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it started a while ago. he couldn’t say when. the days had become fuzzy by that point— it could’ve been a month. it could’ve been a year. he wasn’t sure anymore. he didn’t care.
it started small. occasionally skipping a meal in order to cram in just a few extra minutes of study time. then it turned into skipping breakfast every day because he learned that even just the five extra minutes of sleep would help him get through the day. then it turned into skipping breakfast and lunch. lunch was the perfect time to go to the library and spend time alone in peace.
he wouldn’t trade his family for anything, his brothers and dad meant everything to him, but there were quite a few of them, and they weren’t known to be the quietest people in the world. it was nice to just have a solid half hour of alone time, without raising any questions. lunch quickly became his favorite time of day.
he rarely got out of dinner. his dad insisted they have family dinners almost every night to “help with bonding” or whatever. techno loved his dad. he really did. he wished upon everything he could think of that he didn’t insist on family dinners, though. sometimes phil would have to work late, and occasionally, techno would be able to say that he was busy and would heat up a plate later to get out of eating. he never did. the leftovers were instead fed to their dogs or the toilet— the trash can was too obvious. too easy to uncover.
he still didn’t consider it a problem at that point, but then he began to notice how his wrists were smaller, and the tendons of his hand began to poke out, along with his ribs, hipbones, and spine. he felt like he had become so much more agile and free. his clothes were never tight in weird places, and the braid he typically sported really suited his newly pointed face. then he began to want to keep himself this way. he was healthier than he was before, he insisted to himself. despite the fact that he was almost passing out every time he stood up and his hair was falling out. he couldn’t stop now.
techno began counting his calories, recording the amounts in his homework planner. then he started weighing himself every day. he kept track of what he measured. he would record his weight and bmi every day, checking them sometimes five or more times a day. he started off at about 150 pounds, which was perfectly reasonable for someone who’s 17, five-feet-eleven, and still growing, but it was too much.
99 pounds seemed like such a pretty, perfect number to him. somewhere deep in his mind, techno knew it was unrealistic. his body most likely couldn’t function at that weight, but the temptation was too appealing. the thought of being weightless ironically weighed heavily on his mind. he decided it was better this way. that even if he died, well, did it really matter?
it wasn’t like he lived the best life. he knew deep down he couldn’t outright kill himself. he couldn’t do that to phil, to wilbur, to tommy and tubbo. directly committing suicide would be seen as selfish, but this, this was “an accident”. “natural causes”. nobody had to know the truth.
when phil called them down to dinner, techno silently took his seat at the table beside wilbur. he let his hair out of the braid it was in. it swung gently in front of his face, shielding it from any prying eyes. it felt nice. like a disguise. like maybe if he left it there his family wouldn’t be able to tell that he was undeniably broken inside. he left his hair in his face as phil started serving plates with a wide smile.
“i know we haven’t had a dinner together in a few days,”
it had been 71 hours and 32 minutes since their last family dinner. it had been 71 hours and 32 minutes since techno ate last.
“so i got niki to give me a new pasta recipe to try! it should be really good from the sounds of it. if i made it right, of course.”
phil was excited about them all trying it. techno could tell. he might’ve found it endearing at one point, but now he couldn’t help but hate him, and niki, in that moment. pasta was a big no-no. too many carbs, too many unknown elements, and way too many unknown calories. he opted to stay silent, hoping that the other boys’ cheers and affirmations would distract phil from him pushing the pasta around to make it look like he actually ate some.
“alright techno, your turn! go ahead and try it, tell me what you think.”
techno felt his mouth go dry as all eyes turned to him.
“o-okay!”
under the scrutiny of the newly found gazes upon him, he tried to speak as cheerfully as possible. he picked up his fork with a single noodle on it. he began bringing it to his mouth before tommy stopped him.
“oh come on techno, that’s not a bite! you won’t even be able to taste that! you’re a big man, you can take a bigger bite than that!”
techno felt his vision go white in a rage and he gripped his fork as hard as he could. big man. he stabbed a couple more noodles hastily. big man. he shoved the fork in his mouth, big man, before they could say anything else. big man. the few noodles felt like chalk in his mouth as he methodically chewed them. big man. 22 times. big man.
“so... how is it?”
phil asked as he bit his lip nervously.
big man.
“it’s great, dad.”
big man.
he knew he sounded sarcastic. he couldn’t stop himself. eating those pieces of pasta felt like eating a bucket of cement. techno would’ve rather done so, then maybe his lips would get stuck together and he would never have to eat again. if phil or any of the others picked up on the sarcasm, however, they didn’t say anything.
