Author's Note: AU. Arthur/Alfred, Ivan/Alfred, Ivan/Arthur. PG-13 rated threesome, I guess you could say. Perhaps 'love triangle' works better.

Detailed anorexia and bulimia. At least two parts, so don't get your panties in a twist. T for now, but rating may go up (I truly hope you're all not that sensitive about language).

NOTICE: I've reuploaded to fix some blaring grammar issues and what not. Just FYI.

A single McDonald's Big Mac: five hundred and ninety calories (over half of which are fat). Eleven grams of saturated fats, forty-seven grams of carbohydrates. Disaccharides, polysaccharides, complex lipids and a few stray amino acids to make up the twenty-four grams of sad proteins. Few, if any, healthy fatty acids. Almost half his daily value of sodium rides in this one grotesque hamburger, alone and pungent; the only other minerals are flecks calcium and iron. All of that not counting the large fries, large Coca-Cola, and the added dressings.

Within a standard Dairy Queen Blizzard (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough variety) lie over six-hundred calories and sixty-eight percent of his daily saturated fat value. There are one hundred and two grams of carbohydrates (even more monosaccharides and carbon chains and edges of hydrogen) and two hundred and thirty calories of fat, plain and simple. Sure, there are three hundred and twenty milligrams of calcium; sure, there is less than one milligram of Vitamin C.

This is a daily occurrence, a combination of the aforementioned. Ice creams, sodas, candies, breads (oh lord toast is a life line when he doesn't even have time to stop at Wendy's or Burger King). Milk he'll drink if it's chocolate; yogurt is just . . . just––does pudding count as yogurt? Or maybe that rainbow kids' yogurt with that crazy rabbit on the carton.

Starbucks. Starbucks doesn't count as a food, it's just a morning thing––a wake-up drink that gets him going, and those calories are separate, right? Because an iced vanilla latte is just one-hundred and fifty calories (if he gets a Tall, which usually doesn't happen. Who drinks something that small anyway?) and it just runs right through him, streamlines.Coffee's just coffee. Nothing to worry about.

Maybe those McMuffins count for something. Three hundred calories or something, with seventy-eight percent of his daily cholesterol. And––and the saturated fats . . . oh god there's twenty-five percent . . .

But that's all okay. Every week (or so) he gets on the treadmill or goes and lifts weights in his gym, and every Tuesday he eats a (few) servings of Cheerios. Life is good. He's thin, he's happy, and sometimes he can breathe when there isn't all that shit in his lungs and his heart doesn't hurt.

And so he weighs himself.

One hundred and sixty-five pounds. He checks his body mass index, compares his weight in stones, kilograms, and pounds, and finds that yes, he is completely at a healthy weight. But––but he's so, so, unattractive. He can feel the fat in his fingers as he clutches the underside of his forearms. The sides of his ribs, the backs of his knees, his assoh good god. He wants flat. Really, out of everything, not to be a hero, not to solve global climate change, all he wants is flat.

"No, sorry Arthur, I really can't take 'em. It's just, my hands are full and––" Alfred shifts his briefcase from hand to hand and juggles the over-sized (stainless steel) water bottle about. They walk along the busy streets surrounding on of the office buildings their firm uses.

"Oh, well then, uhm, I suppose I'll just let them off to Matthew," Arthur replies.

"––it's not that I don't like them, jeez, you know I love your food, I'm just in a rush and yeah." A lame finish for a lame reason. "I'll call you sometime, no worries." And then he's off.

Arthur stands outside the government building, his foreign relations tag still dangling from the lapel of his pressed jacket. He looks after Alfred, dumping unopened containers of office-supplied foods into the waste bin at the corner. Doughnuts, coffee, a bagel, half of a turkey sandwich . . .

Alone, thin, blond, and on the street corner, that Arthur Kirkland. One of the luckiest bastards of the bunch: he doesn't have to try.

It has been five weeks since even a glance at a fast food establishment. No more chocolates, no more bread. No more burned and charred scones from Arthur, no more late-night bar hops with Juan or Andrés. At Matthew's birthday he didn't touch a single dish; he almost cried when he denied himself the huge cake that was customary for his own celebration.

Five weeks and he barely ate. It was amazing how much of his diet was bread and sugar and just clumps of fat fat fat. Not good enough.

What was that cereal that made people lose weight? Who the hell knew, but he ate it religiously. Measure the flakes, minimal milk, no coffee, no eggs, no bread, no butter, no eating until two-thirty in the afternoon. Then a sad little excuse of a granola bar from that same cereal brand. Two hours at the gym every single day(what was that, like, seventy hours of sweat and running shoes?).

Still, he didn't eat celery or lettuce. That shit's disgusting.

Wake up, count calories, eat as little as possible, and then work off all that cellulite. "If I can grab it, it means there's too much," he says. "I hate my back, it's just, ugh, gross. Fat fat fat."

Five weeks, thirty pounds. But that's not enough.

Now, Ivan is a completely different story. He's tall, and that alone gives him license to weigh more. But it's not like he's actually weighing more, no no no, he's just––oh god. If he could be that muscular . . . Alfred doesn't know what he would do with himself. Probably eat something, or––

They all sit together in some ritzy restaurant (it's some foreign name he can't quite place; he's dizzy beyond belief right now) sipping wines or clearer alcohols and making small talk with business partners and other foreign relations ambassadors and secretaries. There are baskets of bread and platters of cheeses (who does that?) and the glasses are bumping into one another.

Arthur sits on his right, Ivan to his left and oh god this is horrible and wonderful all at once because Alfred has this tendency to lean to the left. But, well, he's not that good looking yet (he can still grab so much skin and god knows what on his shoulder blades) and he doesn't want to––

"Alfred," comes Arthur's lilting accent. "Alfred, you look like shite." He turns slightly in his chair and crosses his ankles. "I'm serious, do you need something to drink or . . . ?"

"No, really, I'm okay, would you just stop––" he stops briefly to catch his breath "––Please?" He rubs his hands together under the table and he feels the thin waxiness. He's been working hard lately, cutting out his extra granola bars and replacing it with glasses of lemon water.

There is a last disparaging look between the two of them (more Arthur than Alfred, but the thoughts are still shared) before they both break apart. Plates clink against cutlery, and a lewd comment is made somewhere down the line of chairs that is vile enough for Arthur to bristle and shoot a piece of bread (with far to much stealth) down the table and into an unguarded wine glass.

