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John was an insatiable child.
His first word was 'more'. More hugs, more toys, more food. His mother gave him strange looks each time he asked for seconds at the dinner table, but his father would roll his eyes and say, "he's a growing boy, Nora, let him have some more."
He's not sure when that stopped happening. Over time, his father stopped speaking up, and the extra food stopped coming.
John was seven when he overheard his mother call him 'husky' while talking to the maid. She looked disgusted as the words left her mouth, and John didn't know what that word meant, but he knew it wasn't good.
He went to his room and stood in front of the mirror for a long time.
His face was round, and his stomach was squishy, but Gamma used to always say that's where the extra love goes in babies, because their little bodies just can't hold it all.
But he's not a baby anymore. Bobby makes sure to remind him of that—often. Bruises litter his arms and knees—a few are scattered across his back—from their play fights. It's just a game Bobby likes to play. John hopes it's a game. It has to be a game because Bobby loves him.
Praise was sparse in the Carter household, but John discovered that when he left food on his plate, a "good boy, John. Learning when to stop when you're full" would always follow.
But he wasn't full.
He was never full.
But that ache, that gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach, that was what love felt like.
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When John was twelve, and Bobby had passed, his grandfather pushed him to join the wrestling team. "It's a fine sport for a young man to learn the foundation of masculinity," he'd said, "and it'll look impressive on your business school applications."
John was tall; he'd hit his first growth spurt the year before and had slimmed down. At 65 inches tall, he weighed in at 100 pounds, placing him firmly in the lightest weight class.
John thrilled at the number on the scale, the admiration of his coach, and the jealousy from the other boys of his height. It meant that what he was doing was working, that he might finally be good enough for other people to love.
Through wrestling, he made his very first friend—Derek Porter. He was short. Strong. He just barely hit 60 inches tall, but he was in John's weight class. Where John was all long, gangly limbs, Derek was stocky and solid.
During their first match together, both boys hunched low—trepidation and awe in John's eyes; hunger in Derek's—he slid his hand between John's thighs and grasped, tossing the boy over his shoulder and flat onto the mat with ease.
The coach slapped the mat and blew his whistle—the bout was over. Derek had won, and John couldn't breathe. Blinking the stars out of his eyes, he saw Derek standing over him, a cocky grin on his face.
He held out his hand. "Didn't expect that one, did you, Johnny?"
Johnny. He'd never been given a nickname before; at least, not one that sent his head reeling and his stomach fluttering.
"I let you win that one, buddy," he sniffed.
John took his hand and let Derek pull him up to his feet.
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Derek is incredible. John's taken to him like Derek is the sun and John is a planet, orbiting around him. They spend nearly all of their free time together, and John's so full that he forgets to think about it. That dark shadow lingering just out of sight has been eviscerated by the force of Derek's light.
With all of his thoughts going to Derek, John has little room for anything else.
One Friday, after school, he's lying on Derek's bedroom floor, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. Mother never let him have any of those.
Derek's impish face peeks over the side of the bed.
"Hey. You wanna wrestle?"
He rolls his eyes. "Why? You just wanna hand my ass to me again?"
"I dunno, Johnny, you've been getting stronger. You've had me on the back foot a lot recently."
The praise sings through his bloodstream, and John clambers to his feet. "Alright, you're on, tough guy."
Derek slips off his bed and tugs off his shirt. John freezes, his face heating up—he's not sure why, it's not like he hasn't seen this before, but that's usually in the locker room. Surrounded by their teammates. Never… alone.
Derek sees him staring and shrugs. "What? You thought I was gonna make it easy for you? Now you can't cheat by hanging onto my shirt, dude."
That makes sense. John doesn't know why he tried to make it weird, and now Derek's looking at him expectantly. His eyes flick to the hem of his shirt. John's fingers go cold, his ears start to buzz, but this is Derek. Derek is safe.
He whips his shirt over his head and tries not to think about it. He tries to look his friend in the eye, but Derek is too busy studying the planes of his chest and abdomen. John's hands start to sweat.
"C'mon, man. We gonna go or what?" He coughs, trying anything to draw the focus away from his body.
Derek drops into a practiced squat and nods.
The grapple for a while, neither one really getting the upper hand, when Derek pulls out the one move that sends John reeling.
His hand slips between his thighs—much higher than necessary—and heaves John over his shoulder, sending him bouncing onto his bed, bright laughter falling from his lips.
