Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ben kept track of everything he ate. Not just meals, those were rare enough anyway, but every crumb, every sip of coffee, every single calorie that slipped past his lips. His notes app was full of lists and numbers, day after day scrolling down into infinity. Breakfast: 150. Lunch: 300. Dinner: skipped. Midnight snack: punished with the gym. He checked the math again and again, sometimes late at night when he couldn’t sleep, scrolling through his history like it could tell him whether he was worthy or not.

He weighed himself in secret. Always barefoot, always when the shower was running to cover the sound of the scale knocking against the tile. He hated how the number blinked at him, daring him to be satisfied, daring him to ever feel small enough. If the number dropped, he felt a second of relief, a rush that almost made it worth it. But then it vanished, replaced with the thought that he could still go lower. If it crept up even half a pound, his chest tightened, his stomach burned, and he punished himself with longer runs, skipped meals, purging until he was empty.

The mirror was worse. He would stand in front of it shirtless, nails digging into his skin as he pinched at his stomach, tugged at his sides until the skin was raw and red. His reflection never matched the way other people described him. They saw broad shoulders, strong arms, a man who looked good in fitted clothes. He saw flaws. Hips too wide, stomach never flat enough, softness clinging no matter how much he starved. Sometimes his eyes blurred with tears before he dragged a sweatshirt over his head, baggy enough to hide everything. Baggy clothes were his armor.

The Losers thought that was just Ben being Ben. They had always known him as the quiet one, the comfortable one. They did not notice how he pulled his sleeves down over his hands, how he never wore shorts, how long he lingered in the bathroom staring at his reflection. When Bev teased him about never showing off at the pool, he just shrugged and said he was not a pool guy. What he did not say was that the thought of peeling off his shirt in front of them made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

At group dinners, his brain was louder than their conversations. Pizza night? One slice, scrape off the cheese when no one is watching. Movie snacks? Pretend he was too invested in the film to reach for the popcorn. He would excuse himself to the bathroom after, splash cold water on his face, sometimes more than that. When he looked at his reflection in those moments, lips pale, wet hair sticking to his forehead, dark circles under his eyes, he told himself this was progress. That maybe if he got small enough, perfect enough, they would never have a reason to stop loving him.

But his body told a different story. Sitting too long on the couch made his bones ache. Climbing stairs left him dizzy. His hands shook, so he kept them in his pockets. His muscles were sore, not from strength but from emptiness. And still, he pushed through, smiling at Richie’s jokes, nodding at Mike’s stories, forcing himself to look steady even when the room tilted. He loved them too much to let them see. He thought the only way to deserve their love was to keep shrinking, keep disappearing.

It started with the gym. At first, he just wanted to run a little more, push himself, burn off the guilt of nights he thought he ate too much. When the others noticed, they cheered.

“Damn, Benny boy, look at you,” Richie said one night, whistling as Ben came back from the gym sweaty and pale.

“Turning into Superman over here.” Ben laughed because that was what they expected. Later, in the shower, he pinched his waist until it hurt. If Richie thought he looked good now, maybe he would love him more if he lost another five pounds.

Shopping trips became landmines. Bev dragged him into stores with Eddie and Mike trailing behind, shoving clothes into his arms. Jeans that hugged too tightly. Shirts that clung in ways he hated. He stepped out awkwardly, tugging at the hem, but Bev gasped in delight.

“Ben, you look so good. See? I told you fitted suits you.” Eddie nodded like it was obvious, and Mike added a proud smile.

The compliments should have soothed him. Instead, they burned. If they were this happy now, maybe they would be even happier if he kept getting smaller. He bought the clothes, shoved them into his closet, and went back to drowning himself in hoodies the next day.

He knew they meant well. That was the worst part. Every smile, every word of encouragement, every little shove toward “new Ben” came from love. They wanted him to feel confident, to feel good in his own skin. They did not know that every compliment twisted inside him until it felt like pressure. They were trying to give him freedom, but he turned it into rules. They thought they were helping. He could not blame them for not seeing through the act, for missing the cracks he hid so carefully. It wasn’t their fault. It was his.

Even dinners twisted into proof he was not good enough. He ordered salad instead of pasta, fruit instead of dessert. They teased him approvingly.

“Look at you, health king,” Richie joked, bumping his elbow. “Trying to make the rest of us look bad?” Everyone laughed.

