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Jon’s relationship with food has always been a bit complicated.
As a teenager, he’d always been rather thin. Even at his heaviest, he had trodden the line between underweight and “normal.” That had never stopped him from criticizing every part of his body, determining his thighs and upper arms to be too thick, too much fat on his stomach and hips, the area under his chin too soft. These thoughts followed him every time he glanced in the mirror, every time he saw a photo of himself on Facebook or Myspace.
Once he had figured out he was trans, he’d dismissed this distaste for his body as just another part of his dysphoria. Even after the physical effects of testosterone ran their course, though, the thoughts lingered. He ignored them.
He’d enjoyed cooking for himself once he began living on his own. He followed some of the recipes his nan had passed on to him and found success in his attempts. It felt nice to have control over what he was eating, and he found himself sticking to his nan’s habits of healthy eating. He rarely got takeaway, opting instead for homecooked meals.
When he did get takeaway, he would always feel guilty afterwards. There would always be a feeling hanging over him that he had somehow failed both himself and his nan. He would scold himself for not having made time to cook a meal, not having had the foresight to prepare something ahead of time. If he had too much fast food, or microwave dinners, he’d end up gaining weight, he told himself, and that wasn’t something he could afford. He refused to think about why he had such an aversion to gaining weight. It’s not as if he has any problem with fat on other people. If anything, he finds skinny or muscular builds far less aesthetically pleasing than chubbier ones. Nevertheless, the thought of gaining weight would send him into a panic if he let himself linger on it for too long.
He began avoiding takeaway altogether. If he was too busy to make a meal for himself, he would eat enough to sate his hunger for the time being. Other times he’d just eat nothing at all.
Working at the Institute, it became easy to brush off delaying meals. He’d tell himself that he just needed to get through these statements before he gets lunch, and then before he knew it, it’d be half-past seven and Martin would be knocking on his door asking if he’d be heading home soon.
There were a few times he wondered if perhaps his habits weren’t healthy, but he was always quick to dismiss those thoughts. The books and documentaries on eating disorders that he had crossed paths with all depicted people who fixated on their calorie consumption, meticulously weighing both their food and their own bodies on a daily basis with the goal of losing as much weight as they can. They were skin and bone, joints protruding and often times hospitalized with a feeding tube up their nose. Clearly, that wasn't him.
Sure, he’d skip meals on occasion or stick to smaller than normal portion sizes. But he wasn’t weighing himself. He wasn’t counting calories. He’d never made himself throw up and he’d never ended up in the hospital because of his habits. His doctors had never expressed concern about his weight, even when it had dramatically dipped. During his biannual appointments with his endocrinologist, they'd praise him for his excellent lab results. He didn’t limit what he ate in order to lose weight, per se, just to avoid gaining it. Jon knew he was skinny and had no need for losing weight, he just didn’t like the placement of what fat he did have.
Other people began to comment on how he’d lost weight. It was never quite out of concern, but also never quite congratulatory. Just passive comments. Jon frankly hadn’t even noticed. Sure, he’d felt much better about his hips and stomach lately, but he hadn’t noticed that much change in his weight. The only person who seemed to really show any concern was, of course, Martin.
Martin began making excuses for them to go and get something to eat from the canteen or go out to one of the nearby cafes. He’d check in to make sure Jon had eaten something once lunchtime came around, prod him into getting at least a granola bar or a bag of crisps from the vending machine in the break room. The attention frustrated Jon. On more than one occasion he snapped at Martin to leave him to his work, even when he had no pressing tasks to take care of. He didn’t like that Martin was being so attentive to his eating habits, felt far too seen for his own comfort, so he pushed him away.
He’d give in on occasion. Usually, he’d just have something small, a muffin or a piece of fruit or some pretzels. He’d struggle to keep himself from lashing out when he’d notice the look of relief pass over Martin’s face whenever he saw Jon eat something.
After waking up from his coma, he longed for those lunch breaks. Not for the food, no, but for the company. Just spending time with Martin, who by now he’d forced himself to admit he had feelings for. He missed that level of attention, even if he still hated to which part of him it had been directed.
