"My god! people say. You have so much self-control! And later: My god. You're so, so sick. When people say this, they turn their heads, you've won your little game. You have proven your thesis that no-body-loves-me-every-body-hates-me, guess-I'll-just-eat-worms. You get to sink back into your hospital bed, shrieking with righteous indignation. See? you get to say. I knew you'd give up on me. I knew you'd leave."

- Wasted, Marya Hornbacher

Today had not been what I would label a good day.

It began with a set of numbers. Even though they were only numbers to others, to me they had been conditioned to equate to my sense of worth and self image. I can see how no one could possibly understand that, I still don't remember how it became that way.

I don't think I could begin to, or even be able to adequately describe the feeling of being a prisoner within your own skin with no way out. How does one describe hating the flesh that you see hanging off you and somehow linking it to your own self worth, how your own body becomes the enemy? Hating yourself because you can't get rid of your own repulsiveness, because it becomes your all-consuming obsession, because you can't make it go away and you hurt everyone you know in the process.

What's more is that the way you affect others pales in comparison in the pursuit of the only thing that matters anymore. You become so blind sighted it's the only thing you can see. Numbers. Thin. Nothing. Recovery is like some far off nightmare in which everyone wants you to be the failure you are secretly terrified of being.

Curled under my blankets, I reflected on what my definition of recovery was. A year ago I would have said that recovery would be reaching my goal weight, being thin enough and then I'd stop and there'd be nothing to worry about - now I wasn't sure. Being in the medical system so long gave me a new definition of recovery – being able to function and cope in everyday life while maintaining a healthy weight, free from the vices of an eating disorder. But that, too, seemed like some far off fairy tale spewed by professionals to provide hope to families and sufferers.

A healthy (fat) weight and coping seemed as oxymoronic to me as depression and happiness. It often didn't seem achievable. I didn't know what to think anymore. I was tired of thinking in the same loop over and over.

This morning, to my horror, I had noticed that I gained my first two kilograms (that could not be pegged up to water weight) since being in voluntary recovery. My reaction to this gain was far from any psychological standard or definition of coping.

Beyond feeling any scrap of concern if anyone heard or saw me, I'd immediately gotten down on my hands and knees and purged the cereal I'd eaten for breakfast until nothing but my own disgusting bile would come up. The effects on my body had been instantaneous – Dizzy, shaky and hundreds of small red flecks could be seen around my eyes. The blood vessels around my eyes had burst like red stars against my pale face and I hated myself for it. They wouldn't disappear for a couple of days.

As soon as I spied the broken capillaries I'd immediately felt regretful and stupid that I'd given in again. In one moment I was angry, enraged with myself for allowing myself to gain weight. You are disgusting. The next I was just as angry, for completely different reasons. How could you do this to yourself again?

The act of eating itself is not nearly as large a sin as gaining weight is. It was directly linked with failure, self-deprecation and the never ceasing fact that I alone had done all this to myself.

It seemed that all my time in therapy had not prepared me to deal with this - In those moments I'd grown mad, furious. I'd spent everyday for the past ten months actively fighting against this thing, having people tell me of the so called progressthat I'd made, spending every waking moment in exhausting internal warfare. For what? So I could still be as disgusted with myself as I was a year ago? Was I really still in the same headspace I was a year ago? Two years ago? I couldn't remember. I can't remember. It's all a blur. My head was spinning.

Satisfied that everything had been sufficiently heaved out of my stomach, I'd gone back into my room and decided quickly that it probably was not within my best interests to go to school today. I'd immediately set about exercising until my body couldn't stand it anymore, my self-hate the only fuel my body had to run on. I'd known I was doing wrong, but I didn't want to stop just yet.

It wasn't until two hours later, heavily fatigued and half-asleep in bed that I had really questioned what I had done.

What in the world had I been thinking?

Was this really what I wanted for myself until the day I died?

Were one or two kilograms really worth the mental torment and painful physical limits I had pushed myself to?

The worst part of it was that I knew I was still quite underweight and that, logically, the gained weight couldn't have made a difference to my appearance. But it wasn't even about how I looked anymore. Therapy had forced me to observe how every aspect of the eating disorder was attached to my fears, insecurities, and feelings. Weight with failure, food with the feelings I couldn't deal with, appearance with my pitiful self-esteem.

