#to be fair it's half empty so I ate half the total calories

[nekofantasia]

Girl dinner: a party size bag of dorits

[toastingtotheghosts]

Detox Just to Retox

guess who basically just wrote a whole oneshot instead of doing his homework

characters: josh dun-centric, tyler joseph, brendon urie, ryan ross, all of fob

trigger warnings: anorexia, EDNOS, kind of descriptive binging scene

word count: 1375

summary:

Josh was the last one to arrive. Tyler jumped up once he saw Josh and ran to hug him. Burying his face in Josh’s neck, Tyler mumbled out, “you’re the best to hug. So squishy and soft and snuggly.”

Josh forced out a chuckle, but Tyler could feel him flinch. “Alright, lovebirds, break it up. We’ve got some soccer moms to terrify!” Brendan called, clapping Josh on the shoulder. Josh stepped away from Tyler and gave Brendan a light shove.

or, Josh spirals downwards and no one knows.

It was April. It was a beautiful spring day, the warm and breezy cliche everyone secretly enjoyed. It was a beautiful, happy day, but Josh’s finger was hovering over his phone’s keyboard. Pressing down, searching this - he would enter a whole new level of fucked-upedness. Was he ready for that? Josh swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn’t know why he making such a big deal about this - he was being healthy. Obviously.

Seven letters typed in. One warning ignored. A total of eight taps on his phone. Eight taps had unknowingly plunged Josh further into the depths of battle, a war that he would fight from the inside out for the rest of his life - if it wasn’t cut short by that very fight.

It was April, a few days later when Josh went to go hang out with some friends. They had all been stressed out because of school and needed to decompress, so they decided to meet up at the mall.

Josh was the last one to arrive. stupid, stupid, late, they’re going to be so mad at you. Tyler jumped up once he saw Josh and ran to hug him. Burying his face in Josh’s neck, Tyler mumbled out, “you’re the best to hug. So squishy and soft and snuggly.”

Josh forced out a chuckle, but Tyler could feel him flinch. “Alright, lovebirds, break it up. We’ve got some soccer moms to terrify!” Brendan called, clapping Josh on the shoulder. Josh stepped away from Tyler and gave Brendan a light shove.

“Says you - I’m pretty sure you and Ryan have fucked in at least half of the dressing rooms in this place.”

Brendan nodded and Ryan blushed a violent red. “Fair.”

The group’s banter continued as they meandered through the mall, but Josh couldn't get into it. His mind was replaying Tyler’s comment over and over in his head. Was he honestly that fat? Did his chub just sort of make him a fleshy body pillow?

Josh broke his intense eye contact with the floor tiles to find Andy staring at him with a quizzical expression. Taking a few steps closer to Josh, Andy mouthed a quick ‘you okay?’ Josh forced a smile and waved a hand dismissively. ‘All good,’ he mouthed. Andy’s expression didn’t quite relax, but he didn’t push it further as he continued to joke around with Joe.

Josh managed to quiet his head and fell back into the groove of playful teasing and conversation. It was all fun, goofing around in Hot Topic - “My face will be on a shirt in here someday. I know it.” Brendan had yelled. - and running up the down escalators. It was all fun until they decided to grab lunch at the food court.

don’t eat, don’t eat, don’t do it you pig

Josh ate three tacos from the mall Taco Bell and hated himself more with every bite.

It was April and Josh made another sideblog on tumblr and made a sick vow to himself that he would never get called ‘squishy’ again.

It was May and the bags under Josh’s eyes grew, as did the sizes of his clothes. More and more insecure by the day, Josh was trading in his tight leather jackets and form fitting skinny jeans for baggy flannels and looser jeans than he had worn since seventh grade. No one noticed.

It was May and Josh was hungry, so fucking hungry. He was swinging back and forth from empty, perfect, good job, you’re doing so well, perfect and food food foodfoodeateat n ow you need food this is dumb forget it foodeat. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew that it wasn’t healthy, he was doing so well by being healthy, this would just be another step back. His unheathy eating was the problem, he can’t go back to being unhealthy. He couldn’t go back but he was going downstairs and opning the pantry and grabbing a fistful of the chocolate his mom always liked to snack on and some of the snack bags of chips that usually get brought to school by him and his siblings. He brought the load of food up to his room and went back down to grab three slices of cold pizza - leftovers - and a bottle of coke goodgood diet at least it’s diet .

He brought everything up to his room and started eating nonono why are you doing this you fuck up disgusting fat worthless . He started with the pizza, thinking nothing but 285, 285, 285 on repeat. He finished and moved on to the rest, hating himself more with every single bite.

It was who knows how many minutes later when he was done. He felt disgusting, and his stomach was killing him. Fuck, he couldn’t believe himself, how could he have done that? disgusting fat worthless can’t you see how much you fucked up? He could feel every once of fat clinging to him, sticking to every limb. He hated himself. He vowed never to do that again.

It was June and Josh had binged twice more, and when he wasn’t binging, he was starving. He had also started keeping a food journal - track every calories, writing down ways to avoid eating, ways to keep himself motivated.

It may have looked sick, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t sick, he was healthyhealthy being healthy and being good.

It was July and Josh had been doing well, so well, but not good enough. He had gone from 158 to 137 which was an okay start, Josh knew, but not nearly enough. His goal was 120, and he knew it technically wasn’t the healthiest, but he didn’t even care. He just wanted to get this disgusting fat off him.

It was August and Josh ran on his dad’s treadmill until his legs felt like jelly and he could hardly stand and then he did a random “ana workout” he saw on tumblr but he wasn’t anorexic, if anything, he had a problem with eating too much.

He binged once that month.

It was September and the glory of “back to school.” This time, he and his friends were sophomores. Everyone met up in the gym before the homeroom bell on the first day.

“What’s up motherfuckers!” Brendon yelled out, striding to the bleachers where everyone was sitting. A few nearby freshmen all but gaped at him. Ryan was trailing behind him, chuckling.

“Don’t scare the freshies, Bren. Maybe save the f-bombs for the second day?”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “I swore like a regular sailer when I was their age. They’ll deal with it.” He scanned the group already there - Tyler, Josh, Patrick, and Andy. “Ten bucks says Pete and Joe will be late.”

“No one’s gonna take you up on the bet because we all know it’s true,” Andy pointed out. Tyler and Patrick nodded in agreement. Josh was too busy googling the calories in the new brand of gum he had bought that morning to pay attention.

shouldn’t have bought that, dummy, it probably has dozens of calories in a single stick. You idiot, can’t you see you’re just a pile of lard? It’s a wonder any of them don’t hate being seen with you in public

Tyler nudges his shoulder and Josh looked up. “Yeah?”

“You good, man?” Tyler asked, eyebrows furrowing. “We’ve tried to get your attention but you haven’t responded at all.”

fuck. “Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second. Didn’t get much sleep last night, y’know?” At least that part was true.

“First day jitters?”

“Basically.” if first day jitters meant hunching naked over a toilet bowl, puking your guts out, and crying, then sure. Their conversation was interrupted as Pete came barreling through the gym doors.

“Bow down, my royal subjects. It is I, Lord of the Cafeteria Rolls, back for yet another year.” He dramatically bowed as some of the other people in their grade clapped and hooted. Joe came in right after Pete, rolling his eyes. Both of the boys made their way over to the group. It would certainly be an interesting year, that was for sure.

It was September and Tyler hugged Josh one day and frowned. “You’re so boney now, not as cozy,” he whined.

Josh smiled.

[nadjaofstatenisland]

Fred Andrews never gets sick. Especially not during basketball tryouts. Especially not when his folks are out of town.

or

FP Jones spends his afternoon trying to get a delirious Fred Andrews home and tucked into bed.

My late, late, late birthday gift to @fredheads! 

ao3, ff.net, or under the cut

“Tuna salad again, Mary?” Hermione pulled a face as she chewed the straw sticking out of her diet cola. “Fish and mayo aren’t a well balanced meal.”

Mary paused with her sandwich halfway to her lips. “So says the girl having Twinkies and soda for lunch?” She took a large bite.

“I’ll have you know diet soda is fat free and Twinkies are empty calories. I’m cheating the system.”

“Oh.” Mary swallowed her food. “You know what’s not what empty calories means, right?”

“It means you’re the one feasting on fish and mayo and I’m the one who cares about what they put into their body.”