John loves that move. How it makes him feel weightless for just a moment, the euphoria of being overpowered, of his friend's hands on him, there's no place he'd rather be—
"Good lord, Johnny," Derek teases, panting, "You sure you're gonna make weight next week?"
His whole body goes cold, his laughter abruptly stops.
No. Not him, too. Derek was supposed to be good; he was supposed to understand.
John doesn't eat anything else for the rest of the weekend.
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He tries track and field during his junior year of high school, after wrestling wasn't enough to keep the shame at bay. Derek told him he was crazy for wanting to add running for fun after all the conditioning they already had to do for the team.
But John took a shine to running. He wasn't a distance runner by any means—he always got too winded too fast, no matter how much he trained—but the 440 was his event.
The lactic acid building in his muscles, the ache of overused lungs, the wind blowing his hair back from his face—it reminded him of the way he felt when Derek used to toss him around. That same euphoria.
The very first track meet, John had run extra laps before school to prepare. He couldn't wait to feel the praise, the love, for taking home the gold.
The pistol fires, and he's off. He's fast, his form is clean, and he can taste the victory on his tongue. He can't wait be full—
"Johnny!"
John wakes up sprawled across the grass, knees and chin bloody. He'd fainted. He'd fucking passed out during his first ever meet. Thank God his parents couldn't come; he's not sure he could handle their disappointment.
Derek is kneeling above him, brows knit together, concern etched into his face as he assesses the damage. He brings his hand up to cup John's jaw, and he feels faint again.
"Hey!" There's a light tap on his cheek, and he lets his eyes roll open again. "Stay awake, man. I'll take care of you, don't worry."
Somehow, John believes him.
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Derek made him sleep over that night. He said it was to keep an eye on him so he wouldn't do anything stupid. But John knows something else is up. He's had this look in his eye for months, something like pity. He hates that look; it reminds him of his parents, of his teachers after Bobby died.
They lie side by side on Derek's bed, staring at the few glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck on the ceiling. The ones that have stood the test of time, not seduced by gravity like their fallen brethren. John wishes he could have that same resolve.
Gently, Derek takes John's hand in his and laces their fingers together.
"Johnny?" He starts, hesitant, "I think you need help."
John stares at the stars in silence for a while before he squeezes the warm, calloused hand in his, swallows around the dryness in his throat, and whispers, "I think I do, too."
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It takes time, but John does get better.
His therapist tells him that healing isn't linear. That he can't expect to be magically cured after their sessions. Little does she know, John is a perfectionist. It's been hard, but he doesn't really see his parents much, anyway, plus Derek's constant presence in his life made relapsing a rare occasion. Slowly, but surely, he gained weight and filled out his full six-foot frame.
Derek always made sure to keep comments about John's body to himself and never changed how physical he was with him. It made John feel safe and normal, two things he'd never considered himself before.
His therapist had tried to convince John that he was relying too heavily on Derek. That she’s 'afraid of what might happen if Derek were to leave'. He told her that was bullshit and there's nothing wrong with their friendship. He stopped seeing her around that time. There was no need, after all—John was fixed.
Six years later, he wishes he'd listened to her a little closer. While they both went to Northwestern and stayed close friends and roommates through graduation, John's in med school now, and Derek has gone on to start his career. They don't see each other much anymore—class and rotations are a bitch to schedule around.
John goes to his floor's Halloween party—alone, for the first time ever. He's determined to prove that he's capable, he's sociable, he's not broken. He's dressed as Luke Skywalker from Return of the Jedi (it was the easiest to throw together last minute, he really only needed to buy some boots and a fancy belt (he already owned the lightsaber)).
It's cramped and loud, sweaty and liquor-soaked, but the whiskey coats his brain in a pleasant fog as he hugs the wall and scans his eyes over the room.
"Hey, stranger," a girl from one of his classes greets. She’s dressed as Madonna, red lips and a conical bra that John tried not to stare at.
"Oh, hey," he smiles and sticks his hand out, "I'm John!"
She's got a glint in her eye that he doesn't recognize, and she laughs at the gesture. "Michelle."
They talk for a bit, and John finds himself loosening up even more. She’s pretty. Tall, blonde, deep brown eyes that he could lose himself in. She’s also touchy. Manicured fingers trailing along his forearm, the other pressing against his shoulder as she looks between his eyes and mouth. He starts to get nervous, unsure if he likes where this is going.
"Well, it was nice meeting y—" she cuts him off with a kiss.
