Chapter Text
“Come on Frank,” Mikey is practically whining at this point, “I refuse to go alone- you have to go with me,”
“Oh I have to go with you now?” Frank stops in his tracks, a platter of various piercing guns laid out in a neat row placed in his hands, “Well,” Frank looks over as Mikey leans in, edging off his seat— “What’s in it for me?”
Mikey scowls, and rises abruptly from his seat. Frank is only a couple paces away from him, and he snatches one of the piercing needles off the tray.
“Frank, I could make this look like a happy accident,” Frank dropped his mouth open and began to giggle as he backed away.
“Mikey— dude, you’re pretty fucking narcotic,” Mikey starts back on their previous train of thought, “What’s in it for you.. Hmmm.. I’ll introduce you to my brother, how’s that?” Frank grabs the needle back from Mikey and sets it back in line with the other needles.
“Jesus Christ Mikes, fine, I'll go with you to the stupid party.” Not fully comprehending what Mikey even said, Frank lets out a slightly frustrated sigh.
It's not like he doesn't want to go, but he knows it'd be best if he stayed away from any social interactions in which he needs to eat more food than necessary.
“I mean, I'm pretty sure you have more friends than I do. I don't see why it's so important for me to go.” But by the time Frank got the last words out of his mouth, Mikey had already started to walk off, triumphantly, leaving Frank to wait in the main room of the tattoo parlor.
Frank has a client booked for a septum, and he is truly convinced the client is secretly a guardian angel sent down from a different dimension.
Having this client pop up is the perfect excuse: the client is late, and Frank’s having to pierce them during his lunch break— fucking score. Thank god I dont have to eat that greasy fucking omad anymore is all Frank can think as he gets short strips of gauze ready for when his angel walks through the door.
Frank tried eating his usual tiny portioned, below 200 calorie meals during lunch break before, but it turned into Mikey and their other co-worker, Pete, making fun of him. Then, the jokes turned to lectures, then to worry.
Frank’s always been on the skinny side, he made sure of that, but he couldn't take their questioning of whether he, “had an issue,” or if there was, “something he needed to talk about,” because, “they were worried about him.”
But most of all, he couldnt fucking stand the sympathetic, pitying looks they’d give him when he’d sit down at the table in their break room. Yes, his meals were pathetic, but that just made Frank strong. So why were they giving him stupid, unneeded words of encouragement?
If Frank knew one thing, it’s that he has everything under control.
So Frank brings a large (but still healthy) meal into work, and that's the only thing he eats for the day. Which sucks, in his opinion. He’d much rather have his calories portioned out in tiny meals throughout the day. But if it’s what it takes to get Mikey and Pete off is case, he’ll grit his teeth and fucking do it.
And with that, his client- guardian angel- walks through the front doors, causing the bell at the top of them to chime. In walks some girl with tats and long black hair.
Little does she know, she made Frank's day so much better. He was eternally grateful for being able to use her as an excuse to not eat.
After the piercing, Frank made sure to lecture the girl for about 15 minutes on how to take care of it (for normal clients he spent three) just to be extra sure that he missed any and all chance of having to eat with his fellow co-workers.
He made his way cautiously to the backroom— it was a short walk down an eerily narrow hallway off the main room of the parlor. Upon walking into the breakroom, he promptly falls into one of the chairs with a sigh.
With long periods of starvation come consequence, go figure.
He shoves his head in his hands and holds it there.
This didn't use to happen as often, he thought to himself.
And, yes, it's true.
Until recently, he didn't get so fatigued that he had to take breaks from work, or raise his calorie intake, or revert to low impact workout routines. But back then, he also didn't have the job he does now.
In highschool, right as his disorder was taking form, when the dizzy spells would get the best of him, he would just skip school or lock himself in his room to whine about it on Tumblr to his fellow disordered folk.
Now he's 23, working full time, and trying to pay bills for a 1 bed, 1 bath apartment in New Jersey. It's a shithole, but it's home. On the bright side, since Frank rarely eats, he only spends about $50 for weekly groceries.
Frank loves his job, but he's starting to notice the downsides of starving and having to be on his feet for eight hours a day, six days a week.
Ending his train of thought, Pete walks in the breakroom loudly, causing Frank to flinch and snap his body upward from his previous position of cradling his head in his hands.
“Hey Frank, how’d your septum client go?” An oddly enthusiastic tone was coming from Pete.
Before Frank could answer, Pete went on, “And Mikey told me you're going to Ray’s party? Oh man— it's gonna be so much fun with you there,.' Frank tried to look Pete in the eyes, but all he could see was black dots.
He’d looked up too quickly, and now it felt like the entire world was spinning, Wizard of Oz style. So, instead, Frank opts out for what might seem like the most normal, and looks down at his feet.
Except, he isn’t really looking per say, just tilting his head in what he hopes is the general vicinity of his feet.
“Yeah- yeah, no,” Frank starts to stammer, “I can’t wait man, um,” he can hear Pete moving around, the black dots in his eyes only partially subsiding, fuck, “Frank,” Pete starts, worry evident in his voice, “Are you okay? You don't look so good.”
Frank desperately blinks- anything, God, please, anything to end this bout of shitty vision.
And then, by the grace of some (possibly) omnipotent being, the swarm of black clouds drifts from Frank's sight, leaving him to see a kneeling Pete in front of him, worry ridden on his face.
You would think this would cause Frank even more distress, but, nope! He starts giggling.
A defense mechanism?
Perhaps.
Delusion from starvation?
Probably.
“M’ fine Pete, chill the fuck out, I’m just still getting brain fog from that cold I had last week.” Which, okay, partially true. Frank did have a cold last week- his shitty immune system was to blame for that.
Pete just squints his eyes in response and gets up from his crouched position with a grunt, “Okay Iero…” By this time Mikey walks into the room, unaware of the scene that just took place, and takes a seat next to Frank, “God, how long’s it been since we seen Toro anyways?”
Frank snorts at Mikey, “Dude- literally last Saturday.” Mikey has a downward smile plastered on his face, “Oh, right,” he leans back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, “So, do you want me to come pick you up for the party?”
Frank shakes his head, “Nah mean, I'm just gonna walk— his place is like— ten minutes away on foot.”
Mikey nods in response, and makes himself busy by picking up his phone- texting someone perhaps?
Pete stands up, sighing, “Alright, I'll see you both there then, I got another client coming in.” As he walks out of the breakroom, headed for the main parlor, Mikey gives another glance to Frank.
“Are you okay?” Mikey purses his lips. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you kinda look like shit.”
Frank furrows his brow, and Mikey raises his hands, as if to defend himself, “No- like, you normally look ‘shitty,’ but-” he cut himself off. “And I mean this in the most endearing way, you just look… defeated?”
Frank blinks, and hits Mikey as hard as he can on his arm, hiding a laugh, “Y’know what? Fuck you, Mikey Way. Oh my God, why would you say that to me?”
Mikey starts laughing and Frank glares, begrudgingly. He stands up from his chair with a groan.
“Well, I dont have anyone scheduled for today, so I'm headed home. See you at the stupid party, bitch,” he turns, still bitter, of course, and walks off as Mikey calls back, “See you there, dickwad!”