“I will have you know my mom goes really light on the mayo, so it’s basically -”

“Basically gross is what it is.” Hermione nodded to the boy next to her. “Look at poor Fred. You’re about to make him barf.”

FP looked up from his school lunch - Friday was chicken nuggets and fries - and glanced at Fred sitting across from him. He was poking at a fruit cup with a spork but didn’t seem interesting in actually picking up anything. There was some ketchup on the corner of his tray, but FP counted and there were still eight nuggets there. FP nudged him under the table with the tip of his boot until Fred looked up.

“You okay?” he asked, popping another fry in his mouth. Fred’s eyes were hooded, his face paler than normal. He stared at FP for a few seconds before realizing he’d been asked a question.

“Yeah man. I’m peachy.” He picked up the fruit cup and forced the corners of his mouth up. “Absolutely peachy.”

“I don’t know, Fred.” Mary slowly chewed on her sandwich. “Pardon my French, but you kind of look like shit.”

“Geez, Mary. That’s not very nice.” Hiram plopped down in the chair next to Hermione. “That’s what Fred’s face always looks like.” He dropped a brown paper bag on the table in front of him and smiled. “No need to rub it in.”

FP placed his foot over Fred’s under the table, but Fred pulled his foot away and went right back to staring at his untouched lunch. FP almost reached across the table to grab his hand, but thought better of it.

“The only thing you need to pardon is talking with food in your mouth,” Hermione said to Mary. “How unbecoming. You’re hanging around that slob too much. And you,” Hermione turned on Hiram and waved a finger in his face, “don’t you dare tease Fred today. He’s on edge.”

“On edge?” FP and Hiram asked at the same time.

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her diet cola. “Obviously. Basketball tryouts are this afternoon.”

“Basketball?” Hiram scoffed. “I thought you played baseball. You can’t play two sports.”

“Well they don’t interfere with each other, so why can’t he?” Hermione reached out blindly and clapped Fred on the back. “If Fred’s able to play both, why not?”

Hiram straightened his back. “You know, I’ve been known to dribble a ball once or twice in my life. Maybe I should try out too.”

“Oh, but you can’t.” FP smiled down at Hiram. “Because basketball season and wrestling season are at the same time. Better luck next year, Lodge.”

“I’m not saying I’d accept the position,” Hiram said quickly. “But I could try out. Prove I could do it. It could be fun. Plus,” he turned his attention to Hermione and shot a smile at her, “I always thought it was so unfair that cheerleaders only cheer for football and basketball. Wrestlers need love too.”

“Come on now, Hiram.” Hermione pinched his cheek lightly. “You know one-on-one sports don’t have cheerleaders. How silly would that be?”

Mary poked FP’s side as he wiped the last bit of ketchup up with a chicken nugget. She jutted her chin towards Fred, who had now pushed his whole tray several inches away from himself, giving up his sad attempt to pretend to eat. With a side glance at the rest of the table, FP reached out and touched Fred’s hand. Fred jumped in his seat, startling Hermione next to him.

“Fred, what are you -”

“Here, FP.” Fred shoved his tray further away from himself. “I can’t eat another bite.”

FP pursed his lips. “Doesn’t look like you ate anything to begin with.”

Fred’s heavy eyes met his for an instant before looking back to his lap. “I had a big breakfast.”

“Here, Fred.” Mary extended a tupperware container with the other half of her sandwich. “You love my mom’s tuna salad.”

“Tomatoes,” Fred muttered under his breath. He leaned his elbows on the table and placed his face in his hands.

Mary groaned. “You can take the tomatoes off, Fred.”

“They leave yucky stuff behind.” He rubbed his eyes. “Residue.”

“Oh my god. Well you need to eat something.”

“I still have a Twinkie,” Hermione offered. “Or, Hiram what’d you bring?” She turned her body around. “Brown paper bag? What 5th grader did you steal that from?”

Hiram flipped the bag around. Hal’s name was written with a blue marker on the outside. “I didn’t steal - I traded. Sometimes I like to see what the average all-American teen brings to lunch.” He pulled out a plastic wrapped sandwich. “Baloney and cheese. Wow, Mrs. Cooper really went all out, huh?” He extended it to Fred, but Fred shook his head. “Suit yourself.” Hiram started unwrapping the sandwich.  

Fred carefully cleared his throat and spoke. “I’m fine guys, really. I just didn’t sleep great.” He nudged his tray closer to FP. “I told you you can have it.”

“You forget your lunch again today or something?” Mary asked, picking up the second half of her sandwich. FP glanced quickly at Fred before grabbing a nugget and scooping up a generous amount of ketchup. Couldn’t let it all go to waste. “Your mom is going to kill you if you keep doing that.”

He shook his head. “Nah, my parents are out of town for a few days. Dad’s doing some treatments in Centerville, so they’re staying there.”

Mary slowed her chewing. “So where did you have this big breakfast, huh?”

Fred’s mouth fell slack. Before he could mutter a word, Hermione slapped her hand over his forehead.

“Jesus, Freddy.” She turned her hand the other way and felt it again. “You’re burning up.” She slid her left hand to his upper back and felt both of his cheeks too. “You have a fever.”

“I do not have a fever.” He tried to pull away from her, but she had a tight grip on the back of his t-shirt. “I feel fine. Can’t a guy just not be hungry for once?”

“You should go to the nurse,” Hiram said through a mouthful of bologna. He swallowed quickly at Hermione’s disgusted face. “You could be contagious or something. Too bad though.” He started looking back through Hal’s lunch and pulled out a chocolate pudding cup. “Guess you won’t make the basketball team this year. Stick to your spring sports.”

“I’ll miss nothing.” Fred laboriously took a deep breath and tried to stand up. Hermione tugged him down before he got an inch off his seat. He sent a glare her way. “I told you, I’m fine.” With another deep breath, he pushed his chair back and stood up, finally making Hermione let go. “I’m heading to the library.”

“Why?” Hiram stirred his pudding with a plastic spork. “Did you finally learn how to read?”

“Listen here.” Fred waved his finger at Hiram, but quickly lost his balance and grabbed his discarded chair for support. “I - I - ” He closed both of his eyes. “I don’t remember what I was saying.”

FP crammed the last of Fred’s chicken nuggets in his mouth as he stood up. “Hiram was saying you can’t read.”

Fred’s eyes popped opened. He waved his right index finger over Hermione’s head at Hiram. “Of course I can read. I’m not the one who got kicked out of prep school for being too dumb.”

Hiram paused with a spoonful of pudding halfway to his mouth. “My GPA is way higher than yours. I left private school because -”

“Who cares?” Mary asked. She wiped her mouth on a napkin and gestured for FP to walk around the table to get behind Fred. “Lets just bring Fred to the nurse before he passes out.”

“I’m not going to the nurse, Mare!” Fred wiped his forehead with his sleeve and FP could see the sweat mark seeping into the flannel. “I’m fine. Totally fine.” He straightened his back but still held onto his chair for dear life. “Like I said, I’m going to the library. I have study hall next period and I’ll just take a nap there and I’ll be fine. I don’t have a fever, I’m not sick. I’m just tired, okay? I don’t sleep great when my parents aren’t home and that’s that.”

Hermione looked up from the brown paper lunch bag she was peeking into. “Gee Fred. Why didn’t you just say something?” She shoved the bag back in Hiram’s direction. “Hal really did you dirty. He traded lunches with you, but took his mom’s cookies out? That’s not a fair trade.” She turned back to Fred. “Why don’t we have a little sleepover at your place if your folks are away?”

Hiram dropped his empty pudding cup on the table. “Sleepover? You’d really sleep over Fred’s when -”

“Not a typical sleepover, Hiram.” She rolled her eyes in his direction but smiled brightly at Fred and FP. FP stood closely behind Fred, ready to grab him in case he toppled over. “Like a, I don’t know.” Her eyes lit up. “I don’t want to say a party, but -”

“No, Minnie.” Mary slammed her bottle of apple juice down, causing a few drops to spill over the edge onto the table. “You can see he’s sick. You’re not using Fred’s illness as -”

“Illness?” Hiram rolled his eyes. “God, you girls are so dramatic. All three of you. You two,” he pointed one hand to Hermione and another to Mary, “acting like Fred is on his deathbed. And that one,” he pointed to Fred, “acting like this tiny, little cold is the plague.”

“I don’t have a tiny, little cold,” Fred grumpled.

“Nope,” Mary said. “You have a big, fat cold.”

