Work Text:
More.
There’s always more.
Another tart, another crumble, another biscuit, pudding, pie. Another dish of ice cream, another slice of cake, another pot of coffee.
Charles licks the icing off a cupcake, before cramming the rest of it down his throat, swallowing thickly. Sugar crystals cling to his lips, and coat his tongue. It might be chocolate flavored. He sticks a greedy hand into a bowl of toffees, and only manages enough restraint to unwrap three of the seven he shoves in his mouth. Perhaps he’d eaten the cupcake liner as well. He couldn’t be sure.
Food sits in his stomach like wet cement. Bubbling and churning. Thick, heavy, sugary mush.
The waistband of his trousers digs into his skin, his fly having burst open long ago; braces the only thing keeping them up, and failing fast. The straps bite into his shoulder blades viciously, straining more and more, with every piece of food that lands in his roiling gut.
He’s hungry, even though he shouldn’t be.
For tears to wet his eyes he’d need more water in his system than the weak tea and black coffee he was afforded here. He was only thankful not to be sat near the soda fountain in the corner, where damned souls wrapped their lips around the sticky taps, and drank until they drowned.
And he was thankful, at least, that he had Edwin beside him. Even if their mouths hadn’t been empty enough to utter a single word to one another, since this all began.
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“Charles!” Edwin shouted. “Quickly!”
From behind them, Charles heard the screams of the doll spider, echoing off the walls of the Dollhouse— like burning cinders, and children’s laughter, and cutlery scraping away at fine china.
“We must keep moving!”
“On it, mate!” Charles called back, as they picked their way through Gluttony’s gruesome aisles. He plunged forward into the masses that choked the space, grabbing Edwin’s hand, to pull him along.
The stench of vomit permeated through the air, clinging to the walls, and carpet; sickly sweet, and astringent, like spoiled milk that’s been left out in the sun. All around them, people ate as if they were trying to swallow the Earth whole, into their gaping maws. Eyes glazed over, hands and faces covered in sticky icing, cake crumbs, their own rotten saliva. And every surface was covered in food.
Charles didn’t see the woman with her grabby hands, and frantic expression grab Edwin by the collar. Or the slice of cake she crammed down his throat. He didn’t know that somewhere, in one of the deeper layers of Hell, someone was re-filing Edwin Payne’s certificate of ownership— that a new contract had been signed the moment Gluttony got its way around his lips, and settled with a gurgle in his stomach.
But he did feel it when Edwin let go of his hand.
Charles turned around, and saw Edwin’s face covered in crumbs and icing. He saw the desperate look on his best friend’s face, and heard the barest whisper of an apology, before Edwin, shaking, reached a hand up to cradle Charles’ face.
“I love you...”
And suddenly there was trifle in his mouth.
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And it’s hazy. After that... Time stops, and this... is all there is. There’s food, and there’s hunger, and there’s bile, foul tasting, and ever present in the back of his throat— And there’s Edwin, out of the corner of his eye... condemned to the same fate. To grab, and chew, and swallow. To mindlessly consume everything that appears in front of them— eating themselves out of their own clothes; stomachs rounding out further and further with every bite.
Edwin pops another button, and Charles hears him moan in relief. A little more room for his aching gut to spread out on his lap. And Charles summons a bit of strength, to angle his chair towards him, and get a better look at his best friend.
Edwin’s hair is a rumpled mess. His face is covered in icing, thick and white, and dripping down his chin; crusted over with age at the corners of his mouth. His clothes are ill-fitting around his bulging middle— straining over a pillowing chest and thighs, and stained with everything from coffee, to caramel, to the blood of other condemned who’ve gotten too close. He’s completely disheveled, and Charles is sure he looks much the same, down to the dark circles under his eyes, overworked jaw, and ever expanding gut.
Soft, round. Forged by sheer gluttony, and temptation.
Charles bites down on a soggy crescent roll like it’s a bullet, and reaches out to put a hand on Edwin’s knee. The other boy looks at him. Up and down, with tired, worried eyes. Their mouths are occupied, but they make do.
Charles stares at Edwin. He pets his soft thigh, and tries to let him know that he’s still here. That, despite their biblical torment, everything Hell has done to them, he will always be here. And that he loves Edwin too.
And slowly, he sees recognition wash over Edwin’s face, and he blinks in response. And it’s sweet, and beautiful, and it’s the most precious thing they’ve shared in a long time.
He tastes acid.
Charles vomits. He manages to turn away from Edwin, the table, and misses his shirt, thankful for small mercies, and is relieved by the way his swollen belly softens under his hand; empty only briefly.
Their moment is broken.
He reaches for another cupcake.