Bruised (Phan) [EDITING]

7

The second dinner was finished Troye rushed to his room feeling disgusting. They had put so much on his plate, the overflowing stack of calories grinned at him. He couldn't stand it.

He closed the door behind him, dropped to the floor and did whatever exercises he could think up. Crunches, lunges, planks, drills. He was panting and out of breath and he felt so disgustingly fat.

Then the door opened softly, Troye continued his crunches in a frantic manner. Connor stopped in his steps, the boy wore a sad frown atop those rosy lips.

"Troye," he called softly, so softly that his voice was barely a whisper. Troye had a headache, the room was spinning, but he continued. He had to burn it off, he had to.

He had worked too hard for too long to be anything but skinny, pretty, and perfect.

Connor sighed, quietly, and getting a wash cloth let it run under the cold sink water. He wrung it and held it out to Troye. Troye stopped abruptly, looking up at Connor with droopy eyes, pursed lips, and furrowed brows.

Connor knelt down, placing the damp washcloth over his forehead. "Please rest," came his soft spoken words. Troye sighed into the washcloth, he felt so exhausted. He complied easily and it seemed only Connor could have that affect.

He climbed into bed, the white blankets accepted him, enveloped him in their milky arms. Connor pulled them up and lifted back Troye's hair to replace the cloth.

"I'll change it as you sleep," he whispered. Then he turned the lights out, climbed into his own bed, and hummed a soft song that had Troye relaxing with a quiet exhale of his breath.