“Or the flu!” Hermione tried.

Fred was starting to lose his posture again and was slowly seeping down over his chair. “I just need a nap is all. Is that so much to ask?”

“Relax bud.” FP put his hand on Fred’s back and could feel the heat radiating through his two layers. “Christ, Fred. You’re sweating up a storm. Take one of your shirts off at least.”

“Geez, FP.” Hermione smirked over her shoulder. “Save that for private time, please.”

FP ran his hand up to Fred’s shoulders, trying to ignore the dampness of his clothes. Fred tried shrugging him off, but FP kept his hands firm.

“How about we go to the nurse at least, huh?” he whispered in Fred’s ear. The light smell of sweat was coming off of him. “We don’t have to tell anyone where we’re going.”

From his side, he could see Fred purse his lips, but nod. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he said softly. He shrugged again and FP finally let his hands off. “Let me just grab my bag.”

Fred took a step forward and leaned down to grab his bookbag. The other three were still talking about the sleepover.

“What if he’s contagious?”

“Then we play nursemaid and bring him back to health.”

“I am not sleeping at the house of some plebeian -”

“Well no one invited you,Hiram.”

“Hey, FP.”

FP turned his attention away from the bickering group. “Yeah, Freddy?”

“Carry this for me, will you?” Fred held his bookbag out towards FP. “It’s heavy.”

“Yeah, okay.” He reached out for the bag just as Fred dropped it. FP caught it by a strap before it hit the ground. “What are you talking about? This doesn’t weigh a - hey!” Fred shoved past him and made a beeline for the door. “What the hell, Fred!” He turned towards the rest of the group who all shrugged in response. “Well? Anyone else coming?”

Hermione chewed on her straw again. “Come now. He’s going to make it halfway down the hall and collapse. Better go catch him before he does.”

FP took a few steps backwards, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over his shoulder with Fred’s. “Mary?” His eyes darted to Hiram. “Anyone?”

Mary sighed. “Hermione is right. He does this everytime he gets sick. He tries to be Mr. Tough Guy and then -”

“Hiram?” FP asked desperately.

Hiram locked eyes with him as he peeled the foil off a second pudding cup. “No.”

“Bunch of friends you are!” FP spun on his heel and took off running through the swinging doors of the cafeteria.

“Hey!” Hiram yelled as he reached the doors. FP screeched to a halt and turned around. “Hal is in the newspaper office if you need help dragging Andrew’s body to potter’s field!”

FP flipped him off as he shoved through the double doors.

Fred’s chest ached as he tried pulling open the heavy wooden door leading to the library. Why was the door made of wood anyway? Shouldn’t it be a fire door? It was literally a room filled with paper. And books were expensive. Didn’t the school care enough to protect one of its assets?

The door pulled in and Fred found himself stumbling forward with it. He caught a flash of brilliant red hair as he stumbled inside.

The red hair gasped. “What are you doing?”

Fred straightened himself up and took a look at the door, the word PUSH stenciled neatly right next to the handle. Well, at least the door wasn’t as heavy as it seemed in that case.

“Fred?” A tentative hand landed on his shoulder and he heard another gasp as he batted it away. “You’re sweaty.”

“I know I’m sweaty, Penelope.” He turned around laboriously and wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve again. She pulled a face at the action. “I was running.”

Penelope crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re not supposed to be running in the halls.”

“Well, I’m late for something.”

“The next period doesn’t start for another 20 minutes.”

Fred held in a groan. He could normally appreciate Penelope’s quirkiness and lack of social graces, but not today.

“I’m not late for class.”

Penelope’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re often late for class.” She turned around and eyed the nearly empty library suspiciously. “Are you meeting someone here?”

Fred forced a smile. “Exactly. So if you don’t mind -”

“Be careful if you have a date. You look like you’re coming down with something.” She eyed him up and down. “Flu maybe? I hear it’s going around.”

“I do not have the flu!”

Penelope glared at him and held a finger to her lips. “This is the library, Fred. Be respectful, please.”

He sighed and nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’m really not in the mood for a chat. So if you’ll just -”

The door to the library burst open and FP ran in, holding a stitch in his side. “Jesus, Freddy. Here you are.”

“Shush!” Penelope said loudy, holding her finger up to her mouth again. “This is the library.”

FP ignored her and took Fred’s arm. “Come on. We’re going to the nurse’s office.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Fred pulled himself away from FP and toppled sideways into Penelope. She put her hands out to steady him, pulling another terrible face as she did.

“You’re perspiring and feverish,” she said, pushing him back into FP’s arms. She quickly reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer. “You’ve fallen ill and you’re at the point where you’re too delirious to realize how bad it’s gotten.”

“Please, don’t tell me I have the plague,” Fred groaned. FP tighten his grip as Fred’s thin frame turned this way and that. “I’m pretty sure they cured that along with polio.”

“The plague,” Penelope muttered under her breath as she dropped the hand sanitizer back in her purse. “Excuse me.”

“You want to go to the nurse and give her a heads up I’m bringing Fred there?” FP asked. “Just in case he gets away from me again.”

Penelope pouted her lips in confusion. “Why would I want to do that? I was heading to the cafeteria.”

Fred tried to shove FP off again and FP finally wrapped his arms entirely around him, pinning Fred against him. Penelope gave them another quizzical look.

“You’re a cheerleader,” FP pleaded. “That means you’re responsible for the well-being of the students in this school, right?”

Penelope shook her head. “That’s not what cheerleaders are responsible for at all.”

“If the nurse knows we’re coming, she’ll be waiting and this one,” he nodded his head down at the still squirming Fred, “will feel guilty and just admit he’s sick. So be a pal and go to the nurse.”

Penelope pursed her lips. “We are not pals, Forsythe.”

“Please? Pretty please?”

She shifted back and forth. “Okay,” she said softly. “But I’m not touching him again.”

“No one’s asking you too,” Fred grumbled. FP finally let go of him.

“Go ahead,” FP said to Penelope. “Tell her we’ll be there in a few.” Penelope nodded and walked between the two boys and out the wooden doors. “Now, I won’t drag you there if you just go willingly, okay?”

Fred crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to go to the nurse, F. I just want to, I don’t know.” He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his eyes. “Just sit at one of the tables in the back and close my eyes. I’ll feel better then.”

“Do you admit you feel shitty?”

“No.” Fred’s whine came out low and annoyed. “I feel fine. I’m just tired.” He took his hands off his face and looked into FP’s eyes. “I’m cranky and tired and worried about my dad, okay?”

“Hey, hey, hey.” FP took a look over at the counter, currently vacant of the librarian. There was only a small scattering of people in the library and most seemed far too concerned with finishing their forgotten homework to pay the two boys in the front any mind. FP took Fred’s face in his hands, letting his fingertips just touch the hair on the back of his neck. “We don’t have to go to the nurse, okay? You want to just skip the rest of the day? We’ll go to your place.”

Fred scoffed. “I told you, FP. I’m too tired for any of that stuff right now.”

“Hey.” FP glanced over Fred’s shoulder again. They still hadn’t attracted any attention. He pressed his nose up to Fred’s, getting a good look at the bags growing under his eyes. “Stop being funny. Let me just take you home and tuck you in.”

“I can’t skip school. If my parents find out -”

“Fine, then we’ll go to the nurse and have her write you a note.”

Fred let out a soft breath. “Don’t get too close to me, F. I could be -”

“Contagious?”

Fred groaned and pulled his head back. “Fine, fine. Take me to the nurse. But she’s not going to let me go home unless my folks come sign me out, and they’re both in Centerville.”

“She’ll let you sleep it off at least.”

He nodded slowly. “Just like, let me walk by myself, okay? Just hold my bag.”

“Still got it.” FP pat the strap on his shoulder as he let go of Fred’s face completely. “Just don’t go running off on me again.”

“Can’t.” Fred walked through the library door that FP pulled open. “I used whatever adrenaline I had left to make it over here.”

“You didn’t have to run.” FP’s eyes kept darting to the side to keep an eye on Fred.

“Yeah I did.” Fred fell a few steps back and FP slowed his pace as well. “Else you were going to get Mary and Hermione to hogtie me and bring me to the emergency room.”

“I wasn’t going to get them to do anything,” FP chuckled. “They’d probably do it themselves. Fred?” He turned around to where Fred had stopped dead in his tracks some five feet back. “Fred, what’s -”

“Catch me.”