“fantastic! i’ll have to let niki know her recipe was a hit!”
phil chuckled and techno couldn’t breathe. he knew he was being ridiculous. three pieces of pasta weren’t going to kill him. it sure felt like they would. tommy called everyone big man. it felt like he was directly calling him fat. he continued to push pasta around in his bowl, bringing an empty fork up to his mouth to pretend like he ate a bite every once in a while, offering an occasional mumble of an answer if anyone talked to him. when tubbo made the move to clean up, techno was quick to follow. once the table was cleared, techno went to the bathroom.
showers were his salvation. he took one every night after he ate like clockwork. eat, purge, wash away the evidence, repeat. he would spend the start of his shower instead hunkered down on his knees and shins in front of the toilet with one hand holding his hair and the other shoving three of his fingers down his throat. then, he would get in the shower and wash away the filth. the evidence of what he’d just done. the shame.
today would be no different. he turned on music, turned on the water, turned on the fan, and he scooped up his hair into a ponytail with his fingers as the makeshift hairband. he made sure to tuck his hoodie strings in his shirt before he flopped down onto the floor, sweatpants and a bath mat softening the blow. he began recklessly forcing three fingers down the back of his throat. after five minutes, nothing much came up and techno started panicking. he shoved his fingers back down until his vision turned spotty and he turned numb.
“—ou okay? you’ve been in there for over an hour?”
techno woke up to someone banging on the door. he realized then that he’d passed out. he also realized then that it’d been a while since had done so.
“techno?”
the voice was waiting for an answer. techno starting wondering if he was dreaming, but then it said:
“techno? we’re coming in there!”
his mind instantly cleared, but there was nothing he could do. the bathroom door swung open. wilbur came in and looked directly at him, then to the toilet. techno could see the recognition in his eyes. wilbur quickly whipped back around and closed the door after phil entered, locking it to keep tommy and tubbo out. they were too young. techno knew this. he didn’t want them to know. he didn’t want to influence them in any way.
“can you guys leave. i’m fine.”
techno had sat up, his knees pulled to his chest as he watched his fingers twisting his hair into a side braid.
“cut the bullshit. you were throwing up. it’s still in the fucking toilet, techno.”
wilbur’s words seeped into techno’s chest, through his brittle bones, and they circled his heart, giving it a tight squeeze. phil didn’t even reprimand him about his language.
“yeah i don’t know, maybe something in the sauce was bad-“
“techno. your knuckles are red.”
he said it so matter of factly, and techno sucked in a breath. he quickly exhaled and glanced over at the unusually quiet phil, wanting to avoid the confrontation with wilbur. phil was holding back tears, biting his cheek, and looking straight at techno’s face. techno decided immediately that confrontation with wilbur would be better.
“i think i just hit them when i fell.”
techno looked straight into wilbur’s eyes as the lie slid effortlessly off his tongue. wilbur let out a noise that sounded like a scoff.
“do you think we haven’t noticed? do you think i haven’t noticed? i’m your brother, techno. i,”
his voice faultered.
”i love you. but you’re fucking killing yourself. can’t you see that? you don’t eat. you’ve lost like 30 pounds-“
41.6, techno corrected in his head.
“-if not more! you look like a ghost. it’s like you just faded away one day without telling anyone. you’re still here, but it’s like it’s not you. i miss you.”
wilbur’s voice was insanely desperate, there were tears freely flowing down his cheeks. wilbur had never been afraid to cry, but techno had never been the reason why he had before. it caused his heart break in two, but he forced it to stitch itself back up with the empty promise of 99 pounds. he couldn’t lose this.
“i don’t know what you’re taking about. i’m right here wil, and i’m perfectly fine.”
wilbur slammed his fist down on the sink angrily and stormed out of the bathroom, pushing past tommy and tubbo, which techno got only a small glimpse of before the door was slammed shut. he felt his heart’s makeshift stitches give way as the doorframe rattled, and it crumbled into a million pieces.
he was always closer to wilbur than anyone in his family, them being closest in age. wilbur was his best friend. he never wanted to push him away, but he knew he couldn’t let up. techno felt like he could be sick again. he eyed phil once more, who was crying now, head cradled in his hands. techno had to swallow back bile.
“dad,”
techno tried. phil raised his head and looked his eldest child in the eyes. they looked empty. inhuman. they darted back down to the floor.