Ben smiled too, but inside it turned into steel. He had to be the healthy one. He had to keep proving it. They thought he was disciplined. They thought he was proud. They did not see the way he stared at the breadbasket until he thought he would go crazy, counting calories in his head like they were sins.

Little things stacked up. Bev lent him one of her jackets once, just for fun, and said, “See? It fits now because you are not bulky anymore.”

Eddie, laughing at the fair, said he was “surprisingly light” when Ben carried him on his shoulders. Richie joked he could finally keep up in races. Stan, quiet but honest, once remarked during a bird-watching hike that Ben seemed to be “flying up the trail now, way faster than before,” like it was no big deal. Bill, watching him lift boxes at the new apartment, commented with a small smile, “You’re stronger than I thought,” and patted his shoulder. Mike, teasing but proud, nudged him during a late-night card game and said, “Man, you’re looking sharp, I can’t even tell you how much you’ve changed.” Each word hit like a gift and a curse. They meant to celebrate him. All he heard was proof that they liked him better this way, smaller, lighter, fading piece by piece.

So he let them believe it. He smiled, flexed, and joked back when they called him “new Ben.” And at night, when his stomach gnawed at him and his throat burned, when he lay awake listening to his own heartbeat drum against bones, he wondered how much more he would have to lose before he was finally enough.

— — —

The bell above the door chimed as the Losers piled into the small, bustling deli on the corner. Ben hung back slightly, scanning the menu with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Sandwiches, wraps, fries, milkshakes. Each calorie, each ingredient, cataloged in his head. He could feel Richie’s impatient stare on him already.

“Come on, Ben,” Richie said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Live a little! Grab something with actual cheese on it!”

Ben glanced at him, forcing a smile, his hand hovering over the “turkey and lettuce” wrap. “I’m… thinking healthy,” he said. The words tasted like iron in his mouth.

“Healthy?” Eddie said, grinning. “Buddy, when have you ever gone for anything less than wild? That’s not you.”

Bev nudged him gently, lips twitching in amusement. “It’s okay, Benny,” she said softly. “You do you. But a little indulgence won’t kill you.”

Ben laughed lightly, nodding. He picked a salad with extra chicken, no dressing. That would do. He silently cursed himself for even letting the thought of indulgence touch his mind.

The others plopped into the booth, already arguing over fries. Richie grabbed a milkshake the size of his head and held it up. “Bet you can’t finish this without making a face!”

“I think I’ll pass,” Ben said before giving a warm smile, eyes flicking to the number of fries piled high in front of Eddie. He counted the calories anyway, running the numbers in his head as the others laughed and joked. Each bite they took felt like a challenge. Could he eat? Could he dare?

Bev noticed him picking at his salad with slow precision. “Benny… you’re not eating enough,” she said lightly, nudging his plate. He shook his head, forcing a grin. “Just pacing myself.”

Richie leaned over, trying to shove a fry in his direction. “Seriously, man. Just one! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Ben took a slow, measured bite, pretending to chew thoughtfully while internally calculating the fallout. He could hear their chatter, jokes about sports, Richie’s constant mock-dramatic complaints about being full, Eddie’s endless questions, and Mike’s calm commentary on the world. He laughed where appropriate, nodded, made a small comment or two. He felt like a tightrope walker: one wrong move, one slip, and the whole balance would collapse.

The table erupted into laughter when Richie flailed dramatically, trying to juggle fries, and Eddie accidentally knocked over a small cup of soda. Ben smiled genuinely for a moment, letting himself enjoy the chaos. It was safe. For a minute, the numbers, the restrictions, the constant internal policing — they were quiet.

As the Losers paid, Bev slipped her hand over his shoulder lightly. “You okay?” she asked softly. Ben nodded, slipping the question into the warm pocket of companionship. They didn’t know the half of it. And maybe, for now, he didn’t have to tell them.

— — —

The clang of weights echoed through the gym as Ben finished a slow set on the bench press. Sweat streaked his face, heart hammering, muscles trembling — he was pushing himself, but not too far. He had to maintain control, always control.

“Whoa, Benny! Look at you,” Mike called, walking in with Bill behind him. “You’re killing it, man.”