“What?” FP took a step towards him. “Did you say -”

Fred collapsed and FP dove below him right before his head could hit the tiled floor.

“I can’t believe you let this happen.” Alice tossed her hair over her shoulder and stood to her full height in front of FP, hands firmly on her hips. “I swear to god, I don’t know how either of you put your pants on the right way in the morning without me taking care of you. I can’t have lunch in the Blue and Gold office a few times a week without you nearly killing Fred? If I have to -”

“Oh shut the hell up,” FP moaned. He put his hands on his hips and mimicked her pose, looking down at her with all he had. “I didn’t drag Fred down the hall so you could yell at me. I came here for help.”

“Help?” Alice snorted. She turned to look at Hal. “You hear that? He needs our help.”

“I think Fred’s the one who actually needs some help,” Hal said. He was on his knees in front of the small worn out couch in the newspaper office - an ancient relic that was now little more than a lump of stuffing and colorless fabric. Hal put a wet paper towel on Fred’s forehead and a low groan escaped his lips. “I mean, he’s definitely alive, but for how long?”

Alice and FP rolled their eyes at the same time. When Alice caught his eye, she glared at him and gave him a swift kick in the shin. FP grimaced, glad she was wearing sneakers for once instead of her Doc Martens.

“Babe, Fred’s not dying from a head cold,” Alice said simply, turning back to Hal. “He just needs to sleep it off. That’s my dad’s remedy for everything.”

“I think it’s the flu actually,” Hal said slowly. He got up, dusting his pants off as he walked to the others. “Has he thrown up at all?”

“I don’t think he’s eaten enough to ralph,” FP considered. Fred stirred on the couch but didn’t open his eyes. “Can’t puke if you haven’t eaten, right?”

“Right,” Hal said unsurely. He picked up a wastepaper basket and planted it on the floor next to Fred’s head. “Just in case, you know.”

“Just leave him here,” Alice sighed. “I’ll look after him, wake him up in time for basketball tryouts.”

“Basketball tryouts?” Hal asked. “Alice, he can’t even walk. We need to get the nurse in here.”

“We need to let him sleep,” she insisted. “He just needs a woman’s touch. Some orange juice, a nap. He’ll be a-okay.”

“He needs the nurse -”

“He needs -”

“He needs,” FP cut in, stepping between them, “to go home. Coop.” He slapped Hal’s arm. “Grab his feet. I’ll get him from the top. And just grab his backpack, Al. We’ll bring him to the van.”

Alice got back in defensive position. “You’re not touching him, FP.”

“I just want to get him home, Al.”

“Junior,” Alice said firmly. She placed a hand on either of her hips again and jutted her chin at him. “Touch one hair on that idiot’s head and I will break your arm in three places.”

“Listen here, Allie.” FP stretched out each syllable of the nickname she hated. “I am getting him home, with or without your help!”

“The hell you are!”

“Hey hey hey.” Hal stepped between the two of them. He put his hand around the back of Alice’s neck until she relaxed. He put his other arm out to FP and awkwarded pat his shoulder. “Let’s all just settle down, talk this out. Yeah?”

“There is nothing to discuss, Hal.” Alice didn’t let her piercing gaze leave FP. “If I let FP take him, Fred will surely be dead by the time the last bell rings. I don’t want to be the one to explain to his poor mother that I could have prevented this.”

“Right, well.” Hal pulled Alice closer to him. “Maybe, let’s take him to the nurse at least? Better than him lying on that couch.”

“You think the school nurse knows better than me?”

“Yes.” Alice spun around and glared at him. “I mean, she’s professionally trained, Alice. What do you know about the flu?”

“She’s a hack.” She turned back to FP. “Fine. Take him home. But I swear to God, if he dies on your watch, you’re explaining to his poor heartbroken mother what happened. Also, you’re going to owe me a new friend.” She looked between the two boys. “Well what are you waiting for? You get the top, you get the bottom.”

“No one is getting anything,” Fred muttered from the couch. He had pulled his flannel shirt off as the three of them bickered and he tossed it over his head to block out the light. “I’m comfortable. Let me stay here for study hall and I’ll be fine.”

“No, no, no.” FP got on his knees in front of the couch. “Come on. You need to get home. Or to the nurse at least. We just had this -”

“I don’t wanna.” Fred kicked his foot out so it hit the arm of the couch. His whining was muffled, but still loud enough for Alice and Hal to hear him from the other side of the room. “Just leave me alone.”

“Fred, you’re going home,” Alice demanded. She yanked the spare shirt off his head, forcing him to cover his eyes with his arm. “You’re sickly and gross and you’re sweating on our makeout spot. Get up.”

Fred shook his head. Alice snapped her fingers at the boys and pointed down to Fred. Hal and FP exchanged looks and nodded, each of them grabbing Fred at the same time and lifting him up.

“What the hell?” he muttered. “Guys, this isn’t funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be funny, Fred.” Alice grabbed Fred and FP’s bookbags. “You’ve moved passed the delirious ‘I’m stronger than I seem’ part of your illness. You’re verging into ‘I’m reverting back into a whiny preschooler’ and, quite frankly, that is my least favorite version of you. FP is taking you home.”

“Moving hurts,” Fred muttered. “I think I - guys, do you have a garbage can?”

Hal stopped in his tracks, forcing FP to stop to. “Why?”

“I think I’m gonna -”

“Don’t.” Hal lowered Fred’s feet to the ground so his only support was being propped up by his arms by FP. “Don’t say it. Just hold on, hold on a sec.”

“Here.” Alice calmly held out the waste paper basket in front of Fred. He looked down into it, his head quickly lurching forward twice before vomiting into the small can. Alice held on to it with a bored look on her face. Hal covered his own mouth and ran for the door leading to the hallway. FP rubbed Fred’s back and cooed softly as Fred emptied the contents of his stomach.

When he finished, Alice plopped the can down next to the door. She peeked her head into the hallway.

“He’s fine,” she explained quickly. “He just really, really hates puke.”

FP shook his head. “I think I’ve seen Coop throw up more times than anyone in this school combined.”

“Fuck off. He can’t help it if he has a weak stomach.” She passed Fred a tissue from the box on the desk. “Can you walk out to the hallway at least?” Fred nodded slowly. “You still want to stay here?” He shook his head. “Thought so. Let’s go.”

Alice grabbed the bookbags again and held the door open for the two of them. Hal was pacing in the hallway, taking deep breaths. Fred fell back into FP’s arms as Hal grabbed him by the feet again.

“Sorry, Fred,” Hal muttered. “I just can’t be around when someone’s throwing up. I can’t even talk about -”

“You’re talking about it right now. Shush.” Alice ran a few feet ahead of them and peeked around the corner. She waved them to follow. “Coast is clear to the front doors. Once we’re there, act casual, in case any teachers are outside smoking.”

“Casual,” Hal repeated. “Nothing more casual than this.”

FP adjusted Fred’s weight in his arms as Alice pushed open the front doors to the school. The foursome took to the student parking lot at a trot.

“Keys are in my right pocket,” FP said, panting. Fred might be mostly skin and bone, but carrying even half of him all that way tired him out.

“Keys?” Alice pulled open the back door of the Shaggin Wagon. “Like you guys ever lock this bucket of bolts.”

Alice jumped in the back seat and helped pull Fred inside. She awkwardly buckled the only back seat belt around him and ran her hands through his long hair once before squeezing back out past him.

“Christ.” She wiped the sweat on her hand on FP’s jacket. “He’s asleep again. He’d sleep through the goddamn apocalypse.”

FP paused closing the door, his eyes darting to Fred. “Did he pass out again?”

“Sleep is good,” Hal insisted. “In any form. Naturally, loss of consciousness.” He nodded, more set on convincing himself than anyone else. “Totally fine. His mom is home, right? To actually take care of him?”

“He’ll be taken care of.” FP slammed the door. “Thanks for the help.”

Alice furrowed her brow. “That wasn’t an answer.” He yanked the two bookbags from Alice’s shoulder. “FP, Mrs. Andrews is home, right?”

“Make yourself useful.” He tossed both bags in the front seat and climbed in. “Go ask Coach Marren if Fred and I can try out next week. We both have the flu.”

“I will do no such thing.” She tapped on the window after he closed the door and started the engine. “FP, you’re just taking him home and coming back. You can’t afford to skip! You’re not sick!”