Alfred looks mournfully at the plates of food that come to the table in a rush, all waiters and aprons and menus folded neatly under arms. He can't imagine the sheer amount of calories and monomers and fatty acids that are chaining up to make all the pasta and sauces and whatever else is lying on those plates. Carbs, starches, and just sugar. Fat under his skin.

And so in a fit of reluctance (and perhaps wisdom, he's not so sure) Alfred orders the most basic salad available and juggles the lettuce about his plate. Disgusting.

Alfred can feel Arthur's green eyes prodding at his brain in his peripheral. In revolt he turns away and with more vigor tosses about the spinach and feta cheese on his plate. If that's a dish of pesto Arthur is trying to scoot towards him he'll stab that man with his fork.

But he doesn't want to make a scene because Ivan is right there. And looking at him. And . . . his salad suddenly became very interesting with all those types of lettuces (butter lettuce he'd be willing to try, after all, butter . . .) being skewered by this dessert fork.

He feels a light touch on his elbow (he makes the Ls under the table to reaffirm) and looks up to his left, eyes moving from eyes to nose, back to eyes, and then settling on full eyebrows. "Ah, you are . . . well, Alfred?" Accent. Yes yes yes. "Do you not usually eat dinner meals?"

No, because they have just strings of sugars and lipids and they just store energy that–– "Oh, well, yeah, I'm fine, uhm, Ivan. Yeah. I ate before I came. It's all good."

Ivan looks confused, be it from his English skills or Alfred's strict evasion of directly answering anything. Ivan quirks an eyebrow at him and sips from his glass. "Very well."

Arthur shoots Alfred another look. He finally catches Alfred and holds his gaze hostage, grabbing his knee under the table. He leans in and whispers in his ear with his accent thick like molasses: "You're using the wrong fork, love."

They're kissing again. Short, sweet kisses that make Alfred's fingers tingle and stomach flip. Arthur's mouth always tastes like green tea and ginger mints and it's so nice to be able to taste an actually appeasing flavor with exactly no calories. No threads of starches, no addition to the tiny layer of fat on his stomach. It's a truly beautiful thing.

He's leaning against the kitchen counter, Arthur snug against him, with foreheads touching and fingers zippered up. Hmm, days like this.

Behind them (being hopefully crushed by the pockets of Alfred's jeans) is Alfred's list of calories and foods he's cut from his diet entirely. It's growing faster than the grass in his heavily watered front yard.

"Hey," Arthur nuzzles into his neck, and Alfred's head bows and follows. "I miss you," he says. "Sometimes I wonder where you go, and––you're so different now." He puts a few kisses on Alfred's shoulder. The skin feels clammy and rough. His mouth keeps moving over his neck and collar, giving butterfly kisses to every inch he can find.

"Hmmm . . ." Alfred can only give a choppy exhale and let go of Arthur's fingers to grab onto his waist more clumsily than he intended. "Yeah. Too long." The world is getting grey around the edges. Arthur lifts up his head and kisses the corner of his mouth. Chapped lips meet a lightly glossed mouth (just to moisturize, not to be flashy) once, twice, thrice, four times in a row before breaking apart.

Alfred can feel Arthur's eyelashes on his neck. He opens his mouth to comment––

A loud gastric interruption.

––and closes it on the line of Alfred's jaw. There's a sigh through his nose. "Bloody––Do you need me to make you anything?" Irritation crawls into his voice.

"Oh, no, jeez Arthur," Alfred cuts him off with a watered down squeeze to the waist. "I––I'm fine. I don't need you to burn all my food and try to force-feed it to me." He's shaking as he tries to fend Arthur off, cracking his façade with ease.

"Bollocks." But he does nothing to act on it. Instead, he leans up and kisses him shyly twice more. Arthur kneads into Alfred's stomach, the minimal cushion of fat and skin giving ever-so-slightly as the massage dips into a clothed navel. Alfred makes a groan and a purr, loving the feeling but regretting the state of his stomach.

Arthur pats his belly. "Been going to that dreadful fast-food place again, haven't you." It's not a question, nor is it a passing comment. Observation, statement. He checks his wristwatch and tuts at himself.

Alfred pretends to not be bothered by the implication. "Duty calls?"

"I'm afraid so." Arthur is reluctant (once he gets into his more loving mood he has a hard time getting out of it again) and they share an Eskimo kiss; Alfred's knees and stomach go weak and tremble. "Eat. Something." And so he grabs his coat and leaves.

As soon as the door clicks and he hears Arthur's town car drive off he fishes the list out of his back pocket and writes down a hasty 'ginger snaps and breath mints.' He doesn't bother with putting down tea because, well, only Arthur would drink tea.

The paper is yellowing, and his graphite lines are smudging, but the general idea remains. No food, no weight gain. He pulls up his shirt and grabs at his stomach, feeling for elastic skin and ounces of fat. He feels up his ribs, his chest, grabs the skin beneath his chin, pulls it out, back and forth. Then, he reaches behind and onto his shoulder blades. The grasps and cringes. There is a full grip of flesh in his shaking fingers.

He ducks around his kitchen, opening pantry doors, removing all the contents onto the counter in messy piles that are half constructed, half thrown over. Containers of salt, bags of flour, cereals, a bag of broccoli, a head of cabbage, three apples, a small stack of canned tuna . . .

There is a four pack of what he thought was apple juice. It stands there with a corner missing, looking like the tall version of that juice little kids drink impulsively. Juicy something, right? It's behind a stack of Tupperware filled of leftovers Arthur forced upon him, coupled with a saran-wrapped stack of pancakes Matthew left him three or four days ago. He picks up the box and flips it about (almost dropping it once or twice) looking for the nutritional value box.

Instead he finds happy little quotes that he can't quite read (damn his glasses for walking off like that!) and a handy splurge on the front: 13% Alcohol. Pinot Grigio in a box. Wine to go. A juice box for adults (Oh, Francis would die). Best save that for later, after all, who would throw something that cool out? Nevermind how he got it.

After most of the food in his house has been brought to stand at attention, he steps back into the threshold and simply stares at his handy work. He segregates each stretch of counter space into sides of 'emergencies' and 'refuse.' By the time he is done he has little more than peaches, saltines, fig jam, and protein bars left in his 'emergencies' store.

