Archie wakes up gently, his heavy lids blocking most of his vision, determined to remain shut despite his brainâs instructions to do the opposite. A bit of light forces its way through, though he canât tell if itâs dim or bright, natural or artificial. Was it morning? Evening? The light presses faintly against his eyes, but is too soft to anchor him to any real sense of time. He tries to force his eyes to open wider, but it seems as though they wonât cooperate, fluttering weakly before settling again. Whatever he sees is blurred, wavy, indistinguishable. But familiar, at least it feels that way, shapes blending together in a way that suggests walls, a ceiling, something enclosing and known. Heâs⌠home? The thought drifts through his mind without urgency.
Itâs quiet, and his mind is calm, too calm, like it hasnât fully caught up with him yet. He just needs to wake up some. He lifts his head, barely an inch from its relaxed position, but it feels like moving through mud, or really soft, impossibly thick air, resistance pressing in from all sides. Boy, is his head heavy. The muscles in his neck tremble faintly under the effort, giving out almost as soon as they engage. He lets it fall back where it was, and lets out a soft moan as the action sends a dull ache through his head, spreading outward in a slow pulse before fading just as quickly as it came. The weight in his body settles deeper the moment he stops trying to fight it.
He sighs and lets his eyes close fully, suddenly reminded of how tired he is. But⌠didnât he just wake up? The thought lingers. He must not have gotten enough sleep last night.
His body feels drained, his mind sluggish, but he canât shake the feeling that he should wake up, get up. The dull urge sits there, half-remembered and pressing at the edge of his thoughts. He has things to do, right? Especially on a Tuesday. No, Wednesday. Was it Saturday? Maybe itâs Saturday. Thatâs why heâs slept in. Overslept, and fallen into one of those cycles where heâs more tired the more he rests. Yeah.
The sleep hangs heavily on him, too heavily. So much so that he canât think of much else, every thought slowing and dragging before it can fully form. âGod, Iâm exhausted,â he thinks, the words barely landing before they slip away, only for the same thought to surface again moments later.
He tries to lift his head again. His heavy, heavy head. The weight of it feels disproportionate, like it doesnât quite belong to him right now. This time it stays up, wobbling a bit as his eyes try their best to stay open, lids trembling with the effort. The room tilts slightly with the movement, his vision struggling to catch up.
Where is he? Home? Right, right. Where else would he be? The answer comes easily, even if nothing else does.
He turns his head to the left, then the right, the motion slow like it has to push through the same thick resistance as everything else. The right is slightly brighter. Thereâs a lamp or coatrack or something. In his house? He doesnât remember buying a coatrack. The tall shape cuts into the blur, its outline bending and wavering at the edges of his vision.
He lifts his hand toward the thing, or tries to. His arm barely moves. He tries again, confused, a faint strain running through his shoulder this time. No dice. âWhat theâŚâ he thinks. He tilts his head down to look at the uncooperative limb.
His eyes land on it, but he forgets why heâs looking in the first place, the purpose dissolving before it can settle. For a second, itâs just a shape, part of the blur like everything else. Then they take in the rest of him.
âWhoa,â the word is soft and gruff as it tumbles out, his voice dragging behind the thought that formed it. Archie hears it carry in his head, echoing strangely. Like wind, but underwater, muffled and stretched. No wonder his head is so heavy, itâs filled with words and water.
âI gotta get up,â Archie thinks, the feeling leveling up into something closer to a decision. He tries to lift his arm. Heâll need it for leverage to get out of this⌠Ugh, sofa, sofa. Yeah, he means bed. Where the fuck is he? He has to be home. Itâs Monday and he has to⌠why canât he move his arms?
Archie looks down to investigate.
âWhoaâŚâ He barely notices the word as it comes out, muffled somewhere in the recesses of his head. His mind manages to focus long enough to take in the view of the massive form in front of him.
