langst.

Self Isolation

I've come back. Not too much into Voltron now, but I've seen people ask for updates. I will still only base off the first couple seasons- I'm not watching the dreaded last seasons. TW for anorexia, BDD, bulimia, and self harm.
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123. 120. 118. 115. 110.
The number kept going down, Lance knew that should be good. He stuck to his word, one that he promised himself two weeks ago. Not a single piece of food, goo, or liquid beside water entering his system. His weight going down was always progress. So why did it never feel like enough? He still felt his skin protruding out of him, his hand bones never visible enough. The only thing that could keep him going was rubbing his torso, counting each rib as he moved down.

"One, two, the four.." he whispered softly to himself. His skin was pale and seemed a bit lifeless, and he noticed it during his next body check. "Comes with not going out much." He reassured himself quietly, resolving that he was fine. "And it doesn't even matter! I'm not thin enough to start worrying." He called out, his voice ringing in his locked room. Lance knew the others were practicing, so nobody would be able to hear him. Allura had let him sit out for the past few days, since it seemed to overwork his thinking body.

After a moment, it was like a little voice reminded him how unattractive he used to be, when he liked that stupid raven haired guy, and he wanted to scream. It hit him like the ocean crashing over him, so he did. Lance stifled his cries in agony, letting his knees buckle and fall to the floor. "He's so much better than me. That stupid mullet having idiot! Why can't I be as fucking perfect?" He sobbed on the cold metal floor, remembering Keith's lean physique from the time he only wore swimming shorts. Lance thought Keith looked so much better than him. It took him well over two hours to even muster the will to get up. He trudged to the lever, grasping it softly. "This isn't enough progress. I know it isn't. But maybe I should talk to Hunk, maybe he'll get my moods up." He contemplated. The Cuban threw on a sweatshirt over his tee, deeming the ship too cold. "This is a stupid idea, isn't it? No, I can't leave. They'll be worried, and make me eat. Here, they can't judge me." Lance bit his lip and decided to get into bed, wrapping his fingers around his thigh to see if they touched. His fingers overlapped, just a smidge. Somehow, he didn't smile at that.

He planned to stay in his room for another few weeks, or until he hit 100 pounds. Whichever came first, he supposed. Then he would finally look and feel good, and he wouldn't feel like such a burden to his team. He felt the resolve set into him heavily.