When the initial panic had passed, the more logical part of me could recognize that gaining weight wasn't going backwards. What I had just done was going backwards – and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe the most depressing part of it all was that I didn't know how, or if I could stop it, despite acknowledging it. I just knew, despite whether or not I had the capacity to, that I had to stop it. Because I think I wanted to.

Drawing my knees to my chest in a fetal position I stared at the old family photo on the dresser next to my bed, suddenly feeling a deep longing clutch at my chest painfully.

I didn't get out of bed for the rest of the day.

When my phone broke into song next to my ear and abruptly woke me sometime in the afternoon I thought it was my alarm waking me up. It took me a few seconds, but then I realized I hadn't set my alarm to begin with and that someone must be calling me. Sigh.

With difficulty in gathering enough stamina, I thought I should maybe answer. Reaching over to the incredibly loud source of noise I made sure to read the caller ID before answering, silently glad that it was only Naruto and not the school asking about my attendance. I flipped the phone open and rubbed my eyes with my free hand.

"Speak," I greeted groggily.

"Sasuke?" Came his loud voice from the other end, which, strangely, was louder than the ring tone. I put my phone on speaker, placing it on the pillow, too tired to be bothered holding it up to my ear. That would have required extra effort.

"Yes, loser."

"Where are you?"

I winced at the volume of both his voice and the background noise and turned it down a few bars. "Home," I yawned, glancing over to my alarm clock. It was mid-afternoon. I tried to justify my incredibly lazy extended nap by saying that I needed to catch up on sleep anyway. It didn't quite work.

"Why?"

My insides felt a chill at the thoughts and memories of this morning, of how I'd damaged any real beneficial progress I'd ever made. I said the first thing that came to my mind. "I'm sick."

"That sucks," he replied sympathetically. I nodded to myself, agreeing with this sentiment. "Like the flu?"

"Migraine. Made me throw up this morning," I lied.

"Again? Man, you should get that checked out."

I grunted dismissively. "It's genetic. My mother used to get them too," I recalled, finally spitting out something honest, looking over again at the photograph on the dresser trying to ignore the feeling in my chest.

"Ah…" he trailed off softly, probably not knowing what to say to that.

"Doesn't matter," I said, wanting to change the subject. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"It's Thursday. I'm on my free period, remember?"

"Yeah, sure," I muttered, still too sleepy to have any recollection of such facts like that it was Thursday. Since when did he have a free period anyway? He was probably just skipping class, that liar.

"So, anyhoo," he continued, "I was thinking, now I know it's not anything contagious, that I should pop over after school's out."

Oh god no. Today was not a good day. Today I couldn't gather enough h energy to get out of bed let alone play host. Today was probably not the best day for company because having no food in your stomach and self-discovery was exhausting. "No, really, you don't have to -"

"Great!" he interrupted as if I hadn't said anything, "See you then!"

"Wait -"

"Bye!"

The line went dead and I groaned, throwing my phone to the other side of the room, refusing to answer the traitorous device again should it ever ring on this day.

Today is not a good day.

By the time Naruto had screeched into my driveway later that afternoon I still hadn't found the will or energy to remove myself from my deliciously warm bed. Mostly out of laziness than anything else exciting like mental torment. Oh and the fact that my body had nothing to run on, that too. On the other hand I supposed being completely pathetic supported my boo-hoo sick story, so I should stick with it.

It was dead quiet before I heard the blond boy let himself in the house (I wasn't quite sure when he'd got his own key) with a none-too-gentle slam of the front door. This audible disturbance was quickly followed by heavy thuds on the carpeted stairs and a long string of violent curses. Moments later my bedroom door flew open and revealed a sweaty, red-faced Naruto with his hands full of heavy-looking, on-the-brink-of-bursting plastic bags. Staring, dazed, I made no move to help.

"Ungh," Naruto complained, dragging himself towards forward and setting the bags on the end of the bed. "Don't even ask," he commented, spying my raised eyebrow. Without an inch of delicacy the younger boy jumped onto the next to his bags, making the mattress rock.

"Dumbass," I muttered as the giant padding beneath me moved.