John's never been kissed before. He'd spent all of his teen years with Derek, they were attached at the hip, there was no room for girls—what they had was enough.
Her lips are sticky, but taste sweet against the vodka soda on her tongue. He finds himself leaning into the kiss—it feels nice, this small bit of connection. She pulls away too soon, and he sways towards her.
Her palm flat against his chest stops him. "You wanna get out of here?"
John nods dumbly, and she grins.
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Her dorm is small, but it was closer than his apartment. She hasn't stopped touching him since they arrived—her hands in his hair, roaming along his back, petting his arms—and he's never felt more wanted.
All he wants is to lie back on the bed and have her on top of him forever. Basking in the warmth of her touch. It doesn't happen like that, though. She climbs onto the bed and sprawls out, propped up on her elbows.
"C'mere, big boy, show me what you've got," she purrs.
He doesn't like that. The pet name. He shakes it off and crawls up the mattress after her.
He presses a sweet kiss to her jaw and trails them down her neck. She smells fruity, something with apple, maybe? He's not sure, but it's nice.
Michelle sighs sweetly at his attention and tugs his shirt out from where it's tucked into his pants. She trails her hands underneath and makes contact with his stomach—
"Oh!" She chirps, surprised, and John goes cold.
He knows that tone. It's the 'what a big boy you've got there, Jack,' that board members would coo at him as a child, derisive and cloying. It's the pointed 'a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips' from the cook when he'd ask for an afterschool snack. It's the 'you think you'll make weight next week, Johnny?' from Derek.
He knows he's gained weight—hell, he'd been trying to gain weight. But the feeling of her cold fingers pressing into the squish of his stomach makes his skin crawl. He feels monstrous holding himself above her like this. He can feel his stomach and chest hanging beneath him, and the fat under his chin pressed against her slender neck. His breath quickens, and his heart races in his chest.
Michelle course corrects quickly—her hand pulling his belt from its buckle—but it's too late. John can see the darkness closing in on him again, that all too familiar shadow crawling back from deep inside of him.
He gets up so fast he falls off the bed.
"John!?"
He has to leave he has to leave he has to leave.
"Hey, hang on a second, are you okay?"
He scrambles to get up from the floor. Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me.
There's a hand wrapped around his bicep. "Wait! Did I do something wrong?"
He turns around, eyes wide and wild, to see her confused and a little angry. She’s disappointed. She wanted him to be thinner, fitter, better.
He pulls his arm out of her grip. "I can't—I'm sorry—I have to—" he chokes out around the bile rising in his throat.
His vision is fading into gray, and the buzzing in his ears is drowning out everything around him.
He throws open the door and flees.
His belt is still undone.
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County General is a beast he's never encountered before—there's noise and people all around him, and he feels unmoored, lost in the sea of convalescence and pestilence. He tries to figure out where he's supposed to be, but he looks like the only person without a purpose.
What are the odds that I'm the only medical student on rotation here? Am I sure today is my start date? Everyone seems far too busy for me to interrupt. They just told me to meet in the ER. Maybe I'll just—ding!—fuck, okay, don't touch anything else. I hope no one's looking at—
"John Carter?" A warm, commanding voice breaks through the storming thoughts in his head.
"Yes, sir." The man is tall and handsome. He moves with a swagger that screams confidence and competence, and John is mesmerized.
"Peter Benton. You the surgical student?"
"Yep, third year." Thank God. Someone to tell me what to do.
"Good. We're going to be spending a lot of time together."
He gestures and John follows.
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Dr. Benton is incredible.
Carter hangs onto his every word, attention glued to every move he makes. It's only been a few months since he started his rotation, but he knows that he wants to stay here—stay with him—forever.
Even a drop of attention from the resident fills him with the heavy warmth of satisfaction, skin prickling with pleasure. It's not been easy, but Carter can confidently say that he's learning so much more under Dr. Benton than he did in his other rotations. The man actually cares about his education, even though he does his best not to show it. It's obvious in the way he stands during a procedure, making sure Carter always has eyes on his hands, the way he narrates the steps he takes to evaluate a trauma, even though everyone else in the room already knows.
Carter is so incredibly lucky that he met Dr. Benton. He feels better than he has in a long time, not since Derek—
He can't think about that right now; that's not him anymore. He's got the first bit of downtime in hours, and he's going to take a well-deserved nap. Surely Mr. Patterson won't mind a roommate—he coded over an hour ago, just waiting on morgue transport.
"Carter!" Dr. Benton barks from the doorway, startling him upright out of sleep.
