Word Count: 1381

“You’re not looking too hot.”

Paris glanced up from his bagel, which he’d been tearing at for the last couple of minutes, pulling pieces off and leaving them on his plate uneaten. Ross, his friend and fellow dancer, sat across from him polishing off an egg and cheese sandwich. His blue eyes bored into Paris’s with mild concern.

“You’re so complimentary,” Paris replied.

Annoyed, he stopped fiddling with his half-eaten bagel and sat back in his chair to cross his arms over his chest. His face took on a petulant expression as he narrowed his eyes indignantly.

They were in a small café a few blocks from the dance studio. A group of them had gone together, the original intention having been to stop in for a quick snack before heading their separate ways, but that was before the idea of catching a movie had been brought up, and now they sat waiting for their female companions to return from the bathroom so they could make their way to the theater. Paris didn’t mind the movie much. It would be another welcome distraction among many, and a good way to pass the time that would have been spent with Chris if not for the fact that Paris was trying to give him his space.

What he minded was the scrutiny—the frank observations and the careful attention being paid to the food he ordered and the manner in which he chose to eat it. Ross wasn’t the only one Paris had seen eyeing him in the last half hour. He was simply the one who seemed to want to make an issue out of it.

“I’m serious,” Ross said, and he looked it. For someone who didn’t usually frown, he was doing a very good job of leveling Paris with one. “You look pale.”

“I’m naturally pale. Thanks for noticing,” Paris responded flippantly.

He looked around the café in the hopes that the girls would come back soon, but they’d only just gone and were notorious for taking their time. Paris didn’t expect he’d get out of this conversation so easily, not unless he pretended to have need of the bathroom, too.

But then he didn’t exactly trust Ross not to follow him and corner him in there.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Ross told him.

Paris returned his gaze to his friend, staring across the table in irritation. “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“Has anyone been giving you any trouble about your weight?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Paris scoffed.

“I’m not,” Ross insisted.

“Then why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you haven’t really eaten anything and you look like you’ve lost some weight?”

Paris glanced down at the torn remnants of his bagel. “I ate earlier,” he said.

“When? Before practice?”

“Before and during.”

He didn’t look back up, but the noise of disbelief Ross made let Paris know his friend wasn’t buying it. “You had a protein bar and some water.”

“And before that I had other food,” Paris snapped with a careless shrug. “Get off my case.”

It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it wasn’t a complete lie either. He’d eaten, just not much. Probably no more than he was eating now. That wasn’t such an uncommon thing these days, but it wasn’t for lack of trying, and it certainly wasn’t for the reason Ross and everyone else seemed to think it was. He simply didn’t have much of an appetite. He hadn’t for a while now, and forcing himself to eat usually only made him feel worse.

“I’m glad you think so poorly of me,” Paris muttered.

“This isn’t me thinking poorly of you, Paris,” Ross countered. “It’s called ‘concern.’ You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep it up.”

‘I’ve already made myself sick,’ Paris thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.

“Why don’t you take some time off?” Ross suggested.

“Because I’ve already taken enough time off. It’s fine. I’d rather keep working anyway. I need something to do. It keeps me occupied, distracts me…”

“Distracts you from what?”

Paris looked at him again, but this time the irritation was gone. Instead he just looked tired and sad and completely overwhelmed. “Everything else…” he said.

Ross’s frown had yet to ease up. If anything the corners of his mouth dipped even lower, though there wasn’t any anger behind it. He looked like he wanted to say something else, perhaps to argue his point more, but he should know exactly what Paris was talking about. It wasn’t exactly a secret. His father’s obituary had been in the paper, and he’d had to state his reason for taking time off from practices and rehearsals and performances. Beyond that, he talked to Ross more than anyone else in the company, and he didn’t make it a habit of keeping secrets, save for one. Paris didn’t tell Ross about his other life, but he’d had told him about Chris needing space and his mother being pregnant.

All the many things he did his best to escape from.

With a sigh, Ross finally seemed as if he were about to relent, but not before grabbing the chocolate chip cookie he’d purchased with his sandwich and making an offering off it. “At least eat the cookie.”

Paris kept his arms over his chest as he looked at it, and then rolled his eyes. “No, thanks.”

“Come on. It’s not too big. You only ate half of your bagel and you mutilated the rest,” Ross pointed out, waving the cookie in front of him. “Eat the cookie. Eat the cookie, Mother!”

He said the last part in a shrill voice Paris assumed was meant to have been some sort of an impersonation, but it went without recognition.

“No?” Ross questioned when he got no response. His frown began to quirk into a smile.

“I have no idea what that was about, but I don’t want your cookie and if you ever call me ‘mother’ again, I’ll be forced to hit you.”

“Flowers in the Attic?” his friend tried.

“Flowers where?” Paris wondered as his eyebrows lifted in confusion.

“It’s a book and a movie. The quote’s from the movie, though.”

“One, I don’t read. Two, when was it made?”

“’87, I think.”

“Ross, I wasn’t even alive then. Neither were you, for that matter.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have seen it,” Ross shrugged.

“I haven’t,” Paris said. He wasn’t sure if he should be amused or not, but after the previous conversation he decided to settle for “not.”

“Never mind then.”

The girls chose that moment to bring an end to their conversation by departing the bathroom, flitting through the door in an assembly of giggling and rapid chatter that continued all the way back to their table. Paris quickly stood to his feet, anxious to leave and be on their way.

“Ready?” he asked.

The girls nodded and immediately began to discuss the merits of some handsome actor or another, probably the one who starred in whatever film they were about to see, and though Paris might have happily joined in their conversation at any other time, the look Ross was giving him stopped him in his tracks. Ross might have dropped the subject, but his concern had not in any way been mitigated. He looked at Paris as if he expected him to crack at any moment, or fall apart on the spot, or collapse and break and show physical proof of his recent ill health.

He wouldn’t. Paris was determined about that. This was something he’d rather keep to himself and deal with on his own time. It was his father, his boyfriend, his mother, and his business.

He’d be fine.

One day, he’d be fine.

He just had to keep telling himself that.

“Let’s just go,” he said.

Ross gave him one last look before standing to join them, leaving the cookie there on the table. As they left the café, Paris didn’t miss the way Ross walked a bit closer to him than usual, but he didn’t comment on it.

He was too busy trying not to feel disgusted with himself while burying his guilt down as far as he possibly could.