Am I the only one who doesn’t believe him?” And then he shoves the potato chips into his mouth, biting down on them with a loud crunch that makes William wince.
“I don’t either,” Chizzy says. “Low blood sugar? What kind of fucking excuse is that? He’s not a diabetic.”
“It can happen,” William says, crossing his arms. He can fit the cell phone in his hand in the crevice of his hollow armpit; good. “Maybe… he just wasn’t eating properly or something.”
“Yeah,” Carden states, muffled by his chewing. “He’s not.”
William skeptically scoffs. “And how would you know that?”
Carden swallows and then reaches for, rather than just a handful, the entire potato chip bag. The intoxicating smell of greasy potatoes wafts to William’s nose, and he has to turn away. “Alex told me.” He holds out the potato chip bag. “You guys want any? I’m probably gonna eat the rest.”
“I will,” Sisky, taking a couple chips, and so does Butcher. All William can smell is fucking potato chips.
“Anyways, Alex told me that the whole band has pretty much noticed he doesn’t eat. They think it’s stress or depression or something?” Carden pops a chip into his mouth. The crunch is so loud in William’s ears, it’s deafening. “But I think that’s bullshit.”
“That’s absurd, I know he eats,” William says. “We’re on tour, he needs the energy.”
“Dude,” Butcher says, “Once I walked into his dressing room while he was eating pizza, and then he just froze when he saw me and then threw it out.”
“The same thing happened to me!” Sisky exclaims. “Except he said he was full and said I could have the rest of his sandwich. Which he had only eaten a bite of.”
William has to hold back from snorting. “Really?” Is Gabe really that bad at hiding his eating disorder? Not that William wouldn’t do the same, but he knows he would personally be at least a little more covert.
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s up with him,” Sisky says. “Probably some weird diet thing he’s doing. He does that kind of shit, right?”
“Last I heard, he only ate applesauce for three days,” Carden says.
“Who told you that?” William demands
“Pete.”
“As if any of that is his business.”
“But only eating applesauce for three days is so weird.”
“Well, that was a while ago. Gabe knows better now.”
“Wait, so you knew about it?” Carden asks, digging into the chip bag again. The rustle makes William bristle.
“Not much,” William hastens to say, trying to seem as casual as possible and not turn around to look at Carden’s chips. “He just mentioned it once. He’s learned since then not to do weird shit.”
“I don’t think he has,” Chizzy says.
“Well, I guess we’ll see whatever’s going on with him soon,” Carden says with a shrug, snapping a potato chip in half between his teeth. “I heard they’re gonna have an intervention with him tonight.”
“An intervention?” Although it’s not for him, panic rises in William’s stomach. That could’ve easily been him. “Like, a real intervention?”
“I think that’s what they meant when they said the word ‘intervention,’ yeah.” Carden reaches into the potato chip bag again, and that’s when William snaps.
“Holy shit,” William snarls, “Could you just stop eating potato chips for one second?”
Carden, taken aback, slowly extends the bag to him. “Do you want--”
William slaps the bag out of his hands and flees out of the room, glancing down at his fat thighs as he runs and decides that while he will do his best to help Gabe out of this situation, he’s still going to end up skinnier than him, one way or another.
“I can’t believe he just hung up on us like that,” Ryan tells Patrick over the phone, as he peeks out the peephole of his door again. “I can’t wait until his tour is done and we’re all home for the holidays. It’s been so long since we’ve all gotten to talk properly.”
“Right. Although when we’re talking during the holidays, it’s usually because we’re all having breakdowns over sugar cookies.”
“That won’t be me this year. I’m not going anywhere for Christmas.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
“Oh, she’s pissed I won’t hang out with her family, but I’d rather get skinnier than her,” Ryan says, leaving it at that. Almost snarkily, he asks, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to your parents’ house to binge and purge everything?”
“Probably,” Patrick says disappointedly. Now he’s in his kitchen, staring at the open fridge and trying to decide whether it would be worth it to eat a bagel with low fat cream cheese for dinner, or to just eat the entire chocolate cake he impulse bought at the grocery store yesterday. “But I am going to actually try this time. I’m going to tell everyone I’m going on a diet--”
“Like usual.”
“--and then everyone will leave me alone when I don’t eat much. So it’ll be fine.”
“But your stomach has to be stretched to hell after so much binging. That sounds hard.”
“I can restrict,” Patrick says, and out of pure spite, finally decides to take out the bag of bagels and tub of low fat cream cheese. “I’m eating just a bagel for dinner.”
“Do you even know how many calories are in a bagel?”
“The nutrition label is right there, so yes, Ryan, I know.” Patrick slams the fridge door shut and dumps the food onto the counter, balancing his cell phone between his head and shoulder as he pries a bagel apart. “I’m only going to eat half of one. So, what are your dinner plans? Are you going to eat some ice cubes and lettuce? Sounds absolutely delightful.”
