hate // ryllon

five

"Where do we go now?" I ask.

"Follow me," Ryan simply says. I'm not sure how long we've been playing. It hasn't felt like long, but at the same time, it feels as if it's been a while. "Wait," Ryan quietly instructs. I do, fingers staying still as him and I don't make a single sound, listening silently in anticipation. A loud knock on the door causes Ryan to jump horribly. He jumped towards my direction, but now he's relaxing and pulling away and sitting and watching the TV again. I had to move closer earlier because the sun had begun to get in my eyes and the only spot without sun was quite close to Ryan. I stayed in the sun for 10 minutes until it just got too bright, and neither of us said anything.

I stand up, put the controller down, and walk to the front door. I see Ryan shuffle a bit and look at the game, killing the zombies while my character stands still. I open the door and force a small, kind smile to the delivery man. I had paid him online, and I hand him $20 for the dumb $5 delivery fee, telling him to keep the rest as a tip. I don't understand why they make you pay the drivers extra when it's already a common rule to give someone a tip.

"Thank you," I say, then shut the door. I carry the bag of food into the kitchen, then look out and at Ryan. He looks a little anxious. Did the knock really scare him that bad?

I sigh and put half of the food in the fridge. Ryan wasn't lying when he said he doesn't really have anything. There is a bottle of soy sauce, a nearly empty carton of milk, some carrots, two bottles of water, and some shredded cheese that hasn't been opened. Doesn't expire for quite some time, thank goodness, because that may be really helpful for future meals.

I open a few drawers until I find the utensils, then grab two forks. I look in the bag, noticing the napkins, and I take it all out, putting food on plates. I hear the game still going as I prepare the food and put the rest in the fridge. His kitchen is tidy, but smaller than mine. He doesn't seem to flaunt his money around. There's no expensive designer clothes in his closet, no fancy kitchen, not even a big house, and that's the last I'd expect from him. He got, and still gets, a huge portion of money from the band, and it looks like he works minimum wage at an unpopular coffee shop.

I walk out of the kitchen with a plate in each hand, a fork securely pushed into the food, and I place it on the coffee table. My character has been taken over as a bot, the word 'idle' on my side of the screen. As I set out our plates in front of us on the table, I watch him ease through the game. He's definitely played this a lot. I pick the controller back up and we finish the round, and then I put it down and push his food a bit closer to him. He looks at it, swallows hard, and doesn't put his controller down. I frown a bit. What is he doing? 

The next round loads and he bites the inside of his cheek. I stare, frowning. Why isn't he eating? He looks pale and skinny and almost like a skeleton, and he's deciding to not eat? He needs food in him, doesn't he understand that? What, does he have an eating disorder?

Wait.

I stop, unsure what to do. He has an eating disorder, doesn't he? Anxiety, depression, self harm, and suicidal ideation, and to top it all off, the icing of his fucked up cake of a life, an eating disorder. No food in his fridge, pale, skinny, shaky, looking miserable in general; I tried to blame it on the depression and potential insomnia, but no, this makes much more sense. 

"Ryan," I say. He looks at me nervously. "Why aren't you eating?" 

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He tries to think of something, of some excuse, but he's stuck. He's trapped. I've got him stuck in a corner and he can't figure out how to get out.

"I'm just not hungry right now," he tries to lie. 

"When was the last time you ate?" He swallows and looks down. He's stuck, and now he knows it. "Come on," I say, pushing his food a bit closer as I take the controller from his hands. "It's not gonna hurt you."

He sits and picks at it for a bit. It begins to make me just feel pissed off, because fucking hell, Ryan, you're fine, and I go to put my plate down to move closer and force him, but he pushes the fork through a piece of chicken and takes a small bite of it. He stares at one spot on the table and his hand grips his knee tightly. He takes another bite and I watch him. He's gonna be okay if he just takes care of himself, doesn't he realize that?

"Why are you taking care of me?" Ryan asks. 

"I don't know," I answer. "It's complicated."

Ryan nods as if he understands, but we both know that he is completely clueless. He takes another bite and I sit a little closer. You're okay, it's gonna be okay. 

A few minutes pass and I notice something. He's shaking, and his eyes are glossing up, and his knuckles are turning white. I sigh and close my eyes for a second, hating myself for doing this, but I do not want to watch another person die. 

I sneak my hand under his and he lets go, tensing a bit, and I intertwine my fingers with his. I use my other hand to eat. He looks at me but I don't look at him, and eventually he looks back down, then takes a bite as our hands rest between us. It's working, at least. He is eating and I'm holding his hand.

It's kinda cute, his hand in mine. 

We continue eating, the game waiting for us to continue. He's nervous. His hand is shaking slightly, almost coming in waves, and he sits and eats so nervously. He's fine. Ryan is fine. He's alive and eating and he's fine.

I finish before him, but I keep the plate on my lap. Maybe it'll make him feel better? I don't know. God, this is so confusing and new to me. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. 

I don't think he knows either.