A large, bare, soft-looking gut stretches out in front of him, rising into his field of view and staying there. It sprawls, spilling over the other⌠things. Limbs? Pillows? Something soft like that, edges pressing into each other without any clear boundary. And round. The belly is round, and big, and soft-looking like a pillow or mattress or something, the surface faintly shifting with each breath he takes.
âWhen did you get so big?â he thinks, almost speaking to himself. The question drifts out without direction, like he isnât fully sure who heâs asking.
He really ought to get up. Really ought to go to the gym.
âDonât be lazy,â his dad always used to say, even on Sundays. The voice slips in without warning, clearer than anything else in his head for a second. Shit, is it Sunday?
He really ought to get up.
He forces his head down, bracing it against his chest as he leans forward, chin pressing into soft resistance before he can really think about it. A few inches forward and the world spins, the motion catching up to him all at once.
âWhoa,â he thinks, this time all in his head, the word circling without sound. He looks down to steady himself.
The shape fills his vision, as if seeing it for the first time. He lifts his arm to grab it, feel it. His arm moves inward, and that alone grabs his attention. There it is. Finally he found it, his arm. Why does he need this again?
He lifts it up further, straining against the gloopy air holding it down. The movement feels off, delayed. Itâs like there are two of them, then one, then two again, his vision doubling and sliding over itself, the arm not quite matching what he feels. He blinks, but it doesnât fix it. He must just be tired. Must not have gotten enough sleep last night.
âHey baby,â someone says, the words echoing slightly, like they take a second to reach him. Archie looks up. A blurry silhouette stands before him, softened at the edges and drifting side to side, like it isnât fully there. A wave of fragile calm moves through him. Thank goodness sheâs here. Maybe she can help him get the water out of his head.
âHow was your nap?â she asks, and the silhouette moves closer, filling more of his vision, though it doesnât get any clearer.
Archie tries to answer, but all that comes out is a groan, low and stuck in his throat. His mouth barely feels like it moves. âGod, Iâm exhausted,â he thinks, the thought sinking right back into the fog.
âI bet youâre starving after all that rest, huh?â
No. Wait, yes. Fuck, is he?
Archie looks down at himself, as if his body can tell him, like the answer might be written there somewhere he can read it.
âOhâŚâ he breathes, the sound slipping out thin as he takes in the sight of himself again. When did he get so fucking fat? The word lands heavier than the rest, sticking for a second before it starts to blur like everything else.
An arm comes into view, not his own, entering from the side without warning.
âYouâre wasting away,â it says, and the hand runs over his massive, soft-looking gut, pressing in just enough to shift it under the touch.
Archie lets out a soft groan. The gut is sensitive, more than he expects, the contact sending a slow reaction through him that he doesnât quite understand. Heâs so full and exhausted.
âWhy donât I get you something to eat, hmm?â
She leans in close and takes his head in her hands, fingers settling against his skin. She pats his cheek, like sheâs trying to wake him up, the motion gentle but firm enough to move his face slightly with each touch.
Archie nods. Yeah, he could go for a meal, heâs starving after all that rest, huh. Heâs wasting away, hmm? The words loop back through his head without much resistance.
The figure squishes his cheeks and kisses his lips. The contact is brief, soft, and it lingers in his awareness for a while. âIâll be right back, hun. Stay right here,â she says, and lets go of his head.
It drops down heavily to his pudgy chest.
âFuck,â he thinks as he tries to lift it again, neck straining before giving out almost immediately. So much for getting up. He has to stay right here. Now how is he going to⌠to⌠yeah. The rest slips away before it can form.
Is he really wasting away?
He looks down at himself. Whoa. Sheâs right. When did he get so fat? The question hits again like itâs new. Was he always like this? Always this wasted away?
Archie tries to form a thought, answer the question for himself, but itâs stuck. Somewhere out of reach, like itâs behind something thick he canât push through. He really ought to get up.
He tries shifting to the side, but someoneâs heavy gut stops him. Ugh. The resistance is immediate, pressing back into him. He tries again, and once more. No dice. No dice. The effort fades faster each time, like his body forgets what itâs doing halfway through.