From what I could see at this angle underneath my blankets he shot a mockingly angry look in return. "Bitch. I assume you don't want anything from my bag of goodies then?"

I fought down a snicker at his childish phrasing. "Bag of …goodies?"

He grinned widely, all teeth bared, and dug into the bag closest to him eager to show off his goodies. "Let's see…we've got aspirin, paracetamol and…" he trailed off, pulling each item out for exhibition while reading their labels, "…we've also got ibuprofen. What else, what else….oh yes, paracetamol with codeine… how fancy, I scored that one off Jiraiya…"

Amused, I pulled myself into a sitting position and continued to watch Naruto pull out items from the bag as if it were bottomless. "Did you rob a pharmacy?"

"Pretty much," he laughed. When I realized he'd actually spent his hard earned money on something I'd lied about I felt a little guilty. A little. I think it was guilt but it might have been nausea. "How's the head?"

"Much the same," I lied. He gave me a sympathetic look. My insides cringed.

"This probably won't help but Kiba told me to remind you about your final History test tomorrow."

My insides twisted even more. Sighing, I flopped back down to lie on my pillow and drew my blankets around me again until I was cocooned. In the midst of my existential angst I'd forgotten about that particularly unpleasant detail. The loud teen laughed from the other end.

"Not ready?"

I snorted confidently, hoping he'd buy it. "Piece of cake."

He didn't buy it, apparently. That annoyed me because facades take effort that I didn't quite have at the moment - I was stretching beyond my resources already. While echoing my snort (in a most disbelieving manner) he crawled over the bed to lie beside me, smiling. I frowned at his refusal to believe my believable performance.

Who said the idiot could get on my bed anyway?

"Nervous?"

"No."

I felt his hot breath on my face and baby blues peering earnestly into my own, trying to read me. God I hated when he did that. I looked away uncomfortably, resisting the urge to kick him.

"So then… what's up?" Smile fading.

"Nothing," I assured, sounding as annoyed as I possibly could without guilt creeping into my voice. Couldn't he mind his own business just this once?

"Okay," he said softly, and I was relieved. "Where's Itachi?" He asked, suddenly changing the subject as he inspected his watch.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the dull white ceiling, folding my hands behind my head. "Working late." Next to me, he hummed low in his chest.

"So…" he began, flipping onto his back as well, mirroring my actions and putting his arms behind his head, "…wanna talk about it?"

I snapped my head to glare at the unrelenting idiot as my stomach tied itself into a hundred painful knots. Or maybe that was just the hunger. "About what?"

He only smiled kindly, knowingly, infuriatingly. I wanted to punch the stupid expression off his face. "Same shit?" He offered, in lieu of my silence as if I wasn't death-glaring him into oblivion. Oblivious fool who knew too much.

I let out a long breath through my clenched teeth, not entirely comfortable with how well he knew me, unsure if I was comforted or nervous that he did. Maybe it was okay that he did. After all, who else if not him or Itachi? "Different day," I finished.

"That's okay, isn't it?"

I frowned. No it's not.

"I mean, you're different now," he reasoned, spotting my less than impressed look.

I frowned, confused, shuffling onto my side to face him properly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, like from last year. Or the year before. You're different."

I scowled at his pleasantries but didn't correct him. The words were nice enough to hear but I had more than serious doubts about their truthfulness - After all they might as well be worthless for all the truth that he knew. I think I was disappointed with myself for being such a fraud to those closest to me, feeling fake left a sour taste. I wanted for him to get as angry with me as I was with myself, for being deceitful, for being weak. Get angry with me.

"I threw up today," I blurted out, testing the waters and watching his reaction carefully. He just twisted his mouth, confused.

"I know, you told me, remember?"

I shook my head, frustrated. Idiot. "On purpose."

"Oh…" He shrugged, looking over to me blankly. "…Well, we all have bad days."

I stared at him, expecting (wanting) yelling, shouting, disappointment. We all have bad days? "You're not pissed?"

"Why should I be?"

"You always are."

"Yeah, when I catch you red-handed," he said with an odd calmness uncharacteristic of him. "It's gotta mean somethin' if you're telling me, right?"