“Someone has to play nursemaid!” he called through the window with a grin. He pulled out of the spot, Alice not leaving the window.  

“I expect you back by the end of next period!” she yelled. FP watched in the rearview mirror as Alice lightly jogged after him. Hal caught up with her after a few strides and pulled her back. “You jerk! I hope you failure junior year!”

FP chuckled to himself and peeked quickly in the backseat. Fred had moved his arm to cover his face again, so he supposed he wasn’t entirely unconscious. He clicked the heat on, kicking himself for not telling Alice to grab the flannel she’d ripped off of Fred. It was January and FP was sure Fred’s coat (had he even brought one to school that day) was shoved in his locker still.

No matter. At the rate Fred was sweating, the last thing he probably wanted was more layers. Or did he need them? Were you supposed to sweat out a fever or freeze it out? What about the flu? Was it any different?

He pulled up in front of the Andrew’s house after the five minute drive. Artie’s car was parked in the driveway even though the house was empty.

“You awake?” FP asked softy. Fred was still for a moment before finally nodding. “Okay, I’ll help you upstairs.”

The journey to Fred’s attic bedroom took longer than the drive home. For the first time ever, Fred refused to be carried piggyback and FP was certain he’d whack Fred’s head on the banister if he carried him bridal style. Instead, he braced himself behind Fred and half pushed him up, letting him take his time with each step.

When they finally reached the top landing, Fred let out a sigh of relief. One, two, three steps into the room and he fell face down on the bed, his knees still handing off the edge. FP smiled in spite of himself. He rolled Fred over and unlaced his sneakers, yanking them off his feet. When he went to pull off his socks, Fred pulled his foot back.

“I like to sleep with them on,” he muttered. “You know that.”

FP laughed. “I know you like to fall asleep with them on.” He placed his hands either side of Fred and leaned over his body. “And wake up with them god knows where.”

Fred’s eyes were still closed, but the corners of his mouth turned up. “I like what I like. Don’t judge me.”

“Yeah, I like what I like too.”

Fred’s eyes slowly opened. “F, it’s not that I don’t want you here. It’s just, you probably shouldn’t get so close to me.”

Common sense told him to pull away, but he never had much common sense to begin with. He leaned in so their mouths were almost touching. “What’s too close?”

“I just puked.” Fred let out the smallest laugh and lightly hit FP’s chest until he backed away. “You’re asking for the flu you know.”

“Give it to me then.”

Fred used whatever strength he had left to push himself up the few inches on his elbows. He planted a quick kiss to FP’s lips before falling back down.

“There. You have the flu.”

FP laughed and stood back up. “That’s better.” He unclasped Fred’s belt bucket. “Lets get you more comfortable.”

Fred’s hand weakly grabbed his wrist. “None of that. Come on. I’m sick.”

“You want to sleep in your jeans?”

“Oh.” A brilliant shade of red crept up Fred’s washed out cheeks. “Sorry. I just thought -”

“Your head is in the gutter, Freddy.” FP smiled down at him as he pulled his jeans down the rest of the way. “Shirt too?” Fred nodded. FP pulled him up and peeled the damp shirt off, tossing it on the floor with the rest of his dirty clothes. “You want to take a shower or something? Might cool you down.”

Fred kicked his feet back, pushing his body closer to the head of the bed. “All I want it to go to sleep.”

“Right.” FP grabbed the quilt on the edge of the bed and spread it out over Fred. “I’ll leave the door open. Yell if you need anything.”

He shook his head. “Get in bed with me, dummy.”

FP paused. “You sure?”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked for the flu. I’m giving you the flu.”

FP sat on the edge of the bed and kicked his boots off. He pulled the corner of the quilt up and Fred pawed at his jeans.

“If mine are off, yours are off.”

FP nestled Fred into his arms. His bare skin was hot and tacky from the sweat, but FP welcomed the warmth. He combed back a few pieces of Fred’s hair with his hand.

“Freddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time you’re sick, just admit it, okay?”

Even with both their eyes closed, FP could hear the smile in Fred’s voice. “Not a chance.”

[silverfootstepswrites]

Butterly [7]

summary How many calories does furious yelling burn?

"You little shit-stain! I call you- no answer. I go by your apartment and there's no one. I thought you were kidnapped!" A voice shouted into the phone.

"Whatever, I was trying to save phone battery so I had it on airplane mode," sighed Haku, rolling his eyes at Sakura. He sat on the armrest of the sofa. She was sprawled across the rest of it so there was nowhere else for him to sit anyway.

"You're lying! You just tweeted about how you like strawberry daifuku more than the kind with red bean," Kisame accused. Sakura shoved his thigh with her foot, mouthing the word ‘dumbass'. Haku kicked back without looking at her.

"Alright! So I was screening your calls. So what? They haven't even announced next year's placements yet. Give me a break!" Haku retorted. Sakura sighed. She could imagine Kisame turning purple in the face. She could hear him sputtering over phone. Felt some pity for the physician who had to measure his blood pressure every year.

"That's the attitude you give me after winning silver? You wouldn't shut up about getting gold and-" Kisame ranted. Haku shoved his finger in his ear, sticking his tongue out.

"Ahhh, this is exactly why I don't pick up your calls," he complained.

And as the volume escalated, Sakura slapped her hand down on the sofa. She sat up to snatch the phone out of Haku's hand.

"Calm down, Hoshigaki-san. He's with me. He came to ask me for help with his toe loop," Sakura intervened.

There was a long pause. 

"...Haruno," growled Kisame.

She had expected him to hang up on her. Then, at least, she would get some peace and quiet. Instead, Kisame launched into a fresh tirade. It was a whole new level of rage that she had been on the receiving end of many times before.

"Why the hell would you let him stay with you? You know this is a crucial time! Didn't you watch any of his programs? He's got so many things to work on and you're letting him run around like a kid at Tokyo Disneyland!" Kisame spewed. Sakura nodded like he could see her.

"And another thing. Do you know how much trouble you caused me, Haruno? Are you even a little sorry?" he continued.

"Ah. Yeah. About that. My bad, Hoshigaki-san," she managed to say.

"You could have at least let me know ahead of time, you know. Not at the press conference."

"Sorry.“

"Do you know how many more wrinkles I got just trying to put out fires? You're lucky I was there to do damage control," he went on.

"Yeah. Sorry again."

Kisame sighed. She could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between his two fingers. She had picked up that habit from him.

"....But are you doing okay, kid?" he then asked. Because no matter how gruff he sounded, Kisame always cared. That was what made him such a good coach. 

"I'm doing alright," Sakura answered, half-shrugging.

“You eating okay?" he interrogated her.

"Yep," Sakura said.

He sighed. The noise crackling through the speaker 

"Let me know next time you're up in Sendai. Let's have a drink, Haruno," he suggested. And then he added, "And make sure Shimizu gets back here in one piece. And don’t feed him any junk food.”

Sakura eyed Haku, who was just about to stick a potato chip in his mouth. She smacked it out of his hand.

“I got you, Coach,” she promised. 

Kisame ended the call. Sakura dropped the phone back in Haku’s waiting hand. He wiped the screen clean on  his thigh before he went back to using it.

“You know, don’t let the old man fool you. He misses you. He compares everyone to you. ‘Haruno could land this’ and ‘You think Haruno became four-time World Champion with that attitude?’” Haku imitated in a gravelly voice. He puffed his chest out, glaring. He glanced at her, studying her expression. When she finally smiled, he returned the expression.

But then his eyes popped wide open. 

“Oh. Before I forget! Gotta catch you up on that good gossip!” Haku gasped. He shoved her legs aside, sliding onto the sofa. But before she could complain about being cramped, he lifted her feet into his lap. She grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it against her stomach as she waited. 

Haku’s tongue stuck out as he scrolled through his Instagram feed.

“Okay. So, you know Harper and Gold?” he asked. He tilted his phone to show her the photo on his screen. Two blond skaters stood in the middle of the rink, arms thrown around each other.

“Yeah. The ice dancers, right? From America?” Sakura recalled. Haku shot her a look.

“Broke up.”

Sakura sighed, shrugging. “Sucks.”

“Got back together again last month,” he added. 

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, good.”

“Broke up again two weeks ago,” Haku concluded. 

She sighed again. “Suuuucks.”