Mike and Bill being at Ben’s usual gym was a surprise. He normally avoided having an audience while working out,people staring at his body was bad enough—so he had purposely chosen a gym an hour away, somewhere secluded. Ben thought Mike had mentioned visiting his gym at some point, but he was probably too busy cherry-picking his lunch to notice.

Ben nodded, forcing a casual grin. “Just… keeping up.” His chest tightened, and his stomach ached, but he adjusted the weight, keeping it believable.

Bill stepped closer, arms crossed but relaxed. “Need a spot?”

“I’m good,” Ben said quickly. He didn’t want them seeing him struggle, seeing the fine line he walked every day.

Mike clapped him on the shoulder lightly. “Seriously, though… you’re working hard. Proud of you, buddy.”

Ben swallowed, forcing a tight smile. Their praise, their cheer — it should have felt good, but it sparked the obsessive fire inside him. He adjusted the bench, wiped sweat from his brow, and kept moving.

They stayed a while, offering casual advice, watching him lift, occasionally nudging him into taking short breaks, working out a bit themselves. Ben laughed along, careful, careful. Their presence was comforting, but every compliment was a reminder of the “perfect” image they expected.

By the end, Mike and Bill had left, still joking and teasing, and Ben collapsed onto a mat, exhausted. The adrenaline and fear faded slightly, replaced by a tiny spark of relief. They didn’t know the full extent of his struggle. For now, it was enough that he could exist in their company without revealing the truth.

— — —

The city streets were quiet as Ben followed Stan down the sidewalk. The streetlights cast pools of gold over the cracked pavement, and the occasional car passed by, headlights briefly illuminating them. Stan walked at his usual steady pace, hands in pockets, eyes alert to everything around them. Ben kept close, careful not to lag, careful not to draw attention.

“Beautiful evening,” Stan said simply, voice calm, almost neutral. Ben nodded, appreciating the straightforwardness.

“Yeah, its amazing.” he said softly. Inside, his stomach churned. He had eaten a small dinner, calculated and precise. Every step made his legs ache slightly, but he adjusted naturally, pacing himself.

Stan glanced at him, a faint question in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ben said quickly. The lie was easy, automatic. Stan didn’t press. That was the thing about Stan, he noticed, he observed, but he didn’t crowd. He just walked. Occasionally, he’d nod toward a passing stranger or comment on a streetlight that flickered. Ben focused on the calmness, the steadiness. He could breathe here, just a little.

They passed a small park. The swings moved slightly in the wind, squeaking softly. Ben paused at the edge, hands in his hoodie pockets, staring at the empty playground. Memories of childhood laughter, of simpler times, twisted inside him. He clenched his fists, forcing himself back into the moment.

“You ever come here?” Stan asked.

“Not really, I think I used to. A long time ago. But after—’” Ben paused, trying to think of some way to phrase ‘hunting for a some killer clown that used to terrorise us when we we’re kids’ easily, but by the look of Stan’s face, he understood. “—I guess I just didn’t have the time anymore.

Stan nodded. He leaned against the railing of the small footbridge that crossed the park’s creek. “It’s nice… quiet.”

Ben exhaled. “Yeah. Quiet’s good.”

There was a long pause. Ben shifted his weight, uncomfortable. He wanted to share, to say how hard it had been lately, the obsessive counting, the purging, the gym sessions that left him hollow, but the words stuck in his throat. He wasn’t ready to let anyone in that deeply.

And thats what made him feel guilty, because the others already had their ‘breakthrough’. None of them was okay. That was obvious since they were kids, but over the twenty-seven years, Eddie had started to stop keeping track of all his medication, Beverly had made sure to stay far, far away from her father or anybody alike, and Stan had shared his depressive and suicidal thoughts with the rest of the group.

And then there's Ben. Who couldn’t even be honest about how or when he ate with his own partners. It's embarrassing, really.

Stan didn’t ask more. He simply stood there, quiet but solid, a presence that didn’t demand perfection. Ben let his shoulders relax slightly, appreciating the simple comfort. For once, he could exist without performing, without worrying about being small enough, controlled enough, acceptable enough.

“Ben,” Stan said after a while, breaking the silence, “you know, you can talk to me if you need anything, right? I’m not just here to stand and look pretty, however much Richie likes to joke about it.”

