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“It's not your body that I love, but it's the shell you're inside of
And you're killing it, you're killing the only piece of you I can touch
It's not your body that I need, but that's what sleeps next to me
And you're killing it, you're killing it, you're killing it
Please eat.”
See, Jack — ol’ horndog that he is — is working an angle.
He crowds in on Robby from behind in their ensuite, bucking his hips the closer he gets to the sink, all heat and intent and familiarity. He lets his crutches stay propped against the corner between their fixtures and the wall and presses in close enough to feel Robby’s weight, not just the heft of his body, but the way he’s filled out recently. He’s gotten fat and Jack fucking loves it. He loves how the mirror barely contains Robby now, just like how Jack’s heart barely contains him, how the light catches on the downy hair that speckles his shoulders and the heavy slope of his belly, his deeper belly-button like Devil’s Hole in Arizona, and how Jack has to reach farther around him than he used to. See, his plan is easy: to get Robby flushed and overworked and huffy and laughing, to get him out of his damn head and back into this smorgasbord of a body. This is his husband’s body, Jack can’t think of anything that’s more fucking perfect.
Except Robby doesn’t respond at all — he doesn’t get all whiny and bratty the way Jack knows he gets when he wants to play.
Instead, Robby looks sour as he smacks one hand against that delicious pout of a belly and looks even more upset when it jiggles back. Jack watches the way Robby’s eyes drag over himself, cataloguing, judging, and something sour twists low in his own gut. He doesn’t like that look. He drops the playful bullshit instantly, scooping up one of his crutches as he hops back a little. “...Yonah?” He uses Robby’s Hebrew name when he’s real serious; mostly because he knows it’ll get his sweetheart’s attention; get him away from the pedestal with a ratty sign hanging on it that says Dr. Robby. “What’s goin’ on, kid?”
Robby wilts even further at the sound of it though, as if the sound of his Hebrew name is some kind of barb. “I’m not Yonah,” He whispers. “I’m the whale who ate him.”
First of all, a happy Robby says in his head — it’s a giant fish, Yitzhak, not a whale.
Jack just blinks, stunned. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just say?” Robby doesn’t look at him, but Jack is done being gentle. Not when this shit has teeth, “Yonah. You wanna say that again? ’Cause if you’re talkin’ about yourself like that, I swear to G-d, we’re not doin’ this.” Robby still doesn’t look up. “Yonah.” Jack plants the word harder this time. “Look at me.”
But when the light of his fucking life turns around, trapped by Jack not giving up as much ground as he shoulda, Robby’s got this nasty pasted-on smile — the one Jack has known for years, the one that’s all lies; all smoke and mirrors shit. Maybe his cheeks are fuller now, his beard cupping and creeping down from a softer jaw, his fat belly pushing out proudly between them. Jack had figured his night was gonna be spent appreciating that belly the way it deserves, appreciating every damn inch of his husband, and instead— “Ah, forget it, Yitzhak.” Robby leans down and kisses Jack’s cheek, thinking he’s all fucking slick. “Really, Yankl, it’s nothing, only me being stupid inside my own head.”
But Jack doesn’t budge, he knows this story, he knows how this goes. “Don’t,” Jack growls. “Don’t you dare tell me to forget it.” He lets his head fall onto Robby’s soft bare chest, nuzzling in close. “I know that smile. I knew it when you were half this size and twice as miserable. You don’t get to use it on me, kid.”
“I’m fine,” Robby bitches. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Jack. I’m just gloomy. You know how I get.”
Jack sniffs. “Yeah, I know exactly how you get. I also know you don’t get to call the man I love a fuckin’ whale and expect me to stand here and let it go. Nah, see, I am not doin’ that shit. I am not doin’ it.” He kisses his husband’s soft tits between every single barb. “I am not lettin’ you talk about yourself like that. Your head ain’t right when you do. You and I both know there’s a part of you up there in your head that sees bad shit all the time. You know it. I know it. So let’s just say it how it is instead of pretendin’ otherwise. Alright?”