“Have you talked to Karin-chan lately?” Haku went on. Sakura shook her head. He scrolled on to another picture. The tall Russian skater was well-known for her well-curated social media profiles. She always showed off the things she ate and the fun places she went. She was also well-known for being friends with lots of other skaters. Her feed was always overflowing with selfies with other athletes. 

Haku’s thumb stopped on an older group photo. 

It was from Skate America a few years ago. Sakura eyed her ponytail in the photo and gave a little sigh. She missed having long hair. 

In the bottom right was Haku, who had taken the photo with his selfie stick. Clustered around him were several of their friends. Wedged in the middle was Karin, both her arms linked around Sakura’s neck. And to Karin’s left was another skater. His tongue stuck out, arms raised above his head.

Sakura wasn’t really close to Hozuki Suigetsu. He was an ice dancer from somewhere around Hokkaido, maybe? She had gotten to know his older brother Mangetsu pretty well during their first Japanese nationals. They had made their senior debut the same year and had stuck together during the awkward photo-ops and banquets at the end of the events. 

Haku pointed at Suigetsu’s face. And then Karin’s.

“Oh, yeah. Totally doing it,” Sakura replied, voice flat. She had suspected it for quite some time now.

“Right? No one else will believe me,” groaned Haku. 

“Also- oh my god I can’t believe you weren’t there at the Worlds. You’ll never guess what Chock was wearing to the party,” he sighed. Cheek in her hand, Sakura settled in to listen. She watched Haku roll his eyes and throw his hands in the air. Pitching his voice to better imitate the people. 

“And did you know? HE moved. They’re not skating in Sendai anymore,” Haku suddenly told her. 

Sakura cracked an eye open. “Who? Lord Voldemort?”

Haku slapped his hands down on her calves. Not hard enough for it to hurt. 

“No! HIM. Kaguya Kimimaro,” Haku snapped. “Apparently he wanted to expose his student to different kinds of skating. So I hear he moved her home rink to St. Petersburg.” 

“Oh,” Sakura said, nodding. But the lack of enthusiasm in her voice was obvious. Haku narrowed his eyes. 

“Maybe we could ask Karin-chan to run him over with a snowmobile or something,” he muttered. 

Sakura pinched his cheek. He swatted her hand away.

"You know, I could tell when he moved. The clouds parted and the children sang. That's when I knew that a great evil had departed Sendai," Haku said. Sakura smacked his arm. Throwing her legs aside, he slid off the sofa to sit on the floor instead. 

"Oh, don't exaggerate, Haku. It was mostly good before it got bad," Sakura sighed. She watched him glaring down at his phone. Craning over Haku's shoulder, she found him stalking an Instagram page. He paused on one of the photos.

It was taken almost five years ago. They were dressed in matching dark blue jackets with the Japanese flag over the right side of their chests. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. Her tongue stuck out at the camera. And Kimimaro's arm was over her shoulder, pulling her close to his side. This was at the Japanese nationals, right after they had announced the rankings for the men's singles.

"That creep. He kept his photo up so he wouldn't lose all those likes," grumbled Haku. Sakura rolled her eyes.

"Or, it's commemorating him being picked for the Olympic team. Which is kind of a big deal," she suggested.

"Sure," Haku replied in a tone that implied that he thought the opposite.

"Or maybe he didn't delete it because my makeup looks so good in it. Hold on, let me see," Sakura went on. She leaned over Haku to grab at his phone. He pulled it out of reach.

"Go use your own phone. Get off me!" he retorted, slapping her hands away.

"I thought you missed me, Haku-kun! Come on! Give me a hug!"

"Gross. Forget it, you weirdo! I'm going back. Get off of me!"

After a fair bit of wrestling, they slumped together on the sofa. Haku huffed, pulling his hood over his head. He stared up at the clock on the wall.

“Is there anything fun to do in this town?” he asked her.

Sakura counted off on her fingers. “Let’s see. You can go to the beach, go to the ice rink, or get drunk.” 

“No night clubs or malls or anything?” Haku pressed.

“Nope.”

“...Ugh.”

His head fell back against the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling.

“You wanna get drunk?’ he asked her.

“Yeah. Why not,” replied Sakura, getting to her feet to go get changed.

They headed out to Genma’s bar. They ran into Kakashi walking his pug. It sniffed at Sakura and Haku’s feet as they stopped to chat. When Sakura mentioned that she was headed to the bar, Kakashi looked a little disgusted.

“Yeah, my old man’s body can’t handle that again this week. Have fun without me,” he replied, making an escape before she could drag him along. 

Sakura ducked under the flap into Genma’s place. Shizune was sitting at the bar, an apron wrapped around her waist. After teaching home ec during the day, she came here to help her husband out at his bar. She stood up, ushering Sakura and Haku toward two empty stools. 

“Two light beers. And some kushiyaki please, Genma-san!” Sakura called out. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed, already pouring a beer for her.

"Fuuuuck. That made me so mad," Haku groaned, thumping his fist against the bar. Sakura laughed, patting him on the back.

"Your step sequence was really nice, though. And you got silver, didn't you? That’s still really good!" she tried to console him. But Haku shook his head.

"If I landed that last quad, I would have gotten gold. But I messed up and it became a double. I should just kill myself," he lamented. Sakura patted his back harder, nodding.

"Sure. Just do it now. Samurai-style. Seppuku it up," she mocked 

"You're supposed to cheer me up!" Haku shot back 

"Why? I can let you die and steal your medals," Sakura replied, “I’ll melt them down and make them into a golden toilet seat.” They burst into laughter at the very thought. 

“Two more light beers, please, Genma-san!” Sakura ordered between giggles. 

Several beers later, drunk Haku came out to play. And drunk Haku was very sweet. And also very clingy.

"Senpaiiiiii why did you leave? Now I've got no motivation to even try," he slurred, shaking her shoulder.

"Haku, I skated ladies. We didn't even compete against each other," Sakura pointed out. Squinting down into her empty glass.

"Doesn't matter. It was our thing! We always got gold together. #sendaisenshu! It was trending on Twitter last year!" Haku insisted.

It was true that they had won the last two World Championships together. And they always posted pictures with their medals during the Grand Prix or the Japanese Nationals with that ridiculous hashtag he had made up. Ever since his senior debut, Haku had always promised to overtake her medal record. And from the way he rubbed his face against her shirt, she worried that he might actually burst into tears. She ruffled his hair.

"Okay, I’ll un-retire. I'll put a wig on you. You can skate under ladies too and we’ll compete," she suggested. Haku threw his arms around her middle.

"I'll do it if you let me borrow that gold dress you wore during your Junior days," he muttered. Sakura threw her head back and laughed. Open palm smacking the bar. 

Haku grumbled, "I'm serious" as he shook her a little harder.

Later that evening, bellies filled to bursting with beer and bar food, Sakura and Haku wandered out of Genma’s place, red-faced and supremely cheerful. He stood at the flap, eyeing their teetering path down the road. Shizune ducked under his arm to watch them too.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” she wondered. Genma shrugged.

“They paid already. So who cares- ow!” he complained as his wife slapped him in the stomach with her towel.

“Every day is PONNN!” Haku crowed.

“Every time is PONNNNN!” Sakura added. They burst into giggles, unable to finish their off-key rendition of the song. 

They stumbled down the street together, Sakura’s arm thrown around Haku’s waist. His arm hung over her shoulder. 

“Woah,” he chortled as he tripped over a rock. He nearly fell off the road, into a ditch. But Sakura grabbed the back of his jacket to pull him upright. They dissolved into more peals of laughter. And then she pressed her pointer finger to her lips, shushing him. He copied her, eyes unfocused.

“There are people sleeping,” she scolded him, trying to stifle her own giggles. 

“My legs are all tingly. I want to sit here,” Haku sighed. And as his weight sagged against her, Sakura’s eyes popped open. Haku was so thin, but she forgot how much heavier he was than her. She slapped her palm against his back a few times.

“Haku! Oi, Haku! Come on,” she hissed.

“Haruno-sensei?” 

Sakura peeked around Haku’s arm. She found Itachi standing there in jeans and a t-shirt. He carried a plastic bag from the nearby convenience store. 

“Uh, hi, Uchiha-sensei,” Sakura replied. And then she raised her hand to wave.

“Are you busy right now?” she then asked. Itachi shook his head.

They managed to pull Haku’s arms over their shoulders. Each supporting part of his weight, they half-walked, half-dragged him down the road. 