“No,” Ryan spits. “I ordered a pizza.” Rather than admit to the fact he’s about to binge, he lies, “I’m only going to eat one piece and that’s it. Maybe I’ll chew and spit a few more pieces, because I have control, and then I’ll throw it out and go to the gym.”
“I don’t doubt you,” Patrick says, taking the cell phone off his shoulder as he plugs in the toaster and pops his bagel half into it. “Anyways, what do you think Gabe will do now that--”
A lovely sound stops Ryan from listening: the ring of the doorbell and a rap on the door. “Sorry, pizza’s here, gotta go!” he rushes to say, before tearing the cell phone from his ear and abruptly snapping it shut.
When he opens the door, the pizza man hands him a receipt to sign. As Ryan scrawls his signature on it, the pizza man asks, “Hey, aren’t you from that one band? Panic! At The Discotheque or whatever?”
“No,” Ryan says straightforwardly, handing the receipt back and taking his medium cheese-and-pepperoni pizza. Not because he doesn’t want his address leaked, but because nobody needs to know that Ryan Ross actually eats. He digs a crumpled five out of his pocket and almost throws it at the pizza man, closing the door in a hurry as he says, “Thank you, have a nice night!”
Gabe sits almost perched on the dressing room couch, a warm styrofoam cup of hot black coffee warming his palms as he stares at some cheap painting on the wall and tries to think of how many calories that cookie could have been. It was chocolate chip, maybe about three or four inches in diameter? And it tasted really good, so there had to be a lot of calories. Maybe 120, if he’s being generous. Or 150, that might be more accurate. Or, although just going for 200 would probably be an overestimation, it might be the safest bet.
He’s broken out of his thoughts by Ryland waving a snack-sized bag of veggie straws in front of him before dropping it on his lap. “This is for you.”
“Oh.” Gabe looks down at the bag and takes a sip of his coffee, resisting the urge to pick it up and immediately flip it over to read the calories. “Thanks.”
Ryland sits down on a plastic chair across from him and gives him an expectant stare. Gabe doesn’t look behind him, but he knows the rest of Cobra is probably standing behind the couch as well. He realizes they’re waiting for him to eat the veggie straws, but rather than give in, he plays dumb and takes another light sip of coffee. The sourness probably tastes better than veggie straws could ever hope to do, anyways.
“So?” Ryland eventually asks.
Gabe glances up from his coffee. “So what?”
“Are you going to eat the veggie straws?”
After the cookie, there’s no fucking way Gabe will eat the veggie straws. He’d rather die, thank you very much. Every bite would bring the sensation of building fat and anxiety rather than satisfaction. “I’m good, so I think I’ll save them for later.”
Nate sits down on the empty plastic chair next to Ryland and says, “Man, you passed out on stage tonight.”
“And I had a cookie and I was fine.” Gabe shrugs. His head is no longer swimming; although the fact he ate a cookie isn’t optimal, he’s at least a little proud his body has learned to not need as much to function. One step closer to being skinny. “Really, I’m alright.” He tries to crack a reassuring smile. “You guys don’t need to worry.”
A collective silence falls over the room as the rest of his bandmates pause and all look at each other, trying to decide what to say next. Just as Ryland is opening his mouth, William bursts through the dressing room door and exclaims, “Gabe, I’ve been looking for you! I gotta talk to you about something--”
“We’re kinda in the middle of something,” Vicky says. “Can you come back later?”
“No, my band’s set is in an hour.” William struts over to the couch, grabbing Gabe by his hand and pulling him up. The bag of veggie straws falls off his lap. “It’s important. Thanks for letting me borrow him, I promise I’ll be quick!”
He tugs Gabe into the hallway and next to a pile of amp cases. “Thanks,” Gabe says, lifting his styrofoam cup to his lips, “but they’re going to want to talk to me at some point about this shit. It’s inevitable. This morning they found my measuring tape, and now I’ve just fainted on stage.”
“No, don’t give up now,” William pleads. “I need you.”
“I never said I was giving up,” Gabe says. “I mean, I’m an adult, what can they do about it?”
“They can Baker Act you.”
Gabe chuckles and downs the rest of his coffee, wiping the rest off his lips. “I’m nowhere close to getting involuntarily forced to go inpatient. But thanks for your concern.”
“But we still need to come up with a good excuse,” William says. “The minute someone suspects you have an eating disorder and says it out loud, things will add up. It’s fun worrying people, but when they can go to extremes to keep you from losing weight, it’s not fun anymore. You’re still not at that point where you want to recover, right?”
Gabe nods slowly, considering William’s words. “I don’t want to recover,” he says softly, his eyes falling to the ground mournfully before darting back up to William. “Whatever your plan is, tell me. I’ll do anything to avoid getting Baker Acted.”