Ben looked up at him, startled. He wanted to argue, to say he was fine, but the lump in his throat and the tightness in his chest made it impossible. He swallowed hard, forcing out a whisper. “Thanks… Stan.”

Stan gave a faint, approving nod.

By the time they returned toward the busier streets, Ben felt a little lighter. He still carried his secrets, still counted his bites, still feared failure — but for a few hours, he had been able to exist alongside someone who didn’t demand him to vanish. That small window of peace was enough to make the night feel bearable, maybe even a little hopeful.

— — —

Ben knew they would notice eventually. He had tried so hard to hide it — to smile, to flex, to laugh at the right moments, but tonight, something slipped. He had been dizzy all afternoon, forcing himself to help Richie with a project in the apartment. His stomach cramped, his knees wobbled, and for the first time in weeks, he hadn’t been able to make it to the bathroom without staggering. He tried to laugh it off, muttering something about clumsiness, but Mike’s sharp voice stopped him in his tracks. “Ben… are you okay? You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” he whispered, though even he didn’t sound convinced. The weight of their concern pressed down on him, making his stomach twist into knots. He felt fat, sluggish, disgusting, hopelessly exposed under their gaze. Every ounce of him seemed wrong, every imagined curve and hollow place a betrayal of the person he wanted them to see. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, to crawl into the hoodie he wore like a shield, but the warmth of their concern kept him rooted in place.

By the time he sat at the table, pale and trembling, the fork in his hand felt like a heavy iron bar. Bev leaned over from her chair next to him, her brow furrowed. “Benny… you look like you’ve been standing in the fridge too long,” she said softly, half-teasing, half-worried. Her words, gentle as they were, felt like judgment in his ears. He forced a smile, nodding, pretending it didn’t hurt, but inside, every compliment and every soft word felt like proof that he wasn’t enough. He wasn’t small enough, thin enough, worthy enough.

Richie was the first to truly notice something was wrong. He had risen from his chair at the head of the table, leaning forward, hands gripping the edge.

“Uh… dude? You sure you’re not about to die on us or something?” His joking tone trembled with nerves.

Ben shook his head, muttered “I’m fine,” and took a sip of water that trembled in his hands.

The liquid tasted bitter, metallic, like shame itself had seeped into it. His stomach churned weakly, his body screaming that it had been betrayed by its own hunger. Every shiver, every hollow ache reminded him that he was failing at the one thing he thought mattered: being small enough, light enough, invisible enough to be loved.

Stan’s voice cut through, firm and commanding. He had stepped a few paces closer, arms crossed but eyes fixed on Ben. “You’re not fine. Stop lying.” Stan isn’t one to be bossy, which is what caught Ben off guard.

Something in that certainty broke him. Ben’s vision blurred. Every calorie he hadn’t eaten, every bite he had forced himself to purge, every hour spent obsessively running or lifting crashed over him in waves. His reflection in their eyes was ugly, swollen in shame, fat in ways no baggy sweatshirt could hide. He could feel the hollowed-out hollowness of his cheeks, the stickiness of sweat on his clammy skin, the raw ache of his bones pressing into the table.

“I… I don’t…” His voice faltered, choking on itself. He twisted away, as if folding smaller could make him disappear entirely. His hands clutched the edge of the table until his nails dug into his palms.

“No, Ben. Look at me,” Bev said firmly, taking a seat next to him on the table before placing a hand on his arm. “Talk to us. Please. You don’t have to do this alone.”

For a moment, Ben wanted nothing more than to curl in on himself, to swallow the words, tuck the shame back into the dark corners where it had always lived, and pretend none of this had happened. His instinct was to close up again, to put the hoodie back over his head, to let the tears dry and vanish quietly, alone. But the fight was wearing him down.

He was so tired of pretending, so tired of holding himself apart, so tired of carrying the weight of invisible numbers and hollow reflections. His body ached, his chest ached, and more than anything, his heart ached with exhaustion from constantly guarding every fragment of himself. Somewhere deep, buried beneath the panic and the shame, he realized he didn’t want to hide anymore, not tonight.

He shook his head violently, tears slipping before he could stop them. “I’m horrible… I’m fat… I’m… ugly… I’m nothing…” His words were raw, jagged, ragged with sobs. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking violently, as if his entire body was trying to shake off the shame he had carried for so long. Every obsession, every number, every calorie counted, every mirror glance, every punishing step on the treadmill, it all poured out in a flood of grief he could no longer contain.