I hummed vague agreement, pondering on these words but letting it drop. Had I really come as long away as he had said or was that just a testament to how good my disguise was?

I had to consider more on what my so-called disguise was and if I was really disguising anything anymore. After all, don't I make my support system aware of my tougher days, like today? Didn't I just come clean about the fact that I'd lied and purged? Wasn't that a testament to any progress I might have made, rather than mistakes ands setbacks everyone is capable of making? That I actually had recognized them as mistakes?

I was not nearly rid of these negative feelings towards food, of the distorted perceptions of myself and the need to control my environment. But looking back, I can see with some clarity the pro-active efforts that I'd made to pick myself up when I'd fallen. In the end I was still dragging myself to therapy, committed to sticking to it despite my bad days, putting up the good fight and all that rubbish despite the fact it would be so much easier to give in. Wasn't the small, blossoming desire to self nurture rather than destroy an indicator of steps forward? Maybe.

"I'm staying the night by the way," Naruto's voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter.

"Whatever."

Neither of us spoke for while, listening to the crickets buzz and hum as the evening approached and the skies darkened. My room smelled musty, I noticed, remembering that I failed to open my window.

"So…" Naruto started in a sly tone that I didn't care for, his eyebrows wiggling obscenely.

"…What?"

Warm fingers found their way under my shirt and started stroking my side, slowly, sensually. I wanted to smack the stupid smirk off his face. I think I might.

"Itachi won't be home till late?"

I grabbed the hand sexually assaulting my stomach and threw it back to him. "Yeah right. I need at least two coffees and toast before I can begin to function."

"Spoilsport," The other pouted. The proverbial light bulb flashed over his head as his face suddenly changed. "Don't forget I'm taking you to therapy tomorrow, remind me."

Spoilsport.

Itachi had forecasted his late return home correctly; as late evening approached it was still only Naruto and I in the house. It at least gave me time to prepare us all some dinner.

Luckily two coffees and a slice of toast after getting out of bed I was well and truly able to do something resembling living. I was swift in throwing together a quick and easy vegetable soup to be ready before he came home. The kitchen was immediately filled with the aromatic smells of the various vegetables being boiled alive. It made my stomach grumble in an embarrassingly loud manner.

"So," I began while throwing salt into the bubbling meal. "What was in the other bags?"

I heard a snicker come from beside me as he blonde came up to add a pinch of pepper to the pot. "Handcuffs, blindfolds, whips. You know, the usual."

"Hilarious," I replied tonelessly, giving the mix the obligatory every-ten-minute-stir.

"…I wasn't kidding."

Nerves frayed from the trying day, I nearly dropped the wooden spoon in the boiling pot. Gripping the cooking utensil that little bit tighter I sent a short, irritated glare at the blond dunce in my kitchen. Who said he could help anyway?

"Okay, I was kidding."

I didn't answer.

Cough. "…You know I was kidding right?"

I lowered the heat on the stove and left it to simmer.

"….Bastard?"

"I know," I said, rubbing my face in fatigue. "Just tired."

"Go to bed," he suggested, moving away from the pot to sit on a stool at the bench. I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. I couldn't possibly sleep after the nap of all naps I had taken today.

"Can't. You're not capable of finishing this soup on your own." I sighed as if a great injustice had been bestowed upon me.

"Thanks," Naruto scowled and folded his arms over his chest, acting stubborn as he persisted. "How hard can it be? Stir it every ten minutes for the next half hour then turn the heat off. Easy." He poked out his tongue as if this would prove his culinary worthiness. It didn't.

"You can't even make toast," I scoffed.

"Could too."

I smirked, knowingly. He pouted. "Could not."

I could almost see the cogs turning in his head as his face flushed an angry pink. "I can make it better than you!" he challenged.

"You wish."

The next half hour was spent in what would come to be known as the incident where we wasted an entire loaf of bread trying to out-toast the other. When Itachi had come home he thought it was all dipping bread for the soup.

We didn't correct him.

Thoughts of the earlier day gone, I thanked the higher beings for routine.

By the end of the next day I was well and truly worn out to the point of dropping dead without a care of where and how.