Robby finally melts. His mouth finds Jack’s curls, his breathing is so hot and shaky against the gray. “I’m taking care of it, Yitzhak. The gut.”
Jack goes rigid, his hands have already dipped lower, fingers spreading over Robby’s thick middle, the same round, saggy belly he’s kissed, kneaded, pressed his face into, fallen asleep against for going on fucking decades now — and the words hit him like a slap. He leans back just enough to look up at Robby, his freckled face tipped back, eyes gone shiny. “Workin’ on it how, exactly?” He snaps. “Takin’ care of it? ’Cause it’s where your organs live?” His fingers dig in at Robby’s sides. “You didn’t eat any of your goddamn dinner tonight. Try again, babe. I was sittin’ right across from you,” He continues. “I watched you push food around your plate for thirty minutes. Thirty. You took three bites, Yonah. Then you said you weren’t hungry and handed me the rest.” His eyebrow hooks up. “You think I’m stupid? You think I didn’t notice? You’re the reason the sun rises and sets for me. Of course I fuckin’ notice. I know every damn inch of you: every pound, every mole, every zit.”
Jack lifts one hand and cups the side of that long face, thumb brushing through his salt-and-pepper beard, reminding him that Jack will always be here, whether he wants it or not. “Yonah,” Jack grits out, “Lemme make myself abundantly clear. Skippin’ meals ain’t takin’ care of it. Starvin’ yourself ain’t takin’ care of it. Starin’ at a mirror and callin’ yourself a whale ain’t takin’ care of a g-ddamn thing except makin’ me lose my fucking mind.” His thumb presses harder into Robby’s cheek. “So unless takin’ care of it means eatin’, sleepin’, takin’ care of yourself, and tellin’ your husband when you’re feelin’ like shit — you better start rewirin’ what that phrase means.”
“I just wanted to prove I could,” Robby shrugs. “Dinner, I mean. I needed to know I could skip it. Shift was bad. I didn’t get a chance to sit for more than a minute, I barely ate anything but junk, and I didn’t even get time to piss. Yankl, the snacks, the crap, it’s been piling up. So I’ve been thinkin’ about options. Stuff that might help. Weight loss surgery or injections. Something like that.”
“What?” Jack is beside his fucking self. “You ain’t bariatric-surgery big, baby,” He snaps. “You — you not taking the time for yourself to eat and piss, isn’t fixed with medication.” His hand drops back to Robby’s belly, possessive, furious. “And you skippin’ meals to prove somethin’?” He shakes his head. “That’s bad. That’s fucked, baby. It scares the livin’ hell outta me.”
Robby’s throat works. “If I was your patient, Yitzhak, you would be concerned.” His nails dig into his own gut as if to prove the point, shaking the soft weight of it between them to punctuate his words. That — that shit — is something Jack cannot abide. He pries Robby’s fingers loose one by one and immediately rubs over the pink spots that Robby’s grip left behind.
“That’s complicated,” Jack hisses, “You know that. You know I’d say the same fuckin’ thing if you walked into the ED.” His thumb circles another red mark. “You came in tellin’ me you were skippin’ meals? Starvin’ yourself? Yeah, I’d be concerned. But not because of a number on a scale.”
“You deserve a desirable partner, Isaac.”
“Yeah,” Jack snaps, furious, “I’ve got one, Jonah.”
“A diet then?”
Jack snorts. “Sweetheart, baby — a couple snack cakes and some pretzels don’t change the fact that you’re vegan. You’ve been vegan since you were a teenager. What diet are you gonna do, huh? Lettuce and air? Celery for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? You wanna go outside and graze like a damn cow? Is that what we’re doin’ now? Kid, you already eat healthier than half the g-ddamn planet. Healthier than me, but only when you treat yourself like you're worth the effort. I ain’t havin’ this starving, putting aside your needs for everyone and everything, anymore. This fuckin’ stops now, I mean it.”
