The door crashes against the wall and he stumbles in, trying not to inhale. It's clammy in here; the dark green stalls are scarred like old soldiers with graffiti, words like 'Fuck this place' carved underneath scratchy outlines of genitals and puckered anuses. Old grime the janitor surrendered trying to clean accumulated black in corners, fuzzy like mold.

The key with its oversized tag marked BOYS clatters to the grimy tile. Chest heaving, Alfred considers bracing a hand against the wall, settles for bowing and pressing fleshy palms against his knees instead.

He squeezes blue eyes shut, inhales. Exhales. He feels fuller when he does that, probably one of the many reasons Alfred refrains from breathing when he's riding the locomotive of a full-on binge.

His belt is already tight against his belly where it's notched; once he digests it'll be all the worse. He's torn, torn between tearing at his hair and listening to the quiet, matter-of-fact voice telling him he's fucked up once more. Well, naturally. He didn't even try, hadn't even been fucking hungry, but that hadn't been the point: The sweets had been there.

Normally his diet is closely monitored, but he'd crept to a food dispenser inside the building's main lobby, and bought six. Six fucking packets of cookies, candy bars, bags of chips.

He'd tiptoed back to his wing with his ill-gotten gain stashed under his coat. He had not resisted; the pang of despair was expectant as he crushed the contents of his ill-gotten gain into his mouth. Salty nuts, cheesy things that left orange dust on his fingers, choked-down chocolate.

Chocolate once tasted like a sensuous miracle: nourishing, creamy, luxurious, delightful love. A comforting hand over his head, an assurance: Yes, you can eat what your brother does, yes, you are worthy, yes, you are being taken care of. Now the pleasure was dulled; cheapened, it tasted like a means to an end. He invariably wound up tasting it again before it was digested.

Sometimes he wonders if she hates him, really hates him, to announce a mere two days before the holiday that she couldn't come. He knows it wouldn't have been very pleasant in any case; their visiting hours mostly comprise of weak attempts on his part to make her laugh while she sits at the battered tables, grunting monosyllabic responses.

Still, it would've been the thought that mattered, when most of the other 'residents' in this facility are temporarily home, or have loved ones coming in swarms, armed with wrapped gifts.

'But think of the starving kids in Africa,' comes the matter-of-fact voice again. It's Good Cop, patiently doing his job to remind Alfred how lucky he is, and why his skull ought to be smashed open, why his swollen belly should be sliced into pieces, seppuku-style. 'They don't get anything but poverty and AIDS for the holidays. You get a bed and three square meals a day, plus what else you can squeeze down your fat fucking piehole.'

'And she doesn't owe you anything, you fucktard pigfuck whore,' reminds Bad Cop, always happy to be of service. Alfred's already digging in his pocket for his toothbrush. 'No one owes you anything, 'specially not when you hide in a fucking psychiatric institution for months with nothing to show for it. You're a manchild, fucking fat and fucking timid manchild with no life skills. Oh, that's it, cry, dribble snot all over the floor, you fucking piece of shit. The fuck are you crying for, fatty? Didn't get enough sticks of butter?'

'You're going to regret this,' Chides Good Cop. 'Come on. You'd almost made it a full week.' The act has not yet been done, but Good Cop makes it sound like a foregone conclusion. 'If you'd made it to Saturday without wasting so much money and food, you would've made it.'

'You have to,' urges on Bad Cop.

His voice rises to a howl. Never mind that he's going to shatter Alfred into pieces again for obeying his orders. 'You have to, hurry! Get it out! It's killing you, when you get weighed, everyone will see, you're bulging out already—GET IT OUT! FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, YOU WORTHLESS PIG—GET OUT! GET IT OUT!'

Several of the toilets have not been flushed; stomach turning, Alfred ducks inside the least-gruesome stall. There is toilet paper on the floor and in the bowl.

He bows, toothbrush in fist. He used to do this on his knees, but got a tip from Feliks that standing up, bending over helps it all come out so much easier. Thankfully it's been awhile since he's done this, that makes it easier. Alfred obediently puts his toothbrush into his mouth, pauses before the end can touch the back of his throat.

'HURRY UP!'

Alfred tenses, glasses in danger of sliding off his face. He'd been doing so well. He'd taken to eating one meal a day, in the morning. He was growing accustomed, growing skinnier. The hunger was terrible in the evenings, when he clawed at the sheets and the wall and occasionally himself, but when Arthur saw him again, he'd be so impressed. So proud. Alfred's eyes stung.

He had lost weight, first to the approval and then to the slightly-growing concern of the staff. Now he'd gain a pound, maybe two or more. He'd already eaten a lot already today, even before the locomotive barreled off a cliff. And so long as the food was there—fucking, fucking machine—he was going to keep buying and keep horking down.

Yes, it needed to come out. Anytime now. It'd be so easy, and even with the sense of worthlessness that'd invariably come—I really, really wanted to make a week—he could have his hypothetical cake and eat it too. Vow to throw up three times, decide that one of his heaves hadn't been large enough, keep compensating, keep going. Until he was not happy but not unsatisfied, pull back, flush, wash off the acid on his hands and on his face. Still smell like it as he crawled into bed, throat and belly aching, but satiated with the knowledge that he would only gain perhaps half a pound.

Help me.

Help me help myself.

Bloated, Alfred pulls back. He has not yet been sick.

The Cops are stunned into silence before the explosion: Jeering, horror, despairing warnings, and desperation and still-present resignation. Blinking blearily, Alfred endures it quietly before turning, picking up the rusty key, and leaving.

He arrives at the nurse station: Time to make a call. Thankfully he does not need to wait in line, and thankfully the nurse is too busy ogling her computer to pay him much attention.

When Arthur picks up, greets him with a quiet 'Hey, you,' the rush of gratitude in Alfred's head comes in like a flood. The Cops squeal shrilly as they're submerged in the typhoon, like Pharaoh's army caught in the Red Sea.

He chokes out a greeting of his own, and the lump in his throat swells to painful proportions. "I want to—" he starts off, and then can't trust himself to speak anymore, so he doesn't.

I want to eat, I want to eat, I want to eat.

He's full, fit to bursting, probably, but the check engine light going off in his head hasn't said that he's had enough. But more than cheesecakes, or puddings and pancakes and doughnuts and cookies and jellies and all the chocolate in the world—

I want us to be normal. I want us to eat and for it to be as natural as breathing.

I want to see you again.

His knees buckle, and he obediently sinks to the floor, clutching the phone. Arthur is quiet on his line. Alfred can hear him breathing. He scrubs at his eyes.

"You still there?" Arthur asks, gently.

"Yeah."

Sound of breathing. A stupid fucking platitude comes to mind: That rather than a thundering roar, sometimes courage is a quiet voice admitting it made a mistake, and promising to try again.

It's too late, I'll try again LATER, want it out NOW

Arthur clears his throat. He doesn't ask Alfred to elaborate. The sound of turning pages.

"I'm reading a book by Yeats tonight," The voice offers mildly. "'A softness came from the starlight, and filled me to the bone….'"

Arthur reads on, and soon there isn't much else to say. Just the sound of Arthur breathing. Alfred just sits there at the help desk, forehead pressed against the wall. He breathes in quiet and Quiet breathes back into him.

I'm not hungry anymore.

"You still there?" Alfred croaks, an eternity later, a heartbeat in the wire.

"Yes, love."

"Good. Don't hang up."

"I won't if you don't."