May 7, 2001
hunger
part ten
this is an au; the topic upsets me a great deal.
by bianca
Her arms tingle.
She supposes that it doesn't really matter in the scheme of things, but it's the first feeling she's had anywhere but her stomach in a long time. They'll be inside, and they'll be waiting for her. She knocks twice on the door, mumbling a hello.
They sit on Q's bed, eyes expectant. Trowa has one arm curled around Quatre. Obviously, she thinks, they want to know. They want to fucking *know*, Dorothy, so stop with the act, stop it right now, and just say it.
Quatre smiles supportively.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Instinctively, she looks away, looking out the window. "Dorothy?" says Quatre, touching her arm gently. "It's okay. I'll always be your friend, no matter what."
No matter what. Smiling a bit perversely, she nods.
"For a long time now," she begins, and is this the right way to go about it? Admitting weakness is not her strength. But she sees Trowa's eyes blink, perplexed, and can't force herself to stop, not now, not with the floodgates open and pouring.
"For a long time," she says, "I've been bulimic." Quatre's face is startlingly blank, despite the promises of friendship he made. Trowa says nothing, but studies her feet as if he's never seen anything more interesting in his life. Self-consciously, she tucks her bare feet beneath her skirt.
"I just...thought you should know," she finishes lamely, and now she's worried, oh GOD, they're not moving. They're not saying anything.
Finally, Quatre breaks the silence, and his reaction isn't what she'd hoped for. His voice is a bit higher than normal, his eyes watering. "What do you want me to say?" he asks. "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing," she says, her panic growing.
"Nothing." Quatre looks away. Another oppressive silence rests over them like a carbon dioxide cloud she read about in AP Bio, a cloud that simply smothered dozens of villagers. "I can't do that." Dorothy's heart sinks, and she bites her lip. "You're asking me to sit here while you die. If you die, Dorothy, I'll have that on my conscience."
"I'm fine," she says, and immediately regrets it.
"You're not fine," says Quatre, so calmly, as if he's been a bulimic all his life and he knows how it feels. "You're not. You're just saying that. Dorothy, I need to do something. I don't know what."
She hates the way her eyes water at the betrayal, hates the way her voice breaks. She should be stronger. A strong woman, she thinks, and Relena appears in her mind, Relena, her elusive classmates, Relena, class president. Lately, she's seen her face as she pays homage to the gods of the toilet bowl.
"So you're going to tell," she says, and feels devastated as Quatre begins to chew his fingernails. "You're going to tell, is that it? You said--"
"I," said Quatre, choosing his words carefully, "am going to seek counseling. I need to have an adult that I can trust, to talk to, and deal with this myself." Dorothy nods, but can't help the tear that slides down her cheek. She brushes it away angrily.
"Okay," says Dorothy, because there's nothing else she can say. She's trusted Quatre with her secret, and he can't handle it, can't handle her anymore. Already, she feels him looking at her with different eyes. She's the bulimic first, the girl he grew up with second. "I trust you," she says, hoping to rekindle the spirit of friendship he'd promised her. He swallows.
"Dorothy...I just don't think I can handle this. I don't think that you're really dedicated to getting yourself better, and until you are, nothing I say will change that."
"I am!" she bursts out. "I hate it, I hate it." Like I hate you, part of her spits out, and she gasps in horror.
"I don't know," says Quatre, shaking his head, and god damn it, who is HE to pass judgement on her? To say that, no, Dorothy, you don't really want to get better, that's just the disease talking? She hates the way he preaches even though she knows he wants to help her. "I can't take this on by myself. What am I supposed to do, stay with you twenty four hours a day, seven days a week? I can't do that, Dorothy. No one can do that but yourself."
They sit beneath the umbrella of another silence, until Dorothy says, almost meekly in a way that is NOT her, that is just NOT, CANNOT, will NOT, be NOT, "Trowa? What are you thinking?"
"What am I supposed to think?" he snaps, and even though she should have expected it from him, she begins to cry again. He is always defensive when surprised. "I can't handle this," he says, rising and striding to the door. "I can't handle this right now."
The door shuts. Dorothy wipes her eyes on her dress.
She mumbles a goodbye to Quatre, who simply looks at her with judging eyes, and heads back to her single room. She lies on her bed in her clothes until sleep folds her under mercifully, painlessly.
End Part Ten
Bianca
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