Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Hunger ❯ Hunger ( Chapter 1 )

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Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC OR OTHER CHARAS!!!!!!!!! I just torture them for my satisfaction and others', then return them! : )




Hunger



Ho t cup of tea–no sugar–and a dry piece of toast. He stared at both as he heard Hotstreak fix something for himself; fuel for a long day out in the field. The smells coming from the stove were mouth-watering, wonderful–he could see steak browning in the skillet and hear grits bubbling. The sweet smells of bread wafted through all of it, and he stared at the half piece of toast he had in front of him.

It sat there atop of a small saucer, crusty and slightly black around the edges, and looked very...sad. A piece of brown with no real substance, no real meaning. It was sad and pitiful and very dry, and he could compare it to a piece of wood. It would taste awful and crunchy and while he decided against butter–that was substance he couldn’t risk–it would be so entirely uninteresting and not worth the effort of eating it. Sure, it would sit in his stomach, but at least this was better than nothing. If he had nothing...well, he tended to make brash decisions when he fasted. It just wasn’t worth the fast when he was faced against one of the meals Hotstreak made. He always caved in, and he always felt disappointed and angry at himself for losing that control. A heavy sense of failure made him feel utterly guilty and angry and useless–and he hated those feelings.

It also wasn’t worth the painful burn of acidic waste that left his body upon evacuation, or the dizziness, or the mental fog or the constant craving of food that was amplified ten-fold by the lack of something in his stomach. Every time he was presented with food at this point, he lost control. And the loss of control was similar to the feelings of frustration, humiliation and hurt that he felt whenever someone used him.

So he made sure he ate something–even if it was just a dry piece of toast. Breakfast was important–it set the course of the day. If he didn’t eat breakfast, he tended to lose control. Breakfast was either a piece of dry toast, or some fruit he’d found in the canned supply, along with tea. Tea was safe, and more flavored than water. More interesting than nothing.

He forced himself to sip at the hot cup of tea–he’d found a supply of various tea in the basement–and winced at the strong taste of darjeeling. It was unpleasant, it was strong, it was...very uninteresting. As Hotstreak dropped his plate on the table across from him, he exhaled heavily, not looking at him. This was the tough part of the battle–always seeing the redhead’s food and wanting it so much that it threatened his efforts of resisting. Everything always looked so delicious and tempting, and damn his visual and olfactory abilities for taking immediate notice of food within his proximity.

Those smells wafted over him, and Richie’s stomach twisted violently. He looked at the browned piece of steak–the fluff of yeast bread–the lumpy appearance of grits. He took in the canned peaches and the cup of coffee. He looked once more at his own breakfast–he could practically taste that steak on his own tongue, and could taste the sweetness of that bread. His stomach clenched, and his mouth watered. He forced himself to drink more tea, and burnt his tongue.

Hotstreak began cutting into the piece of meat, and flavored it with some salt. He dipped that piece of bread into the juice running from the meat, and ate both items simultaneously, as if this were his very last meal. Richie tried not to watch, but he couldn’t look away from the piece of meat. When the redhead looked up to address him on something, he quickly looked down and forced himself to nibble at the piece of dry toast, ignoring that Southern drawl as he focused on the taste that was immediately boring.

Toast was so uninteresting, bland and...dry. Too dry. There wasn’t any substance in it. But he chewed deliberately, substance melting into memory as Hotstreak spoke about repairs to the eastern length of fence-line. Richie felt his brow scrunch as he focused on the piece of toast in hand–it wasn’t filling, it wasn’t even...good. He set it aside and brought the tea cup to his lips to dispel the dryness in his mouth due to the toast.

This is so stupid, he thought to himself with an angry expression. The flavor of tea produced a bad-taste in his mouth that had to be counteracted with the flavor of toast. But he forced himself to drink more to chase away that dryness. This doesn’t even taste good. This doesn’t even...it’s so boring. But if I don’t have something...I’ll just be hungry later. I can’t have that...I just can’t!

Hotstreak spoke with his mouth full, and Richie shot him a look of disgust. But he couldn’t help but hunger over the steak that was quickly disappearing amid the flash of silver.

He won’t desire someone without any substance to them, he reasoned with himself. His eyes flit to his wrist, his fingers working to observe the motions the back of his hand made as he flexed them. And, at this length...I’m in control, damn it. I control what happens to me. I control my body. No one else can have that satisfaction.

This felt good, thinking that way.

Reasoning for his emerging disorder of eating back in place, he chewed once more at the piece of toast. He watched Hotstreak finish off his steak, grits and bread, and begin on the can of peaches. Those peaches would taste so good...syrupy and sweet. It would linger on the tongue, and that sweetness would fill his entire mouth and chase away the emptiness and dryness of his toast. He would be able to taste it on the back of his teeth, and in those tiny crevices between his teeth and cheek.

Oh, God, it would taste so much better than his toast and tea.

His mouth watered again, and he stared with almost sightless expression at the golden pieces of peaches that were being scooped out of the glass jar with the very same fork that had been used to spear the previous steak and lumpy grits. He could just imagine and taste the combined flavor of half-cooked steak, salt and the sweety syrupy goodness of peaches on that fork alone. He felt dizzy with the sensation of need as he watched Hotstreak push the fruit into his mouth without even bothering to appreciate while he chewed and swallowed.