A note is uncovered as the waves of food are parted. Small, elegant cursive on a bright yellow post-it note: Happy belated birthday. XOXO. Arthur, oh god, Arthur. The note is stuck on top of one of his heavy-duty (or so Alfred calls it; it's really just sturdier than the off brand he buys) containers with the thick, black rubber lid. He opens it (Oh, Arthur why do you do this?) to find neat cubes of Turkish Delight, made with dates, figs, nuts and sugar. And are those rosewater ones as well? That man.

They're probably the most beautiful thing he's set eyes on in a while but damn.Ninety-five calories per cube (which, mind you is one serving), with twenty-seven calories of fat nestled inside. Alfred is shaking but no no no, he can't eat those. His cells scream out for some sort of nourishment (they need those fats to make cell walls, to send bio-chemical messages; you're killing us!) but he refuses. He closes the lid and all but throws the container into his fridge, underneath the stacks of low-calorie yogurt.

For a moment his head spins and he forgets where he is. White walls, piles of food . . . oh, right, kitchen. The cabinets are sorted, the pantry gutted, and soon enough everything will be back on track and he'll be gorgeous. He pats his stomach.

His entire body gurgles as he looks for old grocery bags and boxes (perhaps even the milk crate he has strapped to his bike) to pile the other food into. Each batch is labeled accordingly: Seventh Street Church, Stone Soup Kitchen, The American Red Cross, Three Bridges Homeless Center. Alfred isn't wasteful (far from it, really!) he just doesn't want anymore. There are mounds of bags and containers being colour-coded and labeled and his heart just aches as he moves them into the back of his compact SUV. After the first three trips he has to take a break, catch his breath, check his pulse just to make sure he won't keel over from lifting so much foodstuffs.

The digital clock on his microwave beeps at him upon the fall of the noon hour. A bunch of radishes shift in the plastic dish they are soaking in, and they make the kitchen smell like dirt and old, crushed leaves. For the first time in nearly two months, Alfred eats something before his two-thirty mealtime, and it almost burns as it goes down.

"Matt, I just––oh god, Matt, I don't know what to do."

"Hey, uhm, just calm down Alfred, you're okay, you're okay."

"No. I'm not okay. I've done everything right and it just won't go away.It's all still here and––" there is a choked back sob, a sort of warbling sound that sounds more like a deep, throaty bird call than a grown man crying. The cell phone reception (albeit nearly pristine) does not transfer the sheer weight of the emotion very well. Electro-magnetic waves are very poor conductors.

Alfred shudders a breath. "He still says it. Almost every time, and, and it just kills me," he sighs. "I don't . . ."

Matthew stays quite on his end, twisting in his chair all the way across the country, to try and gather his thoughts. "Al, you . . . you haven't even told me what's wrong, y'know?" A pall. "I, uhm, I don't know what to say."

Although Matthew's voice is quiet, it still has enough substance to make Alfred feel something. "I––I can't tell you. Sorry." Abrupt, but it needs to be said.

Matthew is equally as blunt: "Then I can't help you, Alfred."

"Don't say that, Mattie, don't you say that," he's desperate and breathless now. "We're brothers, right? I mean, you gotta at least talk to me, right?"

"Yes, of course, of course we're brothers, Alfred," his voice is a bit louder now. "I'll talk to you all you want, whenever you want, I'll––" He cuts himself off. "Do you need me to come down there?"

A few heartbeats pass over Alfred's mind. And then: "No. You don't need to. In fact, I'm fine. Really, I'm okay. Everything is fine now, I figured it out." Alfred's voice is still weak, but he's figured out what he's done. He almost spilled everything. Two and a half months of work and he almost dumped it down the drain. "Haha! Ha, ah, yeah. I'm fine, just, yeah. Don't worry." A half-hearted laugh and the most translucent excuse he's ever come up with.

"Uhm, o-okay. Are you sure?" Matthew, he can tell, doesn't believe a word of the shit he's saying. "Because I can––"

"No worries, little bro. Everything is so good down here, I just, I just-it was a horror movie, y'know? Got me spooked and actin' all funny." On his side, Alfred forces himself to smile at the full-body mirror he stands before.

"If you say so, I guess. . ." He's wary (but who can blame him? That one-eighty was the most obvious cover up in the history of––) but Alfred doesn't say anything to challenge it.

"Whew, yeah. Just a little shaken up." But Alfred is more than just shaken up, he's sin warmed over. Gritty, ugly skin, huge circles on his eyes, his fingernails are absolute shit. (Oh, how right you are Arthur. Absolute shite.) He lifts his left arm over his head and watches his skin slide over his abdominal muscles and ribs.

He cradles the phone between a bony jaw and a tense shoulder. "Sorry to bother you, Mattie." The twins simultaneously push their glasses up their noses, unbeknownst to the other.

"Oh, no, it's all right Alfred . . ." Alfred hears him clear his throat. "I just wish you'd actually talk to me for once." Before Alfred can voice his guilt, Matthew hangs up.

"Yeah, me too." He drops the phone onto the bed and stares holes into his own forehead via the mirror before him.

The protrusions of his ribs and breastbone are almost inhumane. They pierce outward like jetting off cliffs, casting small shadows over the rest of his once-tan skin. The figure Alfred has accomplished now is nothing short of that of a small woman's. Sure, the purple veins on his wrist are popping out, but that's nothing a watch or long-sleeved shirt can't handle. This is about beauty and love and everything else Alfred has wanted.

Seventy days of starvation, and he's never felt better.

But back to Ivan now. He's still that tall, (ivory) muscular, foreign man with hair so blond it almost looks white. And then it curls ever-so-slightly around his ears and down his neck and––(he really shouldn't be staring that much, but damn, he he's just drawn to him) well, Arthur knows and he doesn't actually mind. Yes yes yes, oh Arthur.

And he knows that Ivan watches him too, out of the corner of those eyes. During those foreign relations meetings and when they trade notes and papers and essays and what the hell do they really do?But, job title aside, Ivan seems to be picking up on Alfred as well, and, well, that could be good or bad. . .