Eddie practically leapt from his chair on the other side of the room, eyes wide, panic cracking his voice. “Ben, you… You can’t just do this to yourself! You could die!” He started pacing, then sank to the floor a few steps away from Ben, as if proximity could somehow absorb the danger.

Richie leaned forward from his spot at the head of the table, desperate, voice loud and trembling, trying to force humor through the panic. “Holy shit, Ben… why didn’t you tell us? We thought you were just… just eating healthier, working out, whatever. We had no idea it was this bad!” He shifted closer, crouching slightly, awkwardly resting a hand on the back of Ben’s chair for support.

Stan crouched slightly to meet his eyes with calm resolve. “You’re not alone, Ben. Not now, not ever. Stop punishing yourself.” He stayed near, uncomfortably rigid, but close enough that Ben could feel the steadiness of his presence.

Mike knelt down slightly, sliding a chair closer so he could be level with Ben, one hand gentle on his shoulder, grounding him. “We can help you. You don’t have to do this
alone. You’re not failing. We love you, Ben. Always have. Always will.”

Bill stood behind Ben, one hand firm on his back, steadying him. He leaned slightly so Ben could press against him if he needed, the weight of the presence reassuring. “We’ve got you. All of us. You’re not going to do this alone, not now, not ever. We’ll help you through it, together.”

As their words sank in, a sinking guilt crept into each of their hearts. They realized how often they had complimented Ben on his weight loss, his toned arms, his new clothes. Every “looking good” or “wow, you’re so fit” had been meant as encouragement, a celebration of his health. But now they saw it for what it was: fuel for the fire of his self-loathing. Their praise, however well-intentioned, had unknowingly validated his obsession with being smaller, lighter, disappearing piece by piece.

Ben swallowed hard, shame curling around him, but he let himself lean back slightly against Bill, trembling. Every instinct in his body told him he was too heavy, too weak, too ugly to deserve this, but the gentle insistence of their presence made the fear loosen just a fraction.

Even after the sobs slowed to hiccups, Ben’s body still trembled. His hands were cold, his cheeks wet, his chest aching with residual shame. The warmth of their concern pressed against the hollow places inside him. Bev tentatively reached out again to touch his arm, and though he flinched, she didn’t pull away.

“Benny… it’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re safe. We’re not going anywhere.” Slowly, after a few moments, he allowed his shoulder to brush against hers. Just barely. But it was enough.

Richie scratched the back of his neck, hovering awkwardly. “Uh… hey, buddy… you, uh… you don’t look like a zombie anymore. That’s good, right?” His words were clumsy, nervous, but they carried real concern. Ben let out a tiny, shaky laugh, hiccupping between sobs.

Eddie, wide-eyed and jittery, whispered again, “You’re going to be okay… I promise… we’ll… help you…” His panic was awkward, but the sincerity behind it made Ben feel, for the first time, less alone.

Mike stayed kneeling, calm and steady, one hand lightly resting on Ben’s shoulder, the other hovering close in case Ben needed more support. Bev slid a chair closer, leaning in with gentle pressure on his arm. Richie shuffled a bit, trying to find a comfortable position near Ben while still keeping the mood light. Eddie finally crouched a little closer, moving his chair so he could be nearby, whispering reassurances. Stan leaned against the wall but shifted his weight slightly, keeping a close, watchful eye without crowding him.

Ben’s breaths began to even out, though small shudders still shook him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he let his head tilt toward Bev’s shoulder. She didn’t move, didn’t recoil — she simply rested her head gently against his. Bill wrapped an arm lightly around his back, a firm but tender hug, while Mike rested a hand on his other shoulder.

Richie awkwardly draped an arm across his lap, muttering, “Hey… don’t run away now, bookworm,” in an attempt to inject levity. Even Eddie leaned closer, wrapping a protective arm around his knees from where he crouched on the floor, like he could shield him from harm.

Ben let it happen. He let them hold him. He let their warmth seep into the cold, hollow spaces he had carried inside for months. For the first time, he realized that maybe he didn’t have to vanish to be loved. He could be broken, ugly in his own eyes, flawed — and they would still stay. And just like that, the tiniest spark of something he hadn’t felt in months flickered to life: hope.