"What are you doing?"
Oh no, he seems disappointed, but John's brain still isn't fully online. "'m sleeping," he says, dumbly.
"Okay, well, you sleep when I tell you to sleep," he's definitely disappointed. "Now come on, get up. I've got a new student I need you to break in."
New student? Dr. Benton got another student? Why? Isn't John enough?
A nervous, wisp of a girl bounds into the doorway. She’s standing far too close to Dr. Benton, and Carter feels the hair on his arms rise. His resident totally brushes them off and tells Carter 'she's all yours', but Carter can't shake the ache in his chest, so he hurries into the hall after him.
"Uhh, Dr. Benton! You're not going up to the—"
"Yes, I am. And no, you can't. I've got wall-to-wall surgeries with a prima donna from Boston, and the last thing I need to do is babysit you," he gives Carter a once-over and leaves before he can respond.
He wasn't mean, he wasn't angry, he wasn't even derisive. But he was apathetic—as though Carter wasn't even a concern for him. And that's so much worse.
Carter forces his breathing to remain steady as he gives this 'Deb' a facsimile of the tour Dr. Benton gave him on his first day. But he doesn't really pay attention to what he's saying or doing or if she's even following—the shadows are closing in. His stomach is twisting and tightening. His nails bite into his palms as he tries to ground himself, but he knows there are only two things that can silence the noise and banish the shadows.
And one of them just abandoned him in the ER.
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John is sick. He's a sick man, but he could not be more pleased that Deb is gone. She'd made a stupid mistake and fled from the consequences. Which means that Peter is all John's again.
Good riddance.
He had been doing so well, lately—he hopes Peter has noticed. His pants are fitting looser and he's gone down an entire scrub size—surely that's enough for Peter to recognize; to see just how good John can be.
He can feel everyone's eyes linger on him longer than they used to, but none of them matter. He only wants to bask and preen in the light of Peter's undivided attention. John gets his wish when he least expects it.
There's a kid, she’s got type 1 diabetes, and she's being incredibly stubborn about the whole thing.
"I know I shouldn't eat ice cream," she mumbles, not looking either of them in the eye.
"You should've taken your insulin today." Peter's voice is low, but firm, and he doesn't take his eyes off her face. "And yesterday. And the day before." Carter aches to be seen that deeply.
"What are you talking about? You took it, Sam, didn't you?" The mother, clueless as ever, tries to help. But she’s too blind to recognize anything going on with her own child. They always are.
"I'm tired of being sick—I don't wanna be different," the girl whines. She's in denial of her reality, it's almost sad to see, Carter thinks. "I'll go blind—I read it in the encyclopedia—it's not fair!"
Peter assesses her for a moment before sitting on the edge of her bed. "You have an illness. You wanna pretend you don't. Where's that gonna get you, hm?" He sounds so matter-of-fact that John is compelled to listen to him, even though he's not the one who's sick.
"I don't know…"
"You have to accept the way things are. So maybe you won't be exactly like everybody else, but if you don't take your insulin, you'll die." Carter's mouth hangs open; he can't believe that Dr. Benton would be so blunt! It's obvious that the girl's never been told this so directly before; her face is scrunched in indignation, but her eyes are filled with fear that slowly melts into resignation.
The girl's mother is nearly in tears, but Carter can't help but have contempt for her. If she'd merely paid attention to her daughter, they wouldn't be here right now.
After a few beats of silence, Peter stands. "I'll be back to check on you."
Carter rushes out of the room closely behind his mentor and grabs his shoulder. "Dr. Benton, the way you talked to her, that was great!"
Peter stops and turns to face him fully. Carter can't read the expression on his face, but he shivers under the weight of his eyes trailing down his body and back up to his face.
He must not like what he sees because he snorts, "Yeah, sure, Carter," and turns back toward the elevator bay.
"Dr. Benton, what do you want from me?" He feels pathetic, laying his desperation out like this, but he's out of options, and he doesn't know what to do anymore. He craves his attention; it's his strongest vice.
"I don't want anything from you, Carter." The words land like daggers in his chest. "The question is, what do you want for yourself?"
John can feel the world darkening around him; the static flooding his ears and sapping the warmth from his extremities is a familiar friend at this point. He can't speak around the lump in his throat, so he does the only thing he can—he flees.
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He successfully avoids Dr. Benton for the rest of their shift. Honestly, he couldn't tell you a single thing about the last four hours. He was on autopilot, trapped in the recesses of his own mind, watching every negative interaction he's ever had with his resident on repeat.