"Alfred, you are . . . smaller, yes?" Hmm, words like that. There are little snippets of Russian accents floating around on Ivan's tongue. The two of them are standing in the park just outside the office building, overlooking small dogs on leashes get into petty fights with Dalmatians, Dobermans, a Finnish Spitz. . .

Ivan is drinking something out of a thermos now that the October autumn weather is catching up to the eastern seaboard. It smells so unbearably good (beets and cabbage, right?) and Alfred listens as it sloshes around that russet thermos. Ivan shuffles from foot to foot, cinching his trench coat about himself. Alfred buries his light-headed teetering inside his leather flight jacket (that he stole from Matthew after their father passed away).

"Oh, uhm, yeah? You think so?" There is no hiding the joy in Alfred's voice. "I didn't really notice myself."

"Ah, yes. I do believe you have gotten less fat." He makes eye contact and nods his head in the affirmative.

"Oh. Uhm, yeah, I guess you could say that." He repeats what he said before, too caught up with the rush in his organs. Dejection comes fast and hard, knocking down Alfred's sense of pride and accomplishment. There is no loss in translation here.

Ivan seems to catch this. "Yes. But . . . you are being more . . . attractive?" Ivan's smile is somewhat crooked and brutally honest. "I'm afraid my English is still not very good."

Upon hearing praise of his (secretive) hard work, Alfred brightens and flashes a chemically whitened smile. "You're not so bad yourself." There, the playing field is now even.

The beets and cabbage floating in the mug ripple with the hum from Ivan's lips. Alfred can feel his knees starting to give way as he watches Ivan drink down his (what is that, exactly?) meal. Through his jacket he grabs at his waist, feeling for the skin and rolls of fat he just knows is there (it has to be, right?). His face shifts into a discouraged frown.

"You are hungry?" Ivan notices the look on his face and the slouch in his posture.

Alfred doesn't make eye contact. "No, I'm fine. I'm just cold is all."

"I think you're lying to me," Ivan smiles again, eyes closed and crows feet wrinkling out of his skin.

Instead of his stomach feeling that numbing hurt (it's not that bad once he gets used to it) it's a sinking feeling directly beneath his solar plexus; the definition of the bone seems to add to the intensity of the reaction.

Before he knows it, the graham cracker he ate at eleven that morning comes riding up on a wave of bile. Alfred doubles over and empties his (rapidly shrinking) stomach onto the half-frozen and leaf-covered ground. Yellow, brown, and little chunks splatter around his dress shoes.

Temporarily he loses his sight and equilibrium (and there it is, the falling falling falling) and lurches forward onto his knees. Alfred hears Ivan's jacket rustle and then hands are on his spine and the nape of his neck. He coughs more, flecking out phlegm and bile, and then his stomach is empty.

"Oh––" a cough, "––oh god, I'm sorry," he clears his throat and spits, "I'm so sorry about this." Alfred's glasses are carefully removed as a cool hand wipes along his face.

"You are alright?" Ivan's accent his kind and quiet, and (oh jeez, Alfred would jump him right now if he wasn't so dizzy and disgusting) he's rubbing little circles on his back. He pockets Alfred's glasses in the long drapes of his coat.

"I––I'm fine. Just hotter than hell and my mouth tastes like the inside of a skunk."

There is a cold mouth on his grimy forehead and Alfred instantly stills. The lips pull away. "You are quite funny; much more entertaining than I anticipated." A fine Russian simper graces Ivan's face and, although somewhat out of place, Alfred finds it so goddamn amazing.

Two weeks later (and seven more food items added to the falling-apart yellow list) Alfred finds himself in Ivan's D.C. apartment, leaning across the breakfast bar (how much money does this man make, anyway?), intimately engaged in a full lip-lock. The nutritional information for a medium sized beet was on the screen of the iPhone between them (affectionately named Kennedy), but forgotten almost immediately.

Alfred shivers as Ivan holds onto his neck. He had missed his two-thirty meal (half of a breakfast bar these days; only seventy-five calories as opposed to the full one-hundred and fifty) and the cramps wracking his body feel completely internal and grasping at every single inch of his intestine. They share an Eskimo kiss (oh god they're even better with Ivan) before said intestine garbles in anger and protest, Ivan breaks away.

"I will make you something," and there, right there, is another Russian smile.

Alfred excuses himself into the living area and sinks into the black leather couch. He grabs at the back of his knees and pinches the skin compulsively. Still, he feels the fat (skin, just loose skin, in reality) and how it sticks to his skin and muscles, and everything.

He looks over his shoulder and watches Ivan cut something (red? something purple?) and tastes the guilt wash back up his throat. He can't eat anything, no no no, not anything, because then everything would be moot and fuck.He grasps under his jaw and tugs.

For twenty minutes he twists at his chin and neck and arms and––and––and just ugh. (This would end him, he was so sure.) His legs twitch and his feet shuffle about in their socks on the hard wood floors (Are those black walnut? With madrone accents? Damn.)

Maybe he should slip out his sixty-calorie yogurt and take a hit to steady himself out. Besides, it's just yogurt. And it isn't even that old rainbow shit any more; this is Greek yogurt (the stuff that actually tastes like pure protein) and so perhaps, on the off-chance, it would hold his stomach for later . . .

Ivan seems to phase out of the blurs of Alfred's peripheral vision, holding two soup mugs (one white with black hand-painted vegetables, the other painted with the inverse) and his scarf tossed over his shoulders. "This is borscht. Slightly different, ah, Americanized, I guess you could say. But still, this is what we eat back home."

Ah, so this is what was in that thermos those weeks ago. Alfred almost can't resist the smell of the soup as Ivan begins to modestly eat his own serving, nibbling on a piece of quartered beet. It's so tempting but, shit, sour cream. And sour cream has all those calories (at fat, mind you, lipids lipids lipids.) and lord, that would end him. No. No more fat.

Politely, he takes the mug between his hands and skewers a piece of cabbage. He eats half of the minuscule leaf that sticks to his fork and sets the rest back into the mug. Ivan's watching him again and he feels hotter than usual (maybe it's because he's eating something, oh jesus this cabbage is delicious). He pushes the food about his mug, sipping the broth every few minutes (fluids run through him like greased lightening, and if need be, he'll just throw it up later.) and after a while, he sets the mug down completely.