William smirks, glad Gabe is hearing his reasoning. “Tell them you’ve been stressed. That’s what most people are seeming to think, anyways. Eat anything they force on you over the next few days and purge it. When they think you’re eating again, you can start lowering your intake again and save all your calories for eating in front of people so you have witnesses. That’s what I told Ryan to do on the Truckstops & Statelines tour, and it worked. Trust me.”
William’s plan works. For several days, Gabe eats everything thrown at him. As soon as he gets back into the dressing room, he rips open the bag of veggie straws without complaint and then takes a couple more cookies from the snack table, as well as two salty handfuls of chips. They all end up in the toilet later when Gabe has a moment to himself.
“I’ve just been stressed lately, you know how it is,” is what he tells the rest of his band, and he tells them all his current business ventures, none of which are currently that stressful but would certainly sound like it to an outsider, especially when topped off with being on tour. And he keeps eating, and they all believe it.
Nobody asks again for a while if he’s okay. They’ll all get used to it, because he’s Gabe Saporta and that’s just how he is, even when it’s clearly dangerous.
On December 31st, 2007, Gabe is trying to burn off all the latkes and sufganiyot he consumed earlier that month during Chanukkah when Pete calls to inquire, “Do you have any New Year’s plans?”
Gabe jabs the button on the treadmill to slow his speed, needing a few seconds to gulp in breath before he answers, “Not really.”
“Do you want to come over?” Pete asks. “I don’t really have any plans, either.”
And that’s how he ends up in Pete’s apartment, just Gabe and him, sitting on the couch in front of the TV, waiting for the ball to drop a few miles away in Times Square so they can sip their overpriced champagne and call it a night.
“Do you have any resolutions?” Pete asks, reclining further into the plushy couch.
Besides losing weight? Gabe almost wants to say sarcastically, but since finding out from William that Pete hadn’t really kept his short-lived applesauce mono much of a secret, he knows better. “Not really. You?”
“I don’t know,” Pete says. “Maybe I’ll get a haircut soon.”
“You won’t,” Gabe says, playing with one of the pieces of Pete’s emo fringe before his hand is lightly swatted away. “You’ve had it for what? Four years now?”
“Yeah, and I should get rid of it before I’m an old man.”
Gabe playfully scoffs. “You’re the same age as me. Are you calling me old?”
“Yeah,” Pete says, grabbing Gabe’s thin wrist. “You have the body of a boney old woman.”
“Shut up,” Gabe says, lifting up his shirt to show off his flat stomach. “Does this look like the body of a boney old woman?”
Pete raises an eyebrow. “I dunno,” he says, unconsciously licking his lips as he takes in Gabe’s figure, which for now, is still more lean than frail. When he realizes he’s been staring too long, he pokes Gabe in the ribs and says, “You’re starting to have more of a William body, actually.”
Pride rises up in Gabe’s stomach as he drops his shirt. “What constitutes a William body?”
“You know,” Pete says, not elaborating. “Not that I’m complaining, though. It looks good on you.”
“Really?” Gabe asks, in disbelief, expecting it to be another joke or a result of the wine they had drank earlier.
Instead, Pete meets his eyes and says sincerely, “Really.”
On the TV, the countdown to New Year’s begins, the crowd shouting, “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…”
After a brief glance at the TV, Pete looks back at Gabe, a glint in his eyes as he wonders, “So, do you have anyone to kiss at midnight?”
A smirk crosses Gabe’s lips. “No, why?”
“I don’t either.”
The TV chants, “...Five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!”
Suddenly, it’s 2008, and the celebratory cheers of the TV fade into a dull roar as Gabe and Pete surge forward, leaving their champagne glasses completely untouched on the coffee table. They press their lips together, the taste of Gabe’s tongue remarkably acidic, but Pete doesn’t say anything, doesn’t suspect anything. Instead, his hand slinks underneath Gabe’s shirt, feeling over the sharp points of his hip bones, the way his skin is stretched taut over what should be a stomach, the noticeable valleys and crevices that make up his ribs and spine.
“So fucking gorgeous,” Pete whispers into his ear, as he pushes Gabe down onto his bed after they’ve moved from the couch to here. He kisses down Gabe’s collarbone, licks up his jawline. Gabe’s glad he’s lost a couple pounds since last time; this is much easier than with William, with someone who couldn’t give a shit about his own weight. For a moment, Gabe can sink into the elation of how easily Pete fits between his thin thighs, how easily Pete’s grasp can wrap around Gabe’s wasting wrists, and think of nothing else.
Starting off the new year at 143.6 lbs, just skinny enough to earn Pete’s gaze, isn’t a bad way to begin 2008 at all.