I had barely got up early enough in time for school, kicked Naruto out of bed (literally) and made a mad dash to the institution (while simultaneously trying to study). I only just scraped through my History test (anxiety), stuttered through lunch (fear) and was now sitting in the waiting room at the Konoha East Medical centre (boredom). The day's events didn't particularly put me in the caring and sharing mood – which was unfortunate as I was due for my weekly therapy session.

Tsunade was, as usual, late for the appointment I noticed as 4:12 ticked onto the wall clock. Nevertheless I continue to show up on time, week after week, hoping that some day she might get off her chair and do the same, to no avail. Oh well. Any minute now.

I picked up a thick, glossy magazine from the table. That's exactly what crazy people needed – boring reading material. Before I had resigned myself to flipping through the six month old medical magazine my busty therapist emerged from her office and pointed a finger at me, causing some of the other people in the waiting room to stare.

"Sasuke, you're up."

Throwing down the unopened magazine on the centre table I followed her into her office, sitting down on my usual chair opposite her. She smiled at me, inspecting my appearance as she set her notebook and pen on her lap. Straight into it today it would seem. She probably wanted to go home early.

"So, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"You're looking tired today, Sasuke."

"I'm fine," I dismissed, clearing my throat and buttoning my blazer. While I didn't want to talk about it, I appreciated her honesty. Too many times had I gone to a shrink with bags under my eyes, splotchy skin and with the shakes for them to tell me I looked well this week. I didn't like bullshit and neither did she. That's why I she'd earned at least an inch of my respect.

"How's school?" She asked, eyeing my uniform, putting a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

"It's fine."

"Yeah? Must be hard to give yourself a break in your final year?"

I shrugged. "I guess."

"Alright," she said, shifting in her seat and making herself comfortable for the next 50 minutes. "How's life at home going?"

"It's fine," I repeated. Mundane, mundane, mundane. I didn't mean to be difficult; I just didn't want to get into this today. I wanted to go home, study and pass out in bed in that order.

Tsunade hummed low in her throat and tapped her pen against her cheek, looking at me appraisingly. "Not very talkative today, are we?"

"I'm tired," I dismissed, not realizing that I'd cornered myself until I'd said until I said it. The woman is crafty and is too good at her job.

"Hmm," she smiled. "I can see you're not in the mood for small chat today, Sasuke, so how about we cut to it shall we?"

I hummed my agreement, thinking that forming real words over the next hour might prove to be too much effort. Sitting stationary it set in on how well and truly exhausted I was.

"Great. How's your eating this week?"

I stared at a poster behind her promoting Depression Awareness Week for two years ago, wondering why they decided to use a smiling model. "Good. Bad."

She jotted this down on her notepad, not at all disconcerted by my lack of a substantial answer. "M'kay, why was it bad?" she probed. I wondered vaguely if she got annoyed at having to constantly provoke an elaborative answer from me. On second thought I got thinking that I probably wasn't the only patient she had to prod. I've seen some of the nut jobs that go here and I was the common cold compared to their pneumonia.

I looked down at my hands, suddenly finding my nails interesting. "I purged yesterday."

She remained expressionless; this wasn't anything new for us. "Can I ask why?"

I frowned and tried to think of an answer of why I thought it appropriate to vomit up my food. "Had to."

"Ah. Why's that?"

"I-", I stopped; I clenched my fists as a feeling of fierce shame swam through my stomach. "I gained weight."

Why was it so much easier to tell her that I'd purged than I had gained weight?

A look of understanding washed over face and she smiled sympathetically, setting down her fountain pen. "I see. How did that make you feel?"

"Like shit."

"What was going through your mind?"

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall what exactly I had been thinking to justify my frenzy and exhaled noisily. "That I was disgusting, I'd ruined everything." I'd failed.

We both knew there wasn't any point in her trying to tell me that I still looked thin and I was still underweight and one or two kilograms wouldn't make a difference. We both knew it wasn't about that. We knew that it only had to do with my epic struggle of self-esteem and that weight gain was nothing more than failure on my behalf in my twisted little world. In the eyes of others the weight gain of someone with an eating disorder was a great success. To the sufferer it only served to emphasize how repulsive they were and how no effort would ever be good enough.

"How are you feeling about it now?"

"Better. I'm coping better."