"Sorry. If I skated pairs, maybe I'd be strong enough to carry him on my own," she giggled. She peered past Haku's lolling head. Itachi shifted Haku's arm over his shoulder. Smiled a little.

“You looked like you were having a fun night,” observed Itachi. They passed under a streetlight. It buzzed and flickered a little. Casting long shadows out in front of them as they moved.

Sakura felt her cheeks warm as it occurred to her that this was the second time he had seen her this drunk in the space of about three days. 

“Uh. Well, never really had this much free time before. Maybe, I should scale it back a bit,” she muttered. 

“I mean... only if you want to. You’re not hurting anyone,” answered Itachi.

She glanced at him in time to see him look up at the sky. She copied him, craning her neck. 

This far from the big cities, the sky was actually black. And it glittered with countless points of light. It reminded her of her fanciest skating outfits. Little crystals sewed into the fabric that sparkled when she moved.

“This is your hometown, right? Why don’t you do whatever you want to do?” Itachi added.

She met his eyes. And the only word she could think of to describe his gaze was kind. She couldn’t help but smile back.

“Hm... yeah. Maybe you’re right,” she mused in return.

When they arrived at Sakura’s house, they dumped Haku on the sofa in the living room. She pried his shoes off, rolling him onto his side. And then she stood back, hands on her hips. His limbs dangled off the edges of the sofa. It didn’t look particularly comfortable.

“Should we get him water or something?” wondered Itachi. They watched as Haku’s mouth opened wide and he began to snore a little. Snickering, Sakura pulled her phone out to take a few pictures. 

“He’ll be fine,” Sakura assured him. And then she added, “Thank you, by the way.”

Itachi dipped his head. “Of course.”

Haku woke the following morning. And it was a testament to his youth that he threw up, and then looked completely fine. Sakura watched him slurp down his breakfast smoothie, glancing down at her wristwatch 

“I've gotta get to work. I'll meet you at the rink after school?"

Haku nodded. Sakura, who was still faintly queasy, grimaced when he let out a sonorous belch.

Sakura found Itachi up on the roof again. All the cherry blossoms had fallen, leaving bare, dark branches. Which were still beautiful in a way. Itachi sat with his back to the wall, sketchbook in his lap. A pencil tucked behind his ear and another moving in his hand, scratching against the paper. Kakashi sat beside him, raising his box of banana milk to her in a salute.

“How’re we doing, Haruno-kun?” asked Kakashi, eyes crinkling. Itachi glanced up at her. Stifled a chuckle when he saw her wearing sunglasses. 

“Please turn off your mouth siren,” she groaned. 

Itachi watched her face for a moment. And then he patted the empty spot beside him. He had spread out a blanket on the ground, almost like they were holding a picnic on the roof. 

Tucked into that quiet corner, Sakura drew her knees up to her chest. She leaned her head back against the wall, listening to the wind rattling through the branches. The scratch of Itachi’s pencil. Kakashi slurping up the last few drops of his milk. 

[strmyweather]

Weighing on my Mind

I can vividly remember a time when weight didn’t matter. For Halloween at age ten, I dressed in a garish neon-flowered bikini—the first two-piece bathing suit my mother had permitted—and a crepe-paper grass skirt, with a flowered lei around my neck. Never mind the huge ‘90s glasses and home-cut bangs—in my mind, I was a graceful Hawaiian hula dancer.

Looking in the mirror at my flat preteen tummy in my bathing suit, I remember struggling to understand what all the fuss was about. The books I’d been checking out of the library lately—consistently several grade levels above my calendar age—seemed to make a lot of references to body image, insecurity about appearance, issues with food. But this was just me. This was what I looked like. Not ‘big’, not ‘small’… just me. For the first time, I wondered: was there going to come a time when I looked in the mirror and saw myself differently?

The idea was troubling. I promptly reassured myself that, by being aware of the fact that things might change, I could surely stop it from happening. Therefore, I had nothing to worry about. This occupied my thoughts for a total of about twenty seconds before I grabbed my empty candy bag and bounced happily off into the humid Florida night to collect my sugary loot.

I also remember the very first time I lied about my weight. I was fourteen years old and in my fourth year of playing YMCA basketball. When the time came to take those team pictures so ubiquitous throughout youth sports, posed in team uniforms with bright unsmudged basketballs balanced on bony knees, one of the photo package options was a specially designed playing card. Just like the pros had. Teenaged girl on the front, perfectly posed and smiling in her cheap nylon jersey. On the back, her vital statistics. Team name, age, height—and weight.

At fourteen, body shapes and sizes span a wide range. As a group, my team that season tended more toward the prepubertal side—smaller, thinner, less developed. At five feet five inches, I was the tallest on the team and actually played center that year. It was a distinction I usually enjoyed. However, peeking from side to side at my teammates filling out their forms, I was surprised and dismayed by the numbers they jotted down. 115, 120—those were weights I’d long left behind. I’d had my yearly physical a month or two before, and had weighed in at 142 pounds. At the time, that had just been a number, nothing that really mattered, and nothing that I had much of a frame of reference for. Now, suddenly, it was an embarrassment.

135, I wrote on the form, quickly shoving it across the table at the team parent—nonchalantly, I hoped—before anyone else could see my shame.

Only seven pounds—certainly not a huge fib by any stretch of the modern adult woman’s imagination. But as a teenage girl, it was the first time I had compared such things and been found wanting… even if it was by nobody except myself.

My mother was ahead of her time when it came to nutritious food and the value of protein. This isn’t to say that we were particularly good eaters; my sister and I were as picky as the next kids when we were little, and certainly ate our fair share of frozen fish sticks and buttered pasta. However, there were certain items that were simply never present in our house—white bread, soda, candy, boxed mac-n-cheese, sugary cereal—and certain items that were always there—bananas, filtered water, salad, almonds, yogurt. I was the kid who got a granola bar in her lunch box for ‘dessert’ while everyone else had Hostess cupcakes; I literally don’t think I knew what a Twinkie was until I was in high school. Not that we were total hippies; there was usually a half-gallon of low-fat ice cream in the freezer, the occasional Pop-Tart wasn’t unheard of, and at birthday parties and restaurants, we were free to eat whatever we wanted. But, as most children do, we grew up with preferences that largely reflected those of our household. To this day, I cannot stand soda—and can vividly recall being ridiculed at Girl Scout meetings (by the troop leader!) for asking for water instead.

At any rate, whether as a direct result of better-than-average nutrition or simply a genetic fluke, I was always tall for my age, towering half a head over the rest of my kindergarten class. I wasn’t the typical petite, fragile five-year-old with pale skin and fairylike limbs, but a strong, robust child with thick hair and sturdy legs, tan from a lifetime of outdoor play under the Florida sun. My sister and I were constantly riding our bikes, building forts, and climbing trees—when we had neighborhood friends over, we were actually forbidden to play inside unless the weather was bad. I’ve always been known in my family for being ‘strong’ and enjoying physical activity—as I grew up, I rode horseback for many years, played basketball and Ultimate Frisbee, and competed in both pool and open-water distance swimming. I wasn’t overweight until I reached college, and was certainly never obese—even then, I was regularly competing in endurance events, including a half Ironman triathlon, a 12.5-mile swim around the island of Key West, and a relay swim across the English Channel—but once I was no longer living at home, my weight stabilized at a range between 160 and 165 pounds… and there it stayed. Despite a relatively reasonable (though, in hindsight, definitely ‘Standard American’!) diet and large amounts of exercise—at one point, a coach calculated my daily expenditure as nearly 4000 calories!—I still never seemed to lose weight. After college, I once shed 15 pounds in a determined effort during a workplace weight-loss challenge, which stayed off for two years, but I gained it back (and then some) during the intense two years of PA school.

Then, in 2012, within the span of a few weeks, I graduated from PA school, moved to Philadelphia, discovered CrossFit—and suddenly found myself indoctrinated into a whole new way of looking at food. I had the blind good fortune to stumble into a gym where nutrition was prioritized—my new coaches considered it to be the ‘base’ of the athletic pyramid, atop which any movement skills must necessarily rest, and emphasized that it was essential for athletes to understand how to fuel their bodies for their sport. Given that I was in a brand-new city without an established circle of friends, the gym community rapidly became my social network, and their norms and values became my own. Via the multiple free educational seminars and group challenges, my understanding of athletic nutrition—and my awareness of how different it was from the ‘Standard American Diet’ I’d been taught with my medical education—grew by leaps and bounds.