Richie’s throat closed, and he felt slightly suffocated with his internal battle of resisting to ask for some, and for that need for something interesting to delight his taste buds. But he began counting the number of chews it took for him to finish that small piece of toast, and licked his fingers after he was finished just to keep himself from looking at the canned fruit again.

He tried not to look at the canister of peaches, but his eyes kept flitting from his toast and those golden pieces of fruit. And he hated Hotstreak for not appreciating what it was he was eating–he was just shoving them into his mouth, chewing continuously without stopping to breathe.

Ugh, what a revolting eater–not even bothering to savor the sweetness and the textures, and–God, if Richie watched him eat more often, he’d lose his appetite.

Because he could hear Hotstreak slurping syrup as he shoved fruit into his already full mouth and bits of golden fruit would catch along his mustache and dribble over his chin and it was so disgusting and revolting–dammit, Richie was so jealous–!

He hungered for more, but satisfaction filtered through him at a hard-fought battle won as Hotstreak then cleared his setting–his plate, silverware and the canister that held the peaches were empty. Even as Richie’s eyes took in the slick surface of the inside of the glass canister–knowing that he could dip his fingers in and withdraw his hand to lick off the remaining syrup, knowing that it would taste o-so-good–and lingered on the streaks of juice atop of that plate, he felt his chest puff with pride upon resisting the urge to ask for some.

He’d done it–he’d gotten through breakfast with a set menu, and had stuck to that menu. While he was still hungry, pains making his middle clench and his thoughts drifting back to seeing that browned steak on a repeated loop, he hadn’t eaten more than he’d designated himself. He’d done good, and he was proud of himself.

He could have had that steak–he knew Hotstreak would share without any question–but he didn’t. There was intense satisfaction on knowing that he didn’t cave in to want and had won this small battle. It made him feel good about himself–something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. This continued sense of accomplishment encouraged him to keep up the battle, but another part of him felt exhausted at the efforts he was taking.

A part deep inside of him whined and cried about missing out on the opportunity to have some of that delicious smelling and sightly food. He could have just had a bite...just a bite...a bite wouldn’t have hurt, would it? Just a single bite? He’d taken a while to appreciate the taste and the flavor, and he wouldn’t have asked for more...a bite would have just been heavenly and wonderful, and he wouldn’t have asked for more...

But another part of him, the part that relished this control and marveled at his ability to resist began stamping on that pitiful whine. The satisfaction that he had control over his own body was just too powerful for that needy and whiny part of him.

He continued to sit at the table as Hotstreak washed his own dishes and skillets, and finished off his tea. Instead of thinking about the conversation he’d had with the Things, Richie thought of his next meal. How much, what for, should it be flavored?, how much liquid to drink before, during, and if he’d feel bad for eating more than he should. Food dominated his thoughts as he wondered what the meal would consist of–while meat was wonderful, it was so full of substance. It would fill him pleasantly, and he would be satisfied–but where would it go? He had to look at his wrist once more, wrapping his fingers around it. It just wouldn’t do if he dropped his plan of making himself undesirable if he submitted into the call for food.

But hunger...hunger was so strong. So heady. It spoke to him and dominated his thoughts each and every day since he’d come to this decision.

Maybe...well, no one liked fat people. He could eat and eat and eat and eat them right out of the house and make himself so fat that Hotstreak would want nothing to do with him. No one would want anything to do with him. And he wouldn’t care because that was what he’d want. He wanted no one’s eyes on him, and no one to take control of him ever again.

But...but while that was a wonderful thought, he thought of the loss of control he’d have over food. Where was the control in senselessly pushing food into his mouth?

The control that he had with his own meal and wanting another’s was something similar to a hard battle–he could want and crave and want some more while eating his own bland meal with little substance, but...but the satisfaction he received afterward was worth it. So...completely...worth it. It gave him the proud gratification in that he’d accomplished something. That he’d won.

He stared into his teacup, thinking of Hotstreak’s coffee. He had to wonder if that was just as filling as tea–if it would make him gain. Tea was safe–flavored water. Coffee...

“You should eat more,” Hotstreak said, startling him out of his thoughts. His green eyes were examining Richie with a sense of disgust and acknowledgment–flitting here and there at what the hideous flannel nightgown allowed him to see. “Your neck is really...skinny. It ain’t like we have to conserve anything, here.”

Satisfaction filtered through Richie. It took all he had not to smirk. But he said nothing as he kept his eyes on the cup. He even sipped at nothing just to prove that he didn’t care what Hotstreak bothered to say or observe. The man was utterly hateful and mean, eating in front of him and not bothering to offer his share or even–

With a low sigh, Hotstreak left the kitchen, muttering about why he even bothered.

Using the tip of his finger, Richie picked up the crumbs left by his toast and licked them off. It was an exhausting battle, but...but the satisfaction and control was very much worth it.

Still, even after he recognized his ‘win’, he had to wonder what he’d have for lunch. For dinner. What was safe, and what wasn’t. What was easy to resist, and what wasn’t. What would fill him, what wouldn’t. What would taste good, and what wouldn’t. He wondered how he could sabotage his taste buds, and wondered how much salt he could waste by over dousing his food with it. He wondered how he could give his food to Hotstreak without the redhead noticing what he was doing, and he wondered how long it would take for the redhead to find the blond completely disgusting.

His thoughts were dominated by hunger, but that satisfaction of having control over himself seemed to make the edges less abrasive.