"Do you . . . ah, not like it?" Ivan puts on hurt eyes (those must be a ruse) as he hears the mug hit the end table.

"Oh, no, I love it actually. I'm just not hungry right now. I ate before I came." Alfred smiles again, but more faked than before.

"Hmm, I see." Ivan sets down his own mug of almost-gone borscht, and leans over towards Alfred's side of the loveseat. No more words are exchanged as Ivan grasps Alfred's waist (so small, so . . . empty) and twists and lifts and sits Alfred upon his own lap.

"You are––lighter than I expected," Ivan's voice is amused and light, close to Alfred's ear. He kisses him again, along his jaw and finally on his mouth. "And you taste like cabbage." He hides a laugh under his breath and then against Alfred's neck. His hands are traveling down down down until they come to rest: one on the curve of his ass, the other on his inner thigh and they both squeeze––

"But at least you are not all skin and bones." And right there the moment dies for Alfred. He shies away and scoots down the length of the loveseat, trying to make the meager two feet seem like more of a distance. Ivan catches himself. "I apologize; did I say something . . . incorrect?"

"You think I'm fat, don't you." The tone of voice Alfred uses is so soft and fragile that Ivan almost can't hear him. He is still holding his thigh in one hand and his face in the other. "Oh god, you do. You do." Almost accusatory.

"Pardon?"

"Gimmie a few days, I'll lose a few pounds and––" Alfred stands up and gathers his coat. "God damn it. I'll be thinner." The world around him goes burgundy and brown, murky and grainy around the edges; damn it all, he stood up too fast. He covers the loss of balance (for that one millisecond) with an attempt to move his slip-on shoes with his heel.

Now Ivan's understanding is completely misplaced. "Thank you for the food, and the, the, everything else. That part was . . ." amazing, like always.Alfred looks at him with wet and gummy eyes, trying to hide the bags on his face with the wire frames of his glasses. He combs his hair with his fingers.

"I'll see you next week." He tosses on his jacket, toes on his shoes, and doesn't look back as he walks out of the apartment.

Five minutes after Alfred gets back to his own abode he marches to the bathroom, jams a finger down his throat, and forces himself to vomit every last ounce of the nothing he ate that day.

Even though it's a syrup (of one-fourteenth of the actual root, and then almost entirely sugar syrup, but that's neither here nor there), there are no calories in ipecac. At least, none that will stay in his gut. It was difficult to get the prescription, but Alfred managed to quasi-cough up a lung frequently enough to gain pity from his doctor.

Now, sitting in his bathroom (two days after the horrible comments in Ivan's apartment) he reads the label and takes into consideration the heart damage he could be getting. But, that's if you abuse ipecac, and Alfred F. Jones does not abuse prescription medication. No, this is a one-time thing. Of course, of course.

The chains of alkaloids do their job as Alfred's gag reflex spasms and he doubles over from the taste, the smell, the chemical reactions in his trigger zone. He empties his stomach (mainly water, phlegm, and gross yellow bile) over and over into the toilet. His legs hurt from being ground into the tiled floor, grout lines impressing into the thin skin of his knees. His hands are cramping from grasping onto the toilet lid.

Good lord does he reek. The induced vomiting smells worse then when Arthur's hung over from too much dry gin. The smell makes him gag again, and he dry-heaves. Alfred's body is screaming at him; lungs constricting, throat burning, eyes watering and blinking all too fast.

The third round brings more water and bile up from the depths of his bowel. He misses the toilet and hits half of his bathtub and most of his floor. The smell is enough to make him nearly black out. Alfred falls forward, grip slipping off the toilet and into his own sick. Vomit meets his elbows.

But, this is what he wants, he thinks. Get thin fast, right? Right. And then Arthur and Ivan will love him regardless, and he'll be beautiful and flat and everything will be so good.

This time instead of some over-priced restaurant, they all meet in some high-class bar, low lights making Alfred's already shaky and completely shot vision even worse. He hopes he hasn't given himself night-blindness.

Arthur sees him tottering and takes his arm (discreetly, of course. Strictly business here) and leads him to a booth adjacent to the bar. The thick and polished wood of the table has phallic imagery like no other carved into it (Or Sapphic, depending on how you turn your head), and Alfred finds himself running his fingers over the etched lines and initials.

"I want you to stop being an oik and talk to me," Arthur says. His hands find Alfred's. Alfred's large, calloused fingers feel dry and . . . and used. "And don't try to bullshit me, Alfred Jones, or so help me I––"

"Arthur," he stops him. He tries to squeeze Arthur's small, dainty, lovely, little fingers, but can't seem to manage. "I'm okay. Really." He leans forward and presses a (dry, weak) kiss to Arthur's forehead, and slinks back into the leather booth seat.

The smaller gives a disbelieving stare, cocking his head to the right in a gesture of thought. Arthur chews his bottom lip and leans back in his seat. "If you say so."

Over at the bar Ivan sits with a short glass and an unlabeled bottle of (assumed) vodka. He's sipping and staring at Alfred and Arthur in their booth without any inhibition or shame. Every movement and kiss and brief touch he sees, and takes it into memory.

Alfred catches his eye and keeps it there. He leans forward once more and kisses the edge of Arthur's mouth, all while staring at Ivan's indigo eyes. If Arthur notices then he doesn't care. Hmm, people like this.

Before Arthur or Ivan can act on Alfred's whimsy, Alfred shifts back. One of his bouts of vertigo come back and he's temporarily off-kilter. Blinking a few times, and steadies his head with his hands. Frankly, Alfred is somewhat tired of not seeing things without their full luster, and he grinds his teeth in irritation. He feels like he's vibrating with all the shallow spasms his body is producing (cell walls breaking down, muscles clenching, pupils dilating) and oh god he can't see anything and––

A hand lands on his shoulder. There are two on his face, cupping his cheeks, and a third and fourth on his neck and shoulder. He's cold and his mouth tastes like bile and sandpaper and his skin (at least between his palms, where he can feel it) is like gravel and ice and old dead chickens. But his fingers are thinner, and that's what really matters.

The hands on his cheeks move, rubbing small circles with fingertips behind his ears. Little thumbs (small, cute, nimble thumbs) rub under his eyes (there are huge, deep, inky bags there; don't touch those . . .) and brush away the sleeping dust from his eyelashes. Slowly his vision comes back but even after a few minutes remains blurry. Glasses. Those. He needs them.