He began to find comfort in the feeling of being hungry. It was grounding, in a way. It made him feel as if he hadn’t lost his grasp on his humanity just yet, gave him a reason to keep on pushing. He now had a new hunger to feed anyways, and he was much more willing to indulge that. That, at least, seemed to bear no risk of change to his physical form.
After he’d pulled her from the coffin, Daisy had asked him when he’d lost so much weight. Jon had just laughed bitterly.
It’s not until they’re at the safehouse, once he and Martin have had a few days to settle into their new routine and talk things through, that the subject is brought up.
Jon is picking away at his dinner one night, having served himself his usual helping when he notices Martin watching him, brow furrowed.
“Yes?”
Martin hesitates, seemingly struggling to find the words to say what’s on his mind. “Do you know how much you weigh?”
Jon bristles. “Not really the sort of question you’re supposed to ask someone, Martin,” he snaps, and Martin winces.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have started with that,” Martin says, biting his lip. “I just… you’ve lost... so much weight since I last saw you in the hospital, and I mean, it’s not like you weren’t already stick-thin before.”
Jon flinches. He’s not sure why the comment bothers him so much. He knows it’s true, but it still stings.
“I’m… I’m just worried. You’re nearly skin and bone and you don’t seem to be eating much either. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I don’t have an eating disorder.”
“That’s— I'm not accusing you, Jon—”
“Really? Because that’s what it seems like to me—”
“Jon.”
Jon clenches his jaw, setting down his fork and staring down at his half-touched chicken. They sit in silence for a moment, and Jon feels his stomach twisting with panic and disgust and the overwhelming desire to flee. He doesn’t.
“Forty-six kilos last time I weighed myself, but I think I’ve lost another kilo or so since then,” he admits finally, not looking up.
He hears Martin exhale sharply. “Christ, Jon,” he says quietly. “And you can’t be more than what, one-hundred seventy centimetres, right?”
“One-hundred sixty-eight.”
Martin doesn’t respond, and Jon squirms uncomfortably in his seat. He can’t bear to meet Martin’s eye, but he can’t stand to sit in silence any longer.
“I don’t count my calories, I— I try to eat healthily and when I can’t, I won’t get takeaway. I’ve never tried to lose weight, I just… avoid eating things that will make me gain it.”
“Why not get some microwave dinners or something you can throw in the freezer?”
Jon flinches at the suggestion. “Those aren’t—”
“Let me guess, ‘healthy?’”
Jon doesn’t indulge him with a response.
“Y’know, not eating anything at all is far worse for you than getting takeaway.”
“Yes, I know that, Martin,” Jon scoffs, finally looking up.
Nothing in Martin’s expression seems to indicate that he’s angry, or disgusted, or disappointed. The only thing Jon can detect is concern. Somehow that’s worse.
“You know that you don’t need to count calories or regularly weigh yourself to have an eating disorder, right?” Martin asks gently. “And even if you don’t have an eating disorder, you’re still restricting yourself to a point that you’ve lost an alarming amount of weight.”
“I’m fine—”
“Are you, though?” Martin asks, and Jon shuts his mouth. “Jon, I know that this isn't an easy conversation, but we can’t just ignore it. You could literally die from this.”
“Would that really be such a bad thing?” Jon says bitterly before he can stop himself.
Almost immediately, Martin rises from his seat, and for an awful moment, Jon thinks he’s going to walk out. Instead, Martin rounds the table and pulls Jon out of his seat, clutching him to his chest even tighter than he’d held him when Jon had pulled him out of the Lonely.
“Never say that again,” Martin says with a ferocity that makes Jon’s legs feel weak. “You are worth so much more than that.”
Jon surprises himself when he feels the tears spill over, a loud, ugly sob escaping his throat. He completely falls against Martin, who easily holds him up as he cries against his shoulder.
“We can get through this,” Martin whispers into his hair. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll be there with you the whole way. I promise.”
They stand there for a long time, and for the first time Jon can recall, he lets himself feel.