He's halfway to his car at the top of the garage, debating the risks of driving home when he's like this, when he's interrupted.
"Carter, wait."
Dr. Benton.
John turns to face him. Usually, the proximity would send his heart aflutter and warm him through. But now, he's just numb. The ache in his stomach isn't enough to break through the haze anymore.
He holds John's gaze, challenging, waiting to see who breaks first.
"What's going on with you, man?" His hands are on his hips, like a disappointed father.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't bullshit me," he growls, lowly.
"It's not bullshit! As much as you'd like to believe otherwise, I'm not a mind reader," he sneers.
"You don't take lunch anymore," he says simply, apropos of nothing.
John feels suddenly defensive. "With all of the free time you give me? Yeah, I'll be sure to get right on that. Now, if you don't mind, I'd really like to go home."
Peter steps in between John and his car.
"I don't like you keeping secrets from me, Carter."
"Give me a fucking break! Like you even care? As soon as there's anything else to focus on, you toss me aside like you can't wait to get rid of me! Thank God Deb quit, or else I'd never have any of your attention again!" He knows he sounds like a child, but he can't keep this inside anymore.
"That's ridiculous, I needed you to teach her the ropes. God forbid I trust you!"
"Trust me? All you do is treat me like an idiot! Nothing I do is right, and just when I finally feel like I'm getting the hang of this, I turn around, and you're nowhere to be found." Tears start to sting his eyes, and John furiously blinks them away.
"It should be a compliment to you that I don't feel the need to babysit you every second of every day."
"Would it kill you to pay attention to me? To notice where I'm succeeding, not just where I'm lacking?" Carter's not proud of the way his voice breaks.
Peter gives him a hard stare and says nothing.
"Right. Goodnight, Dr. Benton." Carter steps around him and puts his key in the door.
"You've lost weight."
A thrill runs through him, and he stills with his hand on the handle—he noticed. But Peter doesn't sound appreciative.
"You don't take meal breaks or partake in any of the snacks brought in by staff. Why?"
"Does it matter?" He huffs, uncomfortable.
"It does to me."
Carter warily looks over his shoulder. Peter looks angry, and that just sets him on the defensive even more. He turns to face him fully. "I don't see why, it's not like I'm your responsibility. 'Residents aren't supposed to be your friend', remember?"
"Because I care about you, Carter! I am worried about you."
Peter grips his biceps in both hands and winces when his fingers are much closer to touching than they should be.
"You asked me what I want from you, earlier. I want you to talk to me," he's shaking Carter slightly as he speaks, like he's trying to hammer the words into him, "I need you to know that you can come to me about anything and I will listen because, Carter, for better or for worse, I love you, man. And it kills me to know that you're hurting alone because you don't think you can come to be about it."
Tears start rolling down his cheeks as he stares at Peter in disbelief. He said it. He loves him. That means his efforts are working.
"I'm so glad you noticed, Dr. Benton. I'm really trying to show you that I can be good, I can behave," he smiles shakily.
The grip on his arms tightens, just slightly, and his eyes widen at the steely shift in Peter's eyes.
"What do you mean by 'behave', Carter?" Peter grits out slowly.
"… I feel like this is a trap."
"You're a doctor, man, you have to know that this shit is awful for you," he sighs.
"My personal life is none of your business."
"No? Will it be my business when you pass out during a trauma because you're hypoglycemic? What about when your hair starts to fall out from malnutrition? Will it be my business when your hands won't stop shaking, and you can't hold a scalpel? No. I guess it's only my business when you drop dead, right?"
They stare at each other for a long time.
"I know you're suffering, man. Please. Please just let me help," he pleads.
Carter's face crumples, and he curls in on himself—he doesn't want Peter to see him like this. But Peter pulls him into his chest and wraps his arms around his shaking frame like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"It's gonna be okay, man," he murmurs into his hair, "we're gonna get you help. I promise." He presses a kiss to the top of Carter's head as they rock back and forth.
John feels safe and protected in Peter's embrace—he's so warm—and the buzzing in his ears dies down as feeling starts to return to his fingertips. He didn't realize how long it had been since he'd been known like this. How desperately he'd needed to be seen.
For the first time in a long time, John feels the warmth of the sun on his skin, shining through the shadows that cling to him. He's been hungry for so long, he forgot what it's like to feel full.
But he'll learn.
He never has to be hungry again.