He tries to grab around for them on the floor (linoleum?) but only encounters loose hairs and a pant leg that's home to a very muscular limb. Hmm. The leg shifts closer towards him, pushing into his palm.

"Alfred," comes the call. He looks up, shapes still blurry, and sees the distinct eye brows of one Arthur Kirkland and the almost overbearing profile of one Ivan Braginsky. "Alfred, come on now lad."

His glasses are placed into his shaking hands but then removed again as Alfred's coordination is still lacking. He blinks a few times, and looks around at Arthur's worried face and Ivan's slight frown. Arthur's hands leave his face and grasp around his wrist.

"Alfred." Arthur's voice is stern. "What are you doing to yourself?" His fingers are around Alfred's wrist, thumb connecting with pinky. Alfred tries to squirm away, but Ivan, watching silently, holds him about the waist pins him against his chest.

"Hey––hey now, lemme go. I haven't done anything!" His mind is still foggy and he can't quite––

"Alfred, listen to me," Arthur has taken on his mother hen tone, and is tutting down at him. "You aren't in any trouble . . .oh you poor sod." They bus foreheads and Arthur cradles Alfred's head once again. He presses kisses to his face, corners of his mouth, his eyelids, holding the thin and pale neck in his delicate hands.

A wave of tranquility and relaxation washes over Alfred's taxed body. He leans back into Ivan's chest as Arthur follows, peppering kisses and endearments and apologies. When Arthur's mouth finally meets Alfred's (pity, passion? What sort of emotion is he tasting?) he sighs through his nose and lets his trembling take over.

Ivan takes the weight of the two other men with ease, leaning back only to accommodate Arthur's (untimely, goodness me) advances. "Arthur, Artie, c'mon, lay off for a sec––" and Alfred begins to push him away. "I'm okay, there's nothing wrong." He's nestled himself quite nicely in Ivan's lap (despite the twitching and shifting) and seems to be making no plans on moving. Ivan (whom is sporting a lovely hum of vodka and an attractive man pressing against him) tightens his grip and spreads his legs ever-so-slightly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine . . . oh shit," Alfred breaks the reverie and lurches forward, crawling over to a toilet (oh thank god above a bathroom, they're in a bathroom!) and vomits up the sips of alcohol he stole from Arthur's gin and tonic. Then, in a second bout, the remnants of a miniature sweet pepper stuffed with guacamole. He leans against the toilet and pinches the skin on his upper arm.

The row of knuckles that face Arthur and Ivan are gruesome and distracting. They look chopped, mangled, shredded and burned down. Skin is peeling and red with irritation. Lines of what could be scrapes flow down the digits, square and flat, but it's hard to tell at this angle and this distance . . .

After a few moments of awkward silence and Alfred's heaving, they speak. "Hey, Ivan," Alfred looks up from the porcelain bowl (eyes bloodshot and skin breaking). "D'you . . . d'you think I look better now?" He's breathless and searching and compulsively wiping his dry nose.

Arthur sends a look at Ivan, whom replies with a weak: "Ah, yes? I do not believe I ever said you looked, uhm, undesirable." He pauses for a moment. "Is that the correct word, undesirable?"

"Yes." Arthur, terse.

"But, you said I wasn't––and, and, you squeezed my ass, and I worked so hard to get rid of it and-and I still like that? Was it not enough?" Alfred, defending himself like a hormonal teenager.

"I believe there was a misgiving; I meant no such thing . . ." Ivan, confused and guilty and ultimately trying to understand what's going on with a vodka and arousal-ridden brain.

"Alfred, are you sick?" Arthur stands up now. He's brushing the dirt and pubic hairs off of his slacks and checking his shoes for a blemish in the polish. (Based on that look he's wearing he's losing interest or something of the sort.)

Alfred looks up from the toilet once more, slightly taken aback. "Who, me? Sick? Well, no––er, yeah?" He pauses. "Yeah, I think I caught some stomach bug. That shit's been working around––" here he must break to even his breathing "––ah, the office lately." As soon as he's finished he leans forward and chucks a small amount of god knows what into the toilet and hacks.

The two on the far end of the lavatory share uncertain looks. Ivan stays silent. "Well then, I suppose we best get you home." Arthur takes the reins, but still suspicious as ever. Ivan nods in agreement and gets to his feet.

Now, Alfred's wrist, although small for a man of five feet and nine inches, is easily dwarfed by the monstrous hands of Ivan, whom stands at five feet eleven inches. The balance is thrown when Arthur (the same height as Alfred even though he's often mistaken for smaller; the reason is unknown the world) can easily wrap his entire hand about the protruding wrist bone. A human holding onto a skeleton.

And when Arthur encounters little challenge pulling Alfred to his feet, little red flags spring up everywhere. Alfred receives a whispered ultimatum: "We will talk later." And that's the end of that exchange.

The trio walk (or stumble, if you're as weak as Alfred or as easily swayed after a single gin and tonic as Arthur) out into the parking lot. Alfred suggests they take Ivan's car (a monster of a thing, really. Thank god above it runs on biodiesel) in as calm a tone he can muster.

"Because mine's too small for Bigfoot here," he gestures towards Ivan, "and yeah. Yours is just backwards." This time a gesture to Arthur.

"It's European, you dolt."

"And you're drunk." Ah, touché, even if it is a lie.

The ride back to Alfred's dwelling is a quiet one: Ivan completely attentive to the road; Arthur muttering under his breath (probably about Alfred, but more likely about fairies; that man is so gay); and Alfred trying to contain a small anxious seizure, a condensed panic attack about the state of his house and if the food he has yet to deliver will keep overnight. Oh god they're going to see everything, or the lack of everything. They're going to find out and then no one will love him and he should just die, shouldn't he?

He thinks he blacked out for a minute (or ten, who knows) because he comes to in the den of his own house. It's a little ranch-style with two bedrooms, one-and-a-half bath, and an over-sized kitchen that is wasting away. Arthur looks around, Ivan looks off into the distance (or his bookshelf, Alfred can't quite discern it) and Alfred takes note of how uncomfortable this damn davenport is.

"There's nothing here, Alfred." Oh no, it seems Arthur's stumbled upon his hollowed pantry. "Do you need a personal shopper or something? This is . . .it's tragic."