Not only did the science make sense, but my lifestyle had also changed dramatically since living in a true urban environment for the first time. Along with my 6am CrossFit addiction, I was walking to the grocery store, biking to work, and generally avoiding my car at all costs, mostly because it was far more of a hindrance (and an expense!) than a help. With all of the above factors combined, I promptly lost 15 pounds almost without noticing—I literally woke up one day and realized I had a different body than the one I’d entered the city with. Even better, I truly didn’t care about the number on the scale—I cared that I could run a 7:30 mile AND deadlift over 200 pounds, do kipping pull-ups AND confidently swing a 24kg kettlebell. For the first time, I truly understood the tenet of ‘function over form’—and there was an incredible freedom to be found in that.

(Stay tuned for Part Two!)

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

Ask D'Mine: On Overtreating Lows, Control-Freak Loved Ones

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Ask D'Mine: On Overtreating Lows, Control-Freak Loved Ones

Do you sometimes freak out when your blood sugar plummets? Have a loved one who freaks out with worry over these situations?

You will not want to miss this week's edition of our diabetes advice column, Ask D'Mine, hosted by veteran type 1, diabetes author and community educator Wil Dubois. Read on...

Need help navigating life with diabetes? Email us at AskDMine@diabetesmine.com

Lou from Florida, type 1, writes: Lows are so scary. There's that moment when you feel totally out of control and are stuffing things in your mouth to avoid passing out. But then later, your doctor scolds you for "over-treating" lows. In that scary moment, I can't help myself. Do you have any tips on how to avoid over-treating?

Wil@Ask D'Mine answers: Lows are an unavoidable side effect of diabetes treatment with insulin, and with some diabetes pills as well. But opening the background dossier on type 1 hypos, I see that not all low blood sugars are created equal. Insulin hypos tend to be more aggressive, faster, and deeper than pill-triggered hypos. Also, hypos from fast-acting insulins tend to be more wicked than those from basal insulin. Both type 1s and 2s can get hypos, but as the body's built-in protections against lows are broken in T1s, our lows tend to be more dangerous.

I think that about covers everything, background wise. Oh, wait a minute. I forgot one little, itsy, teeny, tiny fact. Your brain runs on sugar and it doesn't run very well in the absence of sugar. As your blood sugar drops, so too, does your IQ.

And I'm not just being cute when I say lows are dangerous. They can actually kill you dead. So there's plenty of reason to be scared when you feel the insulin hit the fan. Plus, as I said, your IQ is dropping.

Fear + stupidity = the classic caveman low where you lose all control to your primal survival urges and feed your face until you barf. At least metaphorically. What usually happens is that after 20 to 30 minutes of feasting, your blood sugar rises enough that your brain fires back up and the guilt nodes turn on. There you are in your kitchen, surrounded by empty cereal boxes, candy bar wrappers, and half-empty tubs of Häagen-Dazs, with assorted crumbs scattered down your front and across the floor. You blink once. Twice. Who am I? Where am I? What the hell just happened? And then, of course, it all comes back to you and you feel guilt, anger, and shame all at the same time.

Now on the medical side, your doc has two legitimate concerns (neither one of which justifies a "scolding"). First and foremost, over-correcting triggers what's called a rebound excursion. No, it's not a tropical cruise after a breakup. This isn't an excursion you want to take. What happens is, you yo-yo from dangerously low blood sugar to dangerously high blood sugar. The level of the high can be perilous and the speed which it happens can be damaging. Secondarily, if you have weight issues, you just added an extra meal's worth of calories to your day. No shit, frequent lows can make you fat.

Of course, any non-diabetic medical professional will tell you that to treat a low, all you need to do is ingest 15 fast-acting carbs, calmly wait fifteen minutes and then retest. If your number is lower or flat, ingest another 15 carbs. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Once you have a rise started, even if you're still very low, you're to stop eating. Like the economy, once stimulated, it will recover. Eventually.

But any non-diabetic medical professional has never had a caveman trapped inside, fighting to get out. Sometimes I can keep my head when I'm low and do it "right." Other times my life and the lives of my loved-ones-without-me flash before my eyes and I lose it, grab my spear, and go kill me a mammoth.

So what to do? Do I have a tip? Of course I have a tip—but it's more like a parachute than a tip for avoiding the plane crash in the first place. Once the caveman is loose, there's no stopping him. But you can do something about the excursion. As soon as your wits return, you need to survey the damage. What did you eat? Be honest, 15 carbs doesn't generate that much wreckage in the kitchen! I don't think anyone has studied it yet, but I'd wager the typical response to a bad hypo is 100 carbs. Hell, a decent sized hypo-serving is Fruity Pebbles alone is 50 carbs, and that doesn't count the milk or the fact that no caveman stops at one bowl!

80-100-125 carbs. Whatever it was, be honest. Now, bolus for it.

You heard me.

Yes. I know your blood sugar is still only 70. But you just ate a wooly mammoth. You just stepped on the excursion elevator. Taking insulin when you're still low is a hard thing to do, but it's the right thing to do. As your blood sugar rises you'll evolve from caveman to modern man.

Look, today's "fast-acting" insulin arrives on the job in about 20 minutes, but it won't peak for two hours, so it's actually safe to take fast-acting insulin when you're very low if you just ate a ton of crap. The carbs will out-pace the action time on the insulin. In this situation, taking insulin when you are low won't make you go lower.

So take your medicine and call the doctor in the morning. Or maybe you won't need to call him. If you can cover the caveman carbs right away, you might stop the glucose excursion in its tracks. When your doc sees the low and the modest rebound on your meter download, he'll assume you did the whole 15 carb thing and give you an atta-boy.

He doesn't need to know about that whole Thanksgiving dinner you scarfed down at 2 am. And we won't tell him either.

Hailey from Kansas, type 1, writes: My boyfriend constantly thinks I've died if I don't respond to his calls/texts within 10 minutes. It's getting really frustrating because I reassure him that I set alarms and check really often, but he still freaks out. Any advice?

Wil@Ask D'Mine answers: Now... let me see... you are frustrated and he is freaked out. This is classic F&F, which can lead to an F'd up relationship. Well, at least it's clear he loves you. And at least he cares enough about you to learn the fact that your diabetes, in theory, could kill you. So I'm liking him already.

Still, some balance is in order and you'll need to set some new ground rules. But before I get there, let's cover some basic insurance for avoiding the whole dying thing.

Number one: do you wear a medic alert ID? If you do, you can reassure him that, worst-case scenario, if you pass out somewhere, you have this extra level of insurance. If you don't wear one, when was the last time this boy bought you something pretty?

Number two: well, hell, I can't think of a second thing.

Clearly, some more education for your boyfriend is in order. Help him to understand when your high-risk times for lows are. Lows are more likely 3-4 hours after a meal, in general. Or at the gym. Your mileage will vary, but you probably know when you are more likely to go low and when you are very unlikely to go low. I think helping him understand that might at least let him focus on when to worry, and when not to.

Of course, I don't know what your work situation is like, but I think it's fair for a loved one to worry a little more when they know you're alone, rather than when you're surrounded by other people.

Now, you told me you set alarms and test often. How would you feel about texting the numbers or a "I tested and I'm OK" message to your BF regularly? Is that too invasive for you? It might be reassuring for him. Maybe you could offer that in exchange for an agreement that you'll respond to calls and texts when you can, but that he shouldn't expect instant responses.

Oh dear.

I just heard the sound of 100 matches being lit by your diabetic sisters, preparing to flame me for even suggesting that you keep him in the loop with your testing. I can hear the arguments already. She's not a little girl! He isn't her father! Her blood sugar is none of his businesses!

Calm down and let me share a secret with you: Her blood sugars are his business. You think having diabetes is hard? Just try loving one of us! Put yourself in their shoes for a moment. All the same worries we have, but none of the control. Wow. Now, that's a tough job.

So what I'm advocating for is a third "F" to go between the Frustration and the Freaking out. I'm thinking some Facts will help the relationship Function better.

Then you can both have more Fun.

Thanks for writing!

This is not a medical advice column. We are PWDs freely and openly sharing the wisdom of our collected experiences — our been-there-done-that knowledge from the trenches. But we are not MDs, RNs, NPs, PAs, CDEs, or partridges in pear trees. Bottom line: we are only a small part of your total prescription. You still need the professional advice, treatment, and care of a licensed medical professional.

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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