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ibetonlosingroys · 4 months

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Hunger

"He’s a little concerned however, that if he keeps on puking up his guts like this, his stomach lining will turn inside out and completely expel itself from his body. So, he thinks of the next best solution. If he doesn’t eat anything, there will be nothing to throw up. Simple."

TW for depiction of disordered eating behavior and thoughts, and for Roman being Roman

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It’s not a disorder, he didn’t go weird, he’s not some teenage girl living off of diet cokes to fit into her prom dress, he’s just sick. He’s not doing it on purpose, he just can’t keep anything down. In the days since his father passed, his stomach has rebelled against any morsel of food he’s put into it. After countless bouts of retching into the toilet, his shaking hands reached for his phone only once before he stopped himself. Who would he call? He can’t call Tabitha, she’s made that very clear, he can’t call Gerri given the fact he fired her a few days ago, and he can’t call his siblings on the assumption that they won’t be much better off than him. He’s a little concerned however, that if he keeps on puking up his guts like this, his stomach lining will turn inside out and completely expel itself from his body. So, he thinks of the next best solution. If he doesn’t eat anything, there will be nothing to throw up. Simple.

Sure, his vision swims when he stands up too fast, he shivers with the slightest breeze, and his mind is trapped in a fog, but he also feels entirely empty, which is not an unpleasant feeling. In fact, Roman even prefers it to the overpowering swell of emotions he had been feeling before, all replaced by a dull ache that somebody different might call hunger. He relishes in the feeling of ice cold water hitting his empty stomach, the chill passing through each of his individual ribs before settling. A rumbling growl follows, almost catching Roman by surprise, it’s not like there’s anything in there to digest. He giggles at his own joke, finding his eyes in the mirror. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he returns to the task at hand, adjusting the perfectly starched collar of his shirt so he can play the role of functioning human man for the next several hours. He appraises his reflection, running his fingers through his hair until he’s satisfied. After a brief pause to ensure his stomach is settled, he makes his way to the waiting car, steeling himself for an evening of rubbing elbows with the country’s most pasty-faced political elite.

Roman floats into the entryway, lacking any real concrete memories of the drive over here. Like two magnets, he finds himself gravitating to Shiv’s side within seconds, feeling relieved to see her despite this party taking place in her and Tom’s home. “Hey Ro, I’m glad you could make it” she brightens minutely, patting his back in greeting and turning away from whatever conversation she had been having with her husband. “Yeah, yeah,” he responds, voice too high, “Thanks for doing this whole,” he gestures vaguely around the room, “you know, tradition and all that, it’s good,” he trails off. Since when did he have trouble finding words to say, around Shiv of all people. “Oh yeah, tradition,” she smiles slyly, “and definitely nothing to do with controlling the narrative of American democracy right until the bitter end.” They laugh and Roman’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Shiv notices. She always does, that bitch.

“Get something to drink?” she asks. “Oh, I’m just gonna have water,” Roman responds automatically. That was the wrong answer. Shiv’s gaze narrows impossibly further before she waves Tom off to fetch Roman a beverage. Wouldn’t want to bother any of the fleet of service staff she hired for that exact purpose. “You okay?” She tries in vain to sound nonchalant. “Well Shibhoan, now that you mention it, there is the slight matter of our father dying,” he takes delight in seeing her flinch, “so I don’t know, that may be putting a little damper on my spirits.” She punches his shoulder with a, “Fuck you.” before continuing. “You look like shit is all,” she shrugs, matter of fact, “Have you been sleeping? Or eating?”

Roman’s head snaps up and he tries to cover it with an eye roll. He sets aside the slight thrill he feels at her having possibly noticed his lack of sustenance. It’s only been three days, could he really look any different? Different enough for Shiv to have that stricken look on her face that Roman can’t stand. “Well we can’t all be eating our feelings. I thought I’d leave that to you.” And just like that, the look is gone, replaced by utter contempt, something that Roman is much more comfortable with. “You’re disgusting,” she spits back. Tom is making his way back over to them and Roman sighs in relief, knowing Shiv will be giving up her halfhearted interrogation. She wouldn’t dare talk about anything real in front of an outsider, especially Tom. He snatches the glass from his hand without so much as a thank you and turns to make his escape. “Well, I’d better go and mingle,” he wiggles his fingers on the last word, already several paces away.

“I hope you feel better soon!” Shiv calls after him, just loud enough to be heard by others around them. He can feel the heat of people’s eyes on him, gluing him to the spot. He can’t let this go on. He laughs dismissively, theatrically gesturing with his water glass. “Yeah I’ll feel amazing once I get my hands on something a little stronger,” he announces before making a beeline for the bar. Feeling the nauseating need to prove a point, and also just the need to have a drink, he orders himself a bourbon and all but slams it back. It burns all the way down, churning his empty stomach and singing him from the inside out. A flush rises to his ears and he steadies himself against the bar, swallowing back the familiar taste of bile. Naturally, he orders another one. And a double after that when he finishes just as quickly.