He comes waltzing out of the kitchen with a bag of grapes and a half-full pot of coffee. (He did decide that coffee was a no, but then he realized that black coffee had zero calories and well, push comes to shove and look! His very own Home Barista!) "You don't even have those crisps you eat all the damn time." Arthur is either angry or tired, and Alfred can't quite tell.

"I'll check for some Tums or something for your stomach." And Arthur beelines for the bathroom.

Wait wait wait! "Hey, you know what? I feel better! Haha, guess it was a one time thing, huh?" Alfred's throwing his voice at Arthur, trying to reel him back into the living room and away from that den of ipecac and pseudoephedrine. "No need to worry––hey, Arthur? Arthur!" Alfred hits his fever pitch and tries to stand up, chase after Arthur, get him away from there, but another load of blood rushes to his head and knocks him back.

Ivan takes two long strides and captures Alfred, tugging him down onto himself and pinning his arms to his sides. "Nyet. Stay here." His voice drops an octave (two, three? What's that music scale . . .) and sounds quite threatening. Perhaps Alfred should release his bladder to get away; fake incontinence and avoid confrontation altogether.

He wriggles and swears under his breath, feels his phone dig into his bony back, tries to claw Ivan's fingers away (oh god any minute now and Arthur will find everything. Is time slowing down?) but there's no strength in him anymore. He's dead now. Dead and weak but oh so lovely and flat.

He blinks at the near-empty bottle of ipecac that is shoved before his nose. Briefly his myopic gets the best of him (even with his new glasses, damnation!) and it's just a brownish blur. "Oh, shit."

"Sick? Ha! Bollocks!" Arthur's green eyes are red from something. "Trying to kill yourself?" Arthur sets the bottle down against the counter with a bit too much gusto. The cracking boom that comes from the glass against the wood makes Alfred jump and Ivan's arms constrict more. This man has become a giant, strangling snake, ready to devour Alfred's dignity at a moment's notice.

Everything falls on Arthur's head and shoulders and it makes him crack, bend under the weight. He slowly sits down beside Ivan and Alfred, holding his head in his hands and rocking on the balls of his feet. "What are you doing?"

Before Alfred can analyze what he's saying it comes up and out like bile: "I'm not fat anymore, am I?"

Alfred feels Ivan's iron grip shift and clutch around him more. Possession. (Oh no, Ivan, oh god, don't think like that; that's not what was meant! Please pretend to not understand.) He feels his trapper duck down and press the bridge of his nose to the top of Alfred's trapezius.

This is where Alfred expects the insults. The brash verbiage and short temper that is all too familiar with the Englishman, one Arthur Kirkland. He readies himself for the verbal abuse and the mockery, the fat jokes and examples of his stupidity.

They do not come.

There is quiet. Quiet so calming and alarming (and altogether unaccounted for) that Alfred flinches from the sudden onset. Arthur is sitting stock-still and looking at his own hands. He does not blink, he does not seem to even breathe. He just sits and waits.

Alfred's throat burns from expelling so much bile, and his teeth feel fuzzy and rigid. He needs a glass of water. He needs his tooth brush and bulk-sized tube of toothpaste. He runs his tongue along his teeth and stops fighting Ivan's caging embrace. He leans back, sighs, and stares at the ceiling.

Even Ivan (whose nose is being painfully bent up at the end from all of Alfred's feeble shifting) remains still, his breathing somewhat pronounced as the airway is somewhat complicated by Alfred's shoulder. He drums his fingers on Alfred's painfully tight stomach and closes his eyes.

Collectively, there is little memory or reference to that night six days ago. Alfred does not remember much (he was so tired), Arthur has played his stubbornness card, and Ivan has gone taciturn in all aspects of his life.

Forcefully, Arthur and Ivan (now on excellent terms it seems; Alfred swears he's seen them kiss on the cheek at least) have moved in with Alfred, and keep a constant watch and record of his eating and drinking habits. It's comfortable to have them so near and so caring that at times Alfred eats an entire peach instead of just a half or a third.

He's suspended from work (twenty dollars on Ivan somehow intimidating their head of staff into some outrageous agreement) and does nothing other than sit in his living room watching work out videos or his collection of Disney videos on his religiously maintained VCR.

Today, Ivan sits with him and tries to get him to eat a slice of Russian black bread. "Come now, dorogoĭ, only a bite. Then I will stop insisting upon you." Hah, the broken English really gets down deep into Alfred's heart.

"Shh, Esmerelda is escaping from the cathedral." Alfred is attentively watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame and wringing his hands. Attempt one: avoided.

So Ivan changes his approach. "Hmm, if you say so," and he takes a hearty bite of the bread and licks his lips. A flock of crumbs falls down his scarf and onto his lap, and come to rest just hairs from the crack of the cushions. He leans towards Alfred's shoulder, and brings one bear-sized hand to the meet of their knees.

Alfred shifts his gaze from the wall-mounted flat screen television and lazily watches Ivan's advance. "I'm not eating it," he says.

"Hmm, oh, what? Ah, of course not. I do not expect you to."

"Sure, sure," is half-hearted and slow.

As soon as his companion's attention is back on the movie, Ivan makes his next migration. A hand on the waist, then . . . ah, there's the other (not very original and so Alfred doesn't pay much mind). Then he securely clamps down on the taught waist (it really shouldn't be that small, tsk tsk) and three, two, one, tugs and pins Alfred to Ivan's side of the davenport. Attempt two: ensnared completely.

The black bread is back in Ivan's right hand, taken up from the side table where it was posted on stand-by. Ivan smirks down at him, indigo eyes flashing as they crinkle and bring his full eyebrows together. He takes a bite of the slice (rather large, breaking if off so that a notable edge hangs out over his lips) and brings it forward to Alfred's mouth.

Well, shit. Attempt three: oh damn you Ivan . . . caught red handed.

Alfred's stomach betrays his three months of fasting and cramps and screams at him. (He swears he can smell the cocoa and the coffee in the dough.) There are three hundred and twenty calories in one serving! Even though only nine of them are fat but still. Carbs are carbs are carbs are fat. Or rather, sixty-seven grams of carbohydrates are fat. This is much too risky. His face is reluctant, and he looks away to Phoebus being struck by Frollo's men. (And there it is, the betrayal!) He leans forward and-

"The next time that disgusting Bonnefoy makes any sort of comment about the pages in our building I swear to god that I'll personally remove his scrotum with his letter opener!" Ah ha! The great entrance by Arthur; that man never fails to be a cockblock.