“I’m fat.”
“Yeah, you’re fat. You’re a big fat man. So what? You need to delegate at work, sit your ass down, and eat the lunches I pack you.”
Robby opens his mouth to whine, but Jack has had enough.
He crutches into the bedroom with one hand, dragging his husband by the waistband with the other. Once they’re in the bedroom, Jack shoves and Robby hits the mattress on his back with a little grunt, like an upended tortoise, and Jack immediately starts hauling him up the damn bed and tucking him in as he goes. “Stay,” He barks. Robby must realize how pissed off Jack is, because he’s in the same spot on the bed by the time Jack is crutching back in with a heaping bowl of vegan oatmeal, speckled with a healthy layer of cinnamon and brown sugar. Also with a whole damn defrosted sleeve of vegan chocolate donuts tucked under his free arm. Robby’s eyes go wide. “Yankl, c’mon.”
“Nope,” Jack orders, not missing a beat. “No talkin’ till your mouth has food in it.” He settles himself beside Robby on the bed and scoops up a spoonful of oatmeal, then levels it right in front of Robby’s face. “Open up.” Robby makes the softest most pathetic little noise as he opens his mouth and Jack can’t help but coo as he chews. “There it is. Lemme feed ya, love. You can cry all you want after.”
By the time they’ve finished the bowl, Jack is trying to entice his sweetheart into eating a damn mini donut. Robby pulls a face and holds his belly with both hands and a faux pout. “Jack…” He whines, hitting that particular playful pitch that makes Jack chub up on the regular. “My tummy’s gonna pop.”
Oh. “Pop?” Jack repeats. “Pop? This belly?” He lays a hand over the full overhang. “This one right here? You sure about that? You know why your tummy hurts, baby?” Jack asks, firm as ever about this point. “It’s ’cause you haven’t eaten enough to fill it in a week. That’s why.”
Robby grumbles, flushed to the ears. “Stop leanin’ on it.”
Jack crosses his arms with a wolfish grin. “Oh, you think you get to call the shots now? You starve yourself for days, then you eat a normal human breakfast, and suddenly you think you’re gonna explode? Yeah, no wonder it aches. It’s shocked you put somethin’ in it at all.”
Robby huffs, embarrassed and very turned on. “Jack…”
“This poor tummy forgot what a meal even is,” Jack continues. “If it made a noise right now, it’d be speakin’ in tongues.” He clicks his tongue once. “I oughta take you over my knee for this shit.” That does it. Robby goes pink all over, lips parting before he can stop himself. Jack clocks it instantly. “You need that, baby?” He asks, knowing the answer even as he asks it. But he also knows better. “Later,” Jack decides. “First, we’re gonna cuddle, and we’re gonna watch Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.”
Robby scowls. “Guy Fieri?”
“Damn right, Guy Fieri,” Jack says, already reaching for the remote. He wiggles closer, tucking himself into Robby’s plush side. “Now, while he’s talkin’ about flavor profiles or whatever the hell,” Jack goes on, “You’re gonna rest this big, overworked, underfed tummy right on me while I convince it to forgive you. Maybe you eat a donut in a little bit, or two, or the whole damn sleeve. I don’t care.”
Robby sighs, but melts into him anyway; as spoiled as always.
“See? Already better.”
Robby closes his eyes for a beat, cradled against Jack; his most precious thing in the world. “…Yeah,” He admits quietly around a yawn. “Feels better full.”
“Good, sweetheart. You just rest.”
“Okay.” He snuffles a little, “Love you, Yitzhak.”
“Love you too, Yonah.”
“If only I could make you believe you deserve everything
Every spoon and bite, anything
You want to eat
'Cause I know you can only starve so much before you'll die
There's parts of you already gone I can never revive…
Please eat.”