“i’m really okay. i’ve got everything under control. there’s nothing wrong. i promise you.”
phil chuckled, but there was no amusement in it.
“oh, techno.”
the only two words he said before he stood up and walked toward his kid. he flushed the toilet, and gently grabbed techno’s arms to lift him up. placing one hand on the boy’s back, he tried to ignore the feeling of the bones sticking out.
phil led them to the sink. he grabbed a washcloth and held it under the faucet for a second, bringing it up to techno’s face and cleaning it. he then reached below the sink to grab peroxide and a cotton ball. he grabbed for techno’s right hand silently, but techno jerked it away out of habit. phil looked up at him, still silent, with such a look of care and despair that techno reluctantly reached it back out. phil took it into his own rough hands and wet it. he then squirted the peroxide on a cotton ball and gently dabbed at techno’s knuckles. techno winced and phil stopped to give him a moment to adjust to the pain. he was being so gentle, so careful, that techno couldn’t stop himself from crying.
his mind was yelling at him, telling him to stop, to push him away, push everyone away. it told him that phil didn’t really care, he was just doing what he had to. he would get in trouble if they weren’t being cared for. but the look in phil’s eyes seemed so genuine that techno didn’t know what to believe. it made him cry more. he wished his brain would just shut up.
you’re still too fat! you still weigh too much! they’re going to make you get even fatter if they know... deny everything! stop crying you worthless pig!
the screams were deafening in the silent room.
“i’m so tired, dad.”
techno’s voice was barely a whisper and extremely hoarse from his bout of purging and crying.
“i know. it’ll be okay. you’ll be able to get some rest soon. i promise.”
techno leaned his head down against his dad’s shoulders. phil wrapped his arm around his son.
“can you make the voices stop? i’m so sick of them.”
phil reached for his braid, which was already half unraveled due to it not being tied off, and began to undo the rest. he then ran his fingers through techno’s hair, not failing to notice how much of it came out when he did so.
“we can get you help, techno. from people who know how to make them stop. you are so strong, kid.”
he didn’t feel strong. he felt like the weakest person on earth at the moment. a desperate plea sat on the top of his tongue, and it exposed itself before he could stop it.
“please don’t make me get fat.”
his voice was less quiet and more frantic now as he began to realize what was going to come next. everyone always talked about what to do so you don’t get caught, but no one ever talked about what came after you already did.
“techno. you’re not going to get fat. you’re going to get healthy. stable enough to support your body. do you understand that your body is giving out? you’re dying right in front of our eyes.”
he pictured them all at his funeral. his body already skeletal after only being dead for a few days. he imagined tommy and tubbo having to go out and buy funeral suits because neither already had one. he could see them crying as they lowered his casket in the ground. he could see wilbur tucking his favorite guitar pick into techno’s cold hands before he stood back and watched from the distance with a stoic expression. techno had always been his biggest supporter when it came to his dream of being a musician. techno could see the empty chair at the dinner table as phil kept making family dinners because they were the only thing keeping them together anymore. techno felt disgusted in himself.
his body became weak as he started crying harder, phil squeezing him closer so his sobs were somewhat muffled by his shirt.
“i don’t want to leave you guys.”
“we don’t want you to leave either.”
techno had been so used to the voices telling him that no one cared, that he was unloveable, that he was better off dead. the concept of actually truly being cared about felt so foreign and a large part of him didn’t want to trust phil, but he forced that part into an ironclad box and locked it away in the back of his brain.
maybe things were bad right now. but they would get better. most likely slowly, he knew that, but that was okay. he knew recovery wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it. to be able to see his brothers again. to be able to listen to one of wilbur’s new songs, to discuss another one of tubbo’s stupid philosophical questions, or to watch tommy do some stupid stunt that probably wasn’t safe but he didn’t care because it was fun. to be able to sit down and enjoy a family meal and not think about it. to be happy.
techno kept coming up with new reasons why he wanted to recover as they all piled into phil’s car and drove to the hospital. techno listened to tommy and tubbo telling him some crazy story as he was weighed with his back toward the numbers. techno held wilbur’s hand as the staff put a tube up his nose to give him nutrients since he couldn’t even finish more than three spoonfuls of the soup they brought him. techno hid his face in his dad’s arm as they diagnosed him with anorexia nervosa—purging subtype— and suggested he be put in inpatient. techno hugged his family goodbye as they were told visiting hours were over. techno hugged himself to sleep as he spent his first night in recovery alone.