But this doesn't faze Ivan whom leans forward and parts Alfred's lips with the rough and crumbling edge of the bread. Crumbs fall down onto Alfred's hooded sweatshirt.

Upon the invasion of the bread Alfred opens his mouth and lets it in, tasting the strong flavor and the hidden vinegar taste. He tastes it and cheeks it. (Oh, nice try mister Braginsky.)

And upon the falling of the crumbs, on the other hand, Arthur's cleanliness senses seem to ignite his very blood and the man speedwalks (never runs nor rushes, which doesn't particularly make sense) into the sitting room. He spies the back of Alfred's head (the one hair still won't go down, god damn it) and Ivan's snow-white hands grabbing his neck. Then he spots the bread in between them, and well . . .

. . .he stands and watches, making no noise. (Alfred would call him perverted, Francis would call him a hero of l'amour, and Ivan would call him a distraction.) If Alfred notices him (Ivan surely does) he doesn't rightly care and oh, they're eating bread! Tricky bastard that Braginsky. Just look at that stratagem.

There is only so much bread Alfred can cheek, and eventually he swallows what's in his mouth. He feels horrible thinking off all those calories of sugar and starch and god what is he doing?He swallows it all down and looks Ivan in the eye. He gives him a kicked puppy look and feels like crying (Ivan tricked him! How could he? He thought . . .) but blinks it away.

More crumbs fall and he pushes Ivan away. Alfred turns and catches Arthur standing there in the doorway, doing nothing about what just happened (this breach of trust!). And so, Alfred transfers his puppy eyes onto Arthur at full force.

The effect is immediate. Arthur takes small (proper) steps and comes to rest at Alfred's other side. Arthur's formidable eyebrows tilt upwards as he appraises Alfred's angular face. He takes it into his hands (like he always does and, oh, does Alfred love that) and makes complete eye contact.

"You're okay," he says. Arthur looks over Alfred's shoulder at Ivan, whose own visage has fallen into guilt. Oh, this poor man. Reduced to a skeleton with the mind of a child; what went wrong? "You're okay." The statement goes for Alfred and Ivan, he supposes.

"Yeah?" Alfred sounds hopeful. He perks up into Arthur's palms and cracks a small, chapped smile.

"Of course, of course," he continues. "You ate something. That's a good thing, a wonderful thing, love." His own smile is full of slightly crowded teeth (ah, such a stereotype, it's sort of endearing) but completely honest. "And don't even argue with me." He adds.

More than likely it's the British accent that gets Alfred to calm down almost immediately. In fact, that was the only way Alfred would let Ivan dump the ipecac down the drain and buy groceries: Arthur's buoyant speech.

Alfred's distemper is calmed and he lets his afflicted muscles spasm and then release. Hmm, days like this. Ivan (hope renewed) gathers Alfred up once more, albeit more friendly (and with no ulterior motives) and snuggles him. Snuggles! Oh, has Alfred been reduced to a horribly skinny body pillow?

But, the movie is over now (the gargoyle gay for Jolly the goat is the best, really) and Ivan, being the strong and silent type, is quietly inviting him into his chest, and Arthur, well, Arthur has that look again . . .

His stomach pains go forgotten.

Arthur's in one of those moods again (his libido is almost as active as Francis', even though he'd be caught dead before admitting it) and makes up his mind to climb atop Alfred and Ivan. The material of his slacks and suit jacket chafe awkwardly against Alfred's jeans and skin. But, who really cares right now? No one does. He kisses Alfred sweetly on the mouth and clutches the fleece of the sweatshirt (poor chap, he only wears them to hide his body).

The two smaller men engage with no hesitation essentially directly on top of Ivan's lap, slowly pushing him to lean back into the davenport to make way for Arthur's lithe legs. Well now, this is familiar. Arthur on top, Alfred in the middle, and Ivan acting as the backrest. But, not this day! Ivan will be more than a soft landing for Arthur to abuse.

After all, he is the caring one, the cradling one, the one that coddles Alfred and comforts him, and and and (oh, would you look at that alliteration? Communist goes right along with it, but that was a different place, different time . . .) he's the one that deserves to be kissed. Ivan was the one to pour away the ipecac; Ivan was the one to buy the food and make the bread and the borscht and the juice; Ivan was the one to rub his spine as Alfred emptied his stomach or refused to eat. Ivan was the one to get Alfred's leave and feed Alfred bread, and now he wants his reward.

For once his extremely Russian facial features prove an advantage in social and intimate situations. He nuzzles his face along Alfred's jaw and lifts up to breathe into his ear. The shiver he gets makes his eyes light up as even Arthur makes notice of the movement. Once, twice over he exhales long and soft into the canals of Alfred's ear and feels him squirm. (How nice! But if only he wasn't so . . . sharp. This ass is rather uncomfortable.) Ivan lifts his mouth and kisses the jaw line underneath Alfred's ear as Arthur heads that way as well. Well this was something he could work with, perhaps.

Arthur and Ivan meet almost in secret on Alfred's jaw line, touching tongues for half a second. The two of them feel a shock and pull away. Alfred (feeling neglected and unattractive once again) tilts his head towards the two (the proximity makes it somewhat difficult) and observes the new development. He clears his throat and, whoops! Arthur flushes and Ivan rolls his eyes. It's a sort of half-assed apology (don't be so selfish, please.) before Ivan takes his mouth and Arthur kneads his stomach.

"You look much better," Arthur whispers. He shucks off his jacket and pulls of his tie before reattaching to Alfred's (not as starved) stomach.

"Hmm . . ." is all Alfred can manage from his occupation with Ivan's lips tilting his head away.

Well, look at that! A nice long neck just waiting for Arthur. Initiative! He'll take it. He leans forward, hands still on those stomach muscles, and puts open-mouth kisses all along the carotid.

Ivan's hands move away from Alfred's waist and crawl down to Alfred's inner-thighs. Alfred lets out a sound (a low pitched squeak if anything) that edges him on, and so he squeezes––