"That's good," she replied, continuing to write my responses down. "So why was it a good week?"

"I realized I don't want to go backwards."

"I see," she murmured, continuing to write at a furious pace. "That's great Sasuke."

"Hmm…" I murmured. Still teetering on the fragility of this new desire I felt an unpleasantly warm nervousness.

"But you're still feeling guilty?"

I sighed. "Yeah…"

"I'll see you next week, Sasuke." She called back, waving. Her receptionist, Shizune, smiled at me from behind her desk as I left the centre. I didn't reciprocate – If I had to display another ounce of emotion I thought I might involuntarily be sick over their plush carpet. I walked out of the centre and into the modest car park, which was mostly empty save for the cars of the staff and the yellow embarrassment that was Naruto's means of transportation. Oh god.

Sauntering over to the beast I peered inside to find Naruto with his feet up on the dash, flipping through some dirty magazine. I knocked on the window abruptly, startling him and indicated for him to unlock the passengers' side. Once he'd allowed me access he put his hand over his heart and gave me a glare as I seated myself inside.

"You scared the shit out of me, Bastard!"

I only smirked as I loosened my school tie. He leaned over and gave a quick kiss to welcome me back from the hellish depths of therapy. He turned his key in the ignition and after his sixth consecutive try the car roared into life and we were off, the building fading into the distance. A noise erupted from the Embarrassment. "What's that beeping?" I asked offhandedly.

"Dunno," he replied, hitting his dashboard trying to make it stop - unsuccessfully. "So, how was it?"

I wound down my window for some fresh air after securing my seat belt. "Meh."

"Just meh?"

"Pretty much."

"Did you tell her about yesterday?"

"Yes mother," I drawled, wishing the subject would go away already, while pulling out a foam cup from beneath me that I hadn't realized I was sitting on. I threw it in the back seat, scrunching up my nose at the smell of sour milk.

"Don't get shitty," the other boy said wearily, pulling up at a traffic light. "I was just asking."

Checking, I corrected silently. The car was noiseless for a few moments (his radio had stopped working two months ago) before we were given the green light and were free to cross the intersection. The engine protested rather loudly to this motion. The truth was that the therapy session was more emotionally draining then it usually should be.

Tsunade had pounced upon my new found inspiration like a lion on a carcass; we'd spent the rest of the hour trying to eradicate guilt and developing safety nets so this desire to go forward would stick like glue. I was as drained as I would be after a workout but it was a good fatigue. Although it frightened me somewhat to be in this unfamiliar headspace, I knew I had to work hard at maintaining it. In these small moments when I felt at least momentarily free of the shackles of my eating disorder I knew it was what I wanted. Maybe not what my eating disorder wanted me to want, but what Sasuke wants.

"…you're not shitty are you?" He asked cautiously, slowing down as we entered suburbia as per the speed limit.

I observed the teen from the corner of my eye and was reminded of how insecure he really was behind what he let on. I knew him well too.

I probably owed him a little bit of mercy – he was driving me home after all. "No. I'm just tired."

I was getting sick of saying that.

"You're always tired," he complained, turning a hard right as we navigated through the streets.

"I know."

"Well stop it."

I didn't even bother to respond to that. "Shut up and I'll make you some Inari-zushi when we get home."

"W-what?! Out of your own free will?" he asked incredulously, before turning concerned and putting his spare hand on my forehead. "You're not sick are you?"

I held up a hand to my mouth and I almost laughed, recalling a similar conversation we had a couple of years ago.

It was than I realized as I remembered this, while I was still far from mental health, how far I'd really come since then.

I elbowed his ribs to stop his mollycoddling.

"No, I'm not sick. Your brain is just broken."

"Huh?... You sure you're not sick?"

Behind my hand, the corners of my mouth twitched upwards. "I'll be fine."

Because really, in the end, I think I hoped I would be.

A/N:This is the final chapter of Orexis. It's very depressing to finish it due to the emotional investment I've put into it, but I think it's crucial to end it here. Sasuke is transitioning. Look out for the sequel, it will be called Peina, and that will be the final component of the Leptos Universe. Aww.

Thank you very much to all my readers and reviewers who've stuck with me, you've made it a pleasure.