𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙾𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜

𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢

TW: Eating disorder

angst

a Chan version of my Changbin centric short story

It's no secret that Bang Chan doesn't exactly love himself, that he struggles with his self image.

The way he looks, talks, sings, dances.

He hates it all.

But still, he never meant for it to get this bad.

He can't pinpoint when or how it started.

Maybe he saw one too many comments on his weight. Maybe the others had joked one too many times about how much he eats.

He still eats in front of them and the camera. Later, though, off-screen and in private, he empties himself of that food. True, sticking one's fingers down their throat isn't the best way to spend the night after an awards show, but he's determined.

On days off, he simply doesn't eat if he can get away with it.

No one's noticed yet.

But no matter how little he eats, how often he purges, how long he fasts, Chan feels heavy.

If he's lighter, STAY will love him more. If he loses weight, maybe he will be able to dance better.

And so, Chan's infamous black clothing has been traded out for larger hoodies, baggier sweatpants, shrouding his quickly vanishing form.

He has written lists, so many of them: Why I Should Eat, Reasons to Tell the Others, Why I Need to Lose More.

The ones encouraging him to gain weight never help.

He's given up on them, stuffing the lists into his nightstand drawer. It's all futile, anyway.

He can't get thin enough, and he can't stop this cycle of destruction. The easiest thing to do is to give up and accept it.

Chan has accepted it, hell, embraced it even, picking over his flaws in the mirror, every mark and imperfection a taunt.

Visuals are vital in the industry, and he knows, or rather perceives, his to be subpar. 

Even now, sitting at the breakfast table in the dorm's shared kitchen, he is acutely aware of his face, puffy from sleep, dark circles carved under his eyes, still blotchy from his shower he took a few degrees too hot. Disgusting. 

Minho sets a plate down firmly in front of him, jolting him from his self destructive spiral. 

"Eat."

Chan's head jerks up.

"I-I did earlier. When we were making breakfast. I-"

The lie slips off his tongue easily, practiced. He can tell the dancer doesn't believe him. 

Minho's mouth tightens, and something sparks deep in his eyes.

He leans down, a hand settling on Chan's shoulder. The leader flinches slightly at the contact.

"Eat at least a little bit."