Archive of Our Own ^beta

The hum of the lights in the training ground locker room was a constant, low thrum against Martin’s frayed nerves. It was the sound of a thousand tiny calculations, a silent auditor of every calorie, every tremor of self-doubt. He stood there, rigid, almost afraid to move, not quite looking at his reflection.

And yet, he felt it: the planes and angles of his body, the way his chest curved, the softness lingering around his waist, the tiny swell of muscle that wasn’t quite lean enough.

Too soft. Still too soft.

Then, Kai emerged from the showers.

Martin’s breath hitched in the hollow of his chest, a sharp, familiar constriction. Kai, towel slung low on his hips, moved with a natural, unstudied grace that Martin could not hope to emulate.

His skin was pale, almost luminous, stretched over limbs that were impossibly long, impossibly lean. Every rib was a delicate ridge, every sinew a fine, shining wire. He was a cathedral of bone and muscle, built effortlessly, naturally. He was everything Martin was not.

What had started as an innocent desire to be fitter, faster, more agile on the pitch had metastasized into a relentless obsession. Every calorie counted. Every meal weighed. Every glance at Kai was a reminder of his own inadequacy.

The resentment had begun as admiration, a low thrum of envy. But it had grown, wormed into him, a live thing coiling around his ribs and heart.

Why did Kai get to be like that? Why could he eat without consequence, glide past defenders with the wind at his back, remain impossibly perfect while Martin fought for every breath, every gram of lean muscle, every illusion of control?

In the cafeteria, Martin sat down at the table with his small portion of salad, the cherry tomatoes bright red, mocking. Beside him, Kai unfolded his long limbs into a chair, a plate piled high with pasta, chicken, and salad landing effortlessly in front of him. Martin’s stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with a familiar, corrosive envy.

Kai ate with a careless grace Martin could never replicate. He didn't think about it. He just… consumed. The pasta disappeared without hesitation, the chicken torn easily with strong, lean fingers. There was no pause, no calculation in his eyes. He was built like a greyhound, naturally slender, effortlessly defined.

Martin watched the subtle shift of muscle under Kai’s thin training shirt as he reached for his water bottle, the way his collarbones formed sharp, elegant lines above the neckline. It wasn’t bulk, it was streamlined efficiency. Perfection.

A wave of cold resentment washed over Martin, bitter as bile. He pushed the salad away. He’d meticulously tracked every calorie that morning: black coffee, half a rice cake, this cursed salad. Yet, looking at Kai felt like looking at a living indictment. Kai didn’t skip meals. Kai didn’t count almonds. Kai just was. Thin. Beautiful. Effortless.

"That’s all you’re eating? You worked hard in training today, you need more food than that." Kai said worried, his voice light, oblivious to the storm raging beside him. He took another large bite of chicken.

Martin forced a thin smile. "I don’t like eating immediately after training, I will eat a proper meal at home." The lie tasted like ash.

Inside, the poisonous voice whispered: Look at him. Look how easy it is for him. You’ll never look like that. You have to work harder. Be stricter.

He remembered the months of grueling restriction that had preceded his recent, fragile attempt at recovery. The dizzy spells during training, the constant, gnawing cold, the terrifying feeling of his own heartbeat echoing too loudly in his hollow chest.

He’d been hospitalised briefly, quietly. The club didn’t know, nobody knew, he wouldn’t let them find out. He’d been clawing his way back, forcing down protein shakes, trying to see food as fuel again, not the enemy. Seeing Kai felt like sliding backwards.

Then came the knock-out blow. It was during a break in drills, Mikel had called him over. Martin approached, head down, hoping to keep the moment brief. But Mikel’s eyes lingered, sharp yet clinical, scanning him in a way that made Martin shrink under the scrutiny.

“Martin,” Mikel began, voice measured but unmistakably pointed. “I’ve noticed… you’ve put on a bit of weight recently.”

Martin froze, his stomach dropping, a cold hollow opening where his confidence used to live. The words were simple. Clinical. But in that instant, they became a verdict.

“I know you’ve been working hard,” Mikel continued, “but on the pitch, speed and agility matter. Extra weight can make a difference.” He paused, his eyes flickering down Martin’s frame almost absently. "You’ve been looking a little heavy through the middle lately."

The world stopped.

Heavy. The word detonated in Martin’s skull. It echoed, vicious and sharp, slicing through the fragile membrane of his recovery. The carefully constructed scaffolding holding him upright, the affirmations from his therapist, the tiny victories of eating a full meal without panic, collapsed in an instant.

He felt the blood drain from his face. A cold sweat broke out across his back despite the mild temperature. A few teammates had wandered by.

Kai was there, chatting and laughing with someone, completely unbothered. Unseen, effortless. And in that contrast, Martin saw the cruelest reflection of his own self-perceived failure.

Martin managed a stiff nod at Mikel, his throat closing tight. "Yes, boss." The words were barely audible.

The rest of the session was a blur of pounding heartbeats and roaring self-hatred. Every drill felt clumsy. Every touch felt leaden.

Mikel’s words played on a loop: Heavy… heavy… heavy… He imagined the fabric of his training top clinging to rolls of fat that only he could see. He imagined the disappointed stares of his teammates, the whispers behind his back.

That night, back in his silent apartment, the carefully stocked fridge became a landscape of terror. He stood before it, shivering despite the warmth.

The memory of Mikel’s casual comment warred violently with the ghostly image of Kai’s effortless frame. The resentment bloomed anew, dark and thick.

He doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t starve. He just IS. And you… you’re heavy.

The fragile peace he’d built shattered completely. With trembling hands, he bypassed the pre-portioned recovery meal he’d prepared. He filled a glass with water. Just water. He carried it to his room and placed it on the bedside table.

He didn’t eat dinner. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach wasn’t hunger anymore; it was punishment. It was control. It was the only way he knew to carve himself back into something acceptable, something closer to that impossible ideal embodied by Kai Havertz.

Lying in the dark, he pulled up pictures on his phone, not of Kai’s face, but of Kai’s physique. Shirtless shots, candid photos where his lean lines were visible beneath casual clothes.

He zoomed in on the sharp jut of Kai’s hip bone, the flat plane of his stomach. Martin traced his own fingers over his ribs, counting them beneath his skin, feeling the dip where his stomach should be flatter. Harder.

He opened a hidden calorie-counting app he’d sworn off weeks ago. He entered ‘Water: 0 calories’. Then he added the half rice cake and black coffee from the morning. 85 calories total for the day. A grim sense of accomplishment warred with a deep, yawning despair.

The resentment towards Kai curdled into something darker, almost intimate in its intensity. He hated him for his easy metabolism, for the way food didn’t terrify him, for existing as a constant, unattainable benchmark. He hated him because part of him desperately wanted to be him, to inhabit that body, to know that freedom.

But more than anything, Martin hated himself. For failing. For being weak enough to need recovery in the first place. For being weak enough to be shattered by one careless comment from his manager. For being ‘heavy’.

He closed the app and opened the photos again. Kai’s image glowed in the darkness of his room. Martin curled onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest, his empty stomach a cavern of echoing pain and self-loathing.

The fragile light of recovery had been extinguished, leaving only the cold, familiar darkness the haunting silhouette of Kai, a beautiful, unattainable reminder of everything he wasn't, and everything he felt compelled to destroy himself to become.