Roman feels amazing. The best he’s felt since Dad died. It’s like he’s a helium balloon, weightless, floating above the party. Everyone looks so small from up here, he can’t believe he ever paid any of them any mind. He could get used to this feeling. His thoughts are like grains of sand falling through a sieve. Nothing sticks, and so nothing can hurt him. And then, she’s there. All it takes is a glimpse of her blonde hair, a whiff of her perfume, and he’s crashing back down to Earth. “Gerri.”

“Roman,” she replies, not making eye contact. She places her empty martini glass on the bar, signaling for another. “Listen,” he begins before he’s cut off by a single tilt of her head. “We’re not talking about that,” she declares, cold as ice. Roman wasn’t even sure what he was preparing to say, words sinking into the muck of his brain before they can make their way out of his mouth. He sips his drink obediently, savoring the sting as it goes down, and Gerri takes her first glance at him. Her eyes linger a moment, traveling down and then up before settling on his face. “Your sister was asking about you.” She turns away to thank the bartender and Roman lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Bitch,” he murmurs. “I told her that was none of my concern,” she continues, before allowing her gaze to soften, “But is there any reason, you know… for my concern?” And it’s the closest thing they’ve had to a real conversation in months. Which is maybe why Roman finds himself being a bit more honest than he planned to be when he says. “I’m just sick is all, a little bug, no big deal. Unless you want to feed me soup and tuck me into bed,” he shrugs. “Oh yeah. Sure,” she agrees and Roman feels himself relax. So much so that he almost doesn’t notice when his stomach erupts with a ferocious growl, drawing Gerri’s gaze sharply back to him. “Wanna get something to eat?” she asks. “Bleh. Shiv put you up to this?” Roman pushes back from the bar, blinking away the floaters in his eyes. “You know, actually, this is what’s wrong with this country!” he shouts, gesturing around at the patriotic themed nibbles being carried around on trays, “This obsession with food and junk, no wonder everyone here weighs five hundred pounds and gets hosed off on the front porch to shower.” His words are getting garbled now. Roman catches the eye of a waiter with a tray full of sliders and signals him over, plucking the horrifically tacky American flag toothpick out of the center before shoving the majority of one into his mouth with a single bite.

It’s hot and greasy, the juices of the patty sliding down his throat and settling into his stomach like acid. It’s disgusting, it’s grotesque, it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. Gooey cheese hits his tongue with the sting of caramelized onion and the sweet tang of a pickle. Roman’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. Mouth stuffed with macerated bread and meat, he turns his attention back to Gerri. “Happy?” he asks. She regards him with a mixture of disgust, contempt, and is that pity? She steps towards him and his face heats up as she pats him on the shoulder. “Hang in there,” she says before walking away.

Shame settles in his stomach like a rock, and he shoves the remainder of the slider down his throat to chase the feeling. He regrets it in an instant as an all too familiar churning sensation starts in his gut. Fiddling with a cocktail napkin, Roman throws back the last of his drink, trying to claw his way back to that weightless floaty feeling from before. All he feels now though is that burger in his stomach and the way that two measly bites of food have rooted him to the spot. He swears it’s growing in there. Spouting tendrils and twisting around his organs, expanding until there’s no room left. He’s clammy, sweat breaking out on his forehead and his fingers and toes start to tingle, feeling like TV static. Roman has endured enough public humiliation tonight and decides that whatever kind of freak out he’s about to have needs to happen in the privacy of his home.

He slams his now empty glass unceremoniously back on the bar and hustles towards the door, hoping to make his escape undetected. This hope is quickly dashed however as he collides into the chest of his older brother. “Hey bro!” Kendall says, far too cheery, holding Roman at arm’s length. “I was looking for you during my toast.” Roman feels his fingers dig vice-like into his upper arms. “Hey,” his voice changes, softens, “You’re looking like, really pale, are you okay?” And oh my god if one more person asks him that tonight, Roman thinks he might actually explode into a million pieces. “I’m fucking fine,” he snaps. “Just not feeling well, I’m heading out actually.” He pats him on the back, meaning it to be reassuring, but his trembling hand only launches Kendall further into his savior complex of the moment. “Are you on something right now man?”

“Fuck off,” Roman replies, swatting his hand away, “If you’re trying to score, you’re gonna have to ask someone else. I’m out of here.” His vision tunnels, all that matters right now is getting to the elevator door in front of him. Once inside with the doors closed, he grips onto the handrail, breathing shakily and attempting to compose himself, laughing and shaking his head at what a sorry sight he must be right now. The elevator dings and he staggers down the hallway, out the door, and into the backseat of a car he doesn’t remember calling. He recognizes the back of his usual driver’s head though, and so he knows he will understand what to do when he says, “Bag,” and thrusts his hand out urgently. He grips onto the plastic like it’s a lifeline, and with his next breath he is forcefully retching into the open bag below him. “Home Mr. Roy?” his driver asks quietly, and instead of retorting with where the fuck else do you think he’d want to go while he’s puking his guts out, all he manages is a shaky thumbs up. He feels the car roar to life and groans weakly as his body folds over, coughing and spitting, all the substance within his stomach already evacuated, nothing but hot, stringy bile spilling into the bag clutched in his hand. He slumps back against the leather seats, exhausted, and decides that as of right now, Roman Roy and solid foods are not on speaking terms.

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