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It’s date night, which is strictly observed whenever Gerard has a spare minute or two, and his boyfriend has invited him over to his for dinner.
Of course it’s not ordinary dinner, and it’s not an ordinary boyfriend, but at this point in Gerard’s life, that’s hardly surprising.
There’s a door on the wall of the flat that Gerard obtained after parting ways with Gertrude. It wasn’t there when he moved in, and the landlord would not know where it goes. It is yellow, with arctic blue accents, and the knob is a glass eye. The corridors beyond don’t usually have a smell, but when Michael opens the door for Gerard around the appointed time, a scent spills out. It’s strange, but not at all unpleasant, which is something that Gerard could say about most things associated with Michael.
“Do I want to know what you’ve made?” Gerard asks, and as Michael laughs, little artifacts of cyan and magenta splinter off the edges of his waterfall of curls, as if he is misaligned with reality itself. Which he is.
“Oh, I doubt you could if you tried,” Michael replies, amused. “Call it…an old family recipe.” He puts a hand on Gerard’s back, around his back, and stoops to make it through the door as they head inside. “You’ll like it, though. I promise.”
Things appear in here, the corridors knotting and snarling around temporary curiosities, things that Michael or the hallways or both (because you might as well make the distinction between a hand and a mouth on the same body) make for Gerard. Tonight, there is a dining room, or at least a space trying to be one. Gerard doesn’t comment on how much it may resemble the break room in the archives in the Magnus Institute.
A table quite literally groans beneath a feast. Gerard couldn’t identify any of the several dozen dishes if his life depended on it, which may have been frightening if it were his first time in here. Glittering coils drape themselves across platters, full tureens glitter and spark, and something round and soft and foamy slowly buds and multiplies, piling gently into the air. Gerard has learned by now not to try and Know when it comes to the Distortion, but he can’t resist a quick blink, and it’s relatively painless to learn that none of this will taste like anything he has ever had before, but it will all be delicious.
It feels like a tiny piece of ice inside of his heart, cutting cold with every beat, when Michael tries this hard. Gerard doesn’t comment on that, either.
“Didn’t realize you were eating, too,” he says as Michael pulls out something that’s mostly a chair and he sinks into it. “I didn’t know you could.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Michael says airily even as he flows around to the other side of the table and takes a seat, although there is no chair there. Elbows on the table, chin in his hands, fingers laced together above his head, he grins at Gerard, and so do most of the dishes. “This is all for you.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” Gerard says, because he does. “But a lot of it’s probably gonna go to waste…hope I don’t hurt your feelings.”
“You won’t,” Michael replies confidently, smile widening, “because it won’t.” Seeing Gerard’s skepticism, he laughs, head thrown back, sound high and fluting as it echoes. “Oh, Gerry…surely you’ve noticed that things don’t behave quite as they ought to in here.” He leans forward. “Eat. You will stretch.”
Gerard does not respond beyond reaching for what is essentially a fork, but nothing happens in beyond the doorway that Michael does not know about, which is something else he’s noticed. When his cock twitches, Michael rises and returns to Gerard’s side of the table, where he bends over him, fingers folding around him, hot points of excitement where the tips rest.
“That’s it,” he murmurs in Gerard’s ear as his hair tumbles over him like a river of warm delirium. “Gorge yourself on something besides information for once, little Watcher. I’ll do my very best to satisfy you.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” Gerard asks, and puts a forkful of the coiled, somehow friendly thing in his mouth. It tastes like red wine in the way that running works in a dream: slow, thick, nearly maddening.
“Oh, yes, Gerry. I know how greedy creatures of the Eye can be.” Michael’s index finger runs up and over Gerard’s middle, and he thrills to the touch. “Although you’re not all Eye anymore, are you?”
Gerard does not respond. He’s too busy eating. And Michael is right: he stretches.
He should have worn looser clothing. In his defense, he didn’t know. But it’s all right, because without him having to touch it, his belt melts away as soon as it grows tight; when he reaches down, he can run his fingers through it, which is a shame, but it wasn’t his favorite anyway. As for his jeans, they mostly survive Michael opening his fly for him. His shirt isn’t a problem. It rides up on its own as he fills, and swells.
The first dish likely would have been enough on its own for him, or more than. He feels quite comfortably full afterwards, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to stifle a small belch, but Michael nudges the crackling tureen towards him, and Gerard’s fork helpfully knits itself into a spoon. He finishes it, and then there is another, and another after that, and another after that.
It isn’t long at all before Gerard’s belly is so round with indulgence he might as well be pregnant. He doesn’t even realize how large he’s grown until he feels it bob a bit when he shifts in his seat, then looks down with no little shock. He presses a hand to the curved side of it, feels the contents buzz, and…he ought to be more concerned about that and less hard, but “ought to” has never governed his life.
“Someone’s enjoying themselves.” Michael’s finger nudges Gerard’s stomach, and it bounces slightly, not at all taut or painful. “More, Gerry?”
“A-ah.” Gerard exhales a bit shakily, and rubs himself, feeling the give. He wonders what Michael would do if he asked to stop now. He wonders what he would. “Yes. Please.”
Soon, Gerard sits on the floor, legs half-crossed. He has one hand on his belly, fully exposed now. The eyes tattooed on it - one larger, above his navel, and one smaller below - are looking somewhat stretched. He feeds himself with the other hand, and feels each swallow bloat him out a little further.
“More, Gerry?”
“Yeah.”
Gerard sits with his legs spread out in front of him and his hands behind him, supporting his much-increased weight. He’s so full. His belly rests on his thighs, between his thighs. Michael feeds him, and he opens his mouth obediently for each bite, eyes half-lidded.
“More, Gerry?”
“Uh huh.”
Gerard lies on his back, forced there by the sheer size of his overfilled stomach, the great balloon of it heaving as he pants and hiccups. Michael occasionally pokes him, rubs him, and Gerard sloshes and burps, grunting a little. He’s still soft, still pliable. He can keep eating.
“More, Gerry?”
“Mmph.”
The actual number of dishes is inconstant, but he’s managed them all anyway. He suckles something off the end of one of Michael’s fingers, something that bleeds brilliant neon and stings on his tongue like a live wire. Michael’s other hand is on his belly, spread out over the entire thing, squeezing and massaging as if Gerard is a stress ball, one actually large enough for the spread of Michael’s fingers. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
“Look at you,” Michael marvels with a laugh hidden somewhere in the sentence. “So well-fed…finally.” Gerard is lying in a warm bed of his hair. It licks at his bare back. “Perhaps we ought to make this a weekly occurrence…” As Gerard breathes, the shape of his stomach bobs at the bottom of his vision. “Or nightly…” He puts his arm over his eyes. “Or for every meal.”
“I’ll get fat,” Gerard thinks more than says, even though he’s actually not sure if he would or not. Off this stuff? Who knows?
“Would that be so bad, Watcher? I’d like it.”
“Oh,” Gerard grunts. “Would you, now?”
There is a long pause. When Michael speaks again, his voice is almost thoughtful.
“I think perhaps…I’d like to not be able to close my hands around you…”
And in the moment, drunk on Michael, that sounds rather lovely to Gerard, who comes harder than he thinks he ever has, and splatters the underside of his own belly.