evnythekoiponds

an0rexia (Michael), angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: Michael is struggling. Food is the one and only thing he feels he has total control over, and you’ve finally noticed it.

set in off the wall/thriller-ish era

︎DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction depicts a real person and a highly personal fictional scenario. Nothing included in this story is implied to be accurate. This is a purely creative work and is not meant to offend, or make anyone uncomfortable.

Michael had been struggling to find his independence as a new adult, and the control from his father and the record label certainly wasn’t helping. You were his closest friend, his only true confidant that wasn’t an animal. He’d told you before how it felt that he wasn’t in control of his own life and how deeply it bothered him, but you thought it wasn’t any cause for concern at the time.

Now, Michael has seemed more tired. Less interested in outings. You attributed that to his rising solo success and the increasing amount of fans and paparazzi looking for him. Unfortunately, that’s not what was really bothering him.

He had been cutting meals, avoiding them all together when possible. The scale had been going missing from the bathroom more and more often. He didn’t want to buy his own although he could, worried that the press would catch him and makeup some degrading story about his mental state.

You’d noticed some more defined muscles in his arms and abdomen when his shirt rode up. Your hope was that it came from some kind of working out because he’d always been quite slim, but something still felt off to you deep down. Even if you didn’t bring it up.

A surprise visit to Hayvenhurst was your temporary solution, hoping to at least give him some general comfort if he really was suffering.

“Michael?” You call sweetly from the front door, having used your key that he wasn’t supposed to give you to open it.

Michael’s socked feet pad quietly in the dance studio, sweat dripping from his every pore and dripping to the floor. He can barely breathe, so incredibly exhausted from the hours and hours that he’s spent rehearsing.

The scale this morning told him that he’d plateaued, and he couldn’t allow that.

He pauses his obsessive dancing when he hears a voice.

“Y/N?” He asks in a breathless attempt at a shout.

His head peaks out of the studio and he walks towards the front hall, grabbing a towel from the linen closet on the way to avoid dripping everywhere.

“Oh!” His face lights up when he sees you, his shoulders rolling back to force his spin straighter and his lips pulling to show his big smile. “It’s you!”

“Yeah! How are you? I know I didn’t let you know I was coming over, but…surprise?” You try, gritting your teeth playfully as if he would ever be upset to see you.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t have any plans.” He says happily, glad to have you here with him. “I was just practicing some choreography for my new album.”

“I can see that…” you laugh softly, looking him up and down.

His white t shirt is thin and absolutely soaked through. You can see his ribs through the shirt… you hadn’t noticed that before. You frown.

“Have you eaten today?” You ask gently, knowing it’s kind of a cliche, but wanting to be direct.

Michael’s eyebrows pinch together in momentary confusion, then he looks a little sad when he realizes that the mood is not longer as light and excited as it was moments ago.

“I— I, uh… I got a bit distracted…” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck and inadvertently displaying the thinness of his arm.

He didn’t want to tell you that he hadn’t eaten, but he hated the idea of truly lying to you. How disrespectful of him it would be to lie to the only person outside of his family who truly loves him?

You don’t want to come on strong about something like this, so you play a little coy, opting to, instead of confronting him, offer to make him something.

“Can I make you lunch? It’s 3 in the afternoon, you must be starving!” Your voice slides into a slightly lighter tone, not wanting to alienate him or make him feel uncomfortable.

He bristles a little at the offer of food, but nods anyway. He won’t disappoint you— even if you don’t know what’s going on in his head.

“A salad?” He asks weakly, a little worried that you’ll catch on because to him, it feels like everything is so obvious.

“Salad? What happened to the mashed potatoes and chicken?” You furrow your brows at him, already dragging him along to the kitchen.

“I, uhm…I’m a vegetarian now.” He says with a nervous little smile.

“Really? Just like that?” You tease lightly, obliging his request for salad because at least it’s something.

“Yeah. Just like that…” he laughs softly to alleviate some of his anxiety.

His eyes flit away, glancing at the floor almost as if he had done something wrong and was now sitting in the guilt of it.

“Is Caesar okay?” You ask gently, seeing that he’s starting to fall into himself a little bit.

He frowns a bit, knowing that that kind of salad is higher in calories than most.

“Would it be okay if you just used vinegar and salt?”

“Vinegar and salt? No oil?” You tilt your head at him. “Salads have oil, Michael.”

“I— I know they do, but I’ve been having it this way lately. It’s not bad.” He protests, trying not to seem defensive of his tactics, but it comes through anyway.

“Okay, what’s going on?” You ask more firmly, making him go docile immediately at your tone. “You’re acting really weird, sweetheart. Talk to me?”

He frowns again at the endearing nickname, hating to be hiding something from you.

You take his face in your hands, rubbing his cheekbones with your thumbs.

“Is it the food?” You ask, soft spoken now.

He nods weakly, shutting his eyes out of embarrassment. He’s silent for a moment then, just letting your warm hands hold his face while he gathers his thoughts.

“…y’know how I told you about not having any control?” His voice is thin like he wants to cry, but he doesn’t. “It’s that.”

“Oh, baby…” you hug him, feeling your chest ache with sympathy for him.

You can feel his heart thudding against this ribcage, his breathing getting a little more erratic. He’s obviously having mood swings from the malnourishment, he’s just usually better at catching them.

The warmth of his back seeps through his thin shirt as you rub in circles with your palm, wanting him to be okay.

“I just—” he chokes out in a squeak. “I just want to be—e in control of something…”

“I get it, sweetheart, I do…” you whisper, hoping that it helps to know that he’s not crazy. “But you could get sick this way… you know that, right?”

You pull away from the hug to look in his eyes so he truly understands the risks of what he’s doing.

He swallows hard, looking down and playing with his fingers. He looks so nervous, something he never was with you before.

“…I know.” He says finally. “I just…try not to think about it…”

“I’d miss you if something happened to you, Michael.” You state clearly, squeezing one of his hands. “Can we try to find something else to help you feel in control? Something less dangerous?”

The urge to shake his head is strong, to tell you that this is what he needs to do, but he can’t stand the thought that you’ve just put into his head, your grieving him if he were to go too far.

“Okay…” he agrees weakly, pulling you into another hug and tucking his face into your neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Michael.”

In this moment (like many others before), he feels eternally grateful to have a friend. To have someone to count on and notice things that are wrong. He loves you so much and ultimately, that’s the only thing in his head now.

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A/N: heavy topic but I haven’t really seen much about this, and I’ve struggled myself, so I figured it would make sense to explore this area. I have another version of this that’s a bit more angsty and dark, if anyone is interest in it, I can finish it and post it as well.

—I do not authorize my content to be fed to artificial intelligence—

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