He leans back, his breath coming out fast and heavy, dragging through his chest. Each inhale feels like it takes more than it should. God, heâs so full and exhausted.
He must not have gotten much sleep last night. He must have eaten a lot earlier. Probably because heâs wasting away, huh, hey baby?
He canât remember why he needs to get up anyway. Heâs starving after all that rest. Now he feels it. As his breath calms and his gut settles, a hollow pit in his middle makes itself known. God, he is so hungry and exhausted. When was the last time he ate? It had to have been a couple days, or a couple hours? His belly could tell him.
He lifts his arm and reaches for it. It is very soft. Very big, very round. His fingers sink into the flesh, pressing in deeper than expected before it pushes back. He really ought to go to the gym.
But⌠âstay right thereâ she said.
Damn it. Maybe after she gets him something to eat. He canât miss meals. He is starving after all that wasting away.
âOkay baby,â she says, swimming back into view. âDrink this first.â
Something touches Archieâs lip before he can say anything. Try to say anything. Something cool. A glass.
He drinks. His eyes flutter as he swallows without thinking about it. The drink is thick and sweet, and tastes like⌠something thick and sweet. Itâs easy to take in. He gulps it down.
âGood boy,â she whispers. Or mumbles. It lands in his head as both a whisper and a mumble.
âMmm,â he responds against the glass, still drinking, not really stopping to think about it.
And then there is no more drink.
Heâs panting as Silhouette pulls the glass away, his stomach feeling a little heavy. Everything feels a little heavier now.
He must just be exhausted, and full. Must just have eaten a lot earlier. Good boy.
âMade you something yummy,â she says, and the words come through even more muffled than before, like they are moving through water.
Archie blinks slowly, licking something from his lips. God, he is so full and exhausted. He feels it even more now. The gloopy air feels thicker, pressing in closer, making his whole body harder to move in. âWhoa,â he thinks as it rolls over him like a wave, quickly spreading.
âHere, baby. Eat this.â
The low, distant words curl around his brain, and a delicious scent curls into his nose at the same time. It pulls at him more than thought does.
Archie tries to reach out, but his arms wonât move again. âWhat theâŚâ he tries to look down and investigate, but before he can finish the thought, something warm touches his lips.
They part on instinct and take a bite. Savory, greasy, yummy.
Made you something yummy.
He chews, and it feels like it is happening in slow motion. His eyelids sink lower again, thoughts turning thicker, harder to hold in place. Much fuzzier. All he can think about is how tired he is. How tired, and how hungry. Starving after all thatâŚ
âMmf,â he mutters as he takes another bite, feeding himself without really remembering deciding to do it. When did he get some food?
It is soft in his hands, crisp in some places too. Texture registers before meaning does. He takes another bite. It is very good.
Another bite, and something drops onto his chest. âOops.â
When did he get so fat and huge? So big and round and soft-looking? The thought arrives slowly, like it has to push through layers of fog before it lands. Are those his moobs?
The scent of something yummy catches his attention again. There is food in his hands. He takes a bite on instinct.
âUnnf,â a small noise slips out through Archieâs full mouth.
It is very good boy, very yummy made you for something hmm?
He blinks slowly, drowsily, as he takes another slow-motion bite of his⌠savory, salty.
He must have been starving. Fuck, itâs so good. But heâs so full.
He must have eaten a lot earlier. Yesterday or⌠an hour ago. He canât remember. Canât remember anything.
âYouâve gotten so⌠look at⌠big and round and soft.â Her words are muffled and distant.
Archie can only focus on the food in his hands. He is so full and hungry, a little dazed, a little confused. How long has he been eating? Why does his gut feel so heavy?
He looks down at himself. He moans.
âUhhggh,â he breathes.
His hand feeds him another bite of food as the other runs over his sprawling, massive belly. The surface gives under his touch. God, he is so fat.
He really ought to stay right there.
He tries leaning forward, but his body doesnât budge. The air feels too heavy, it weighs him down. He takes another bite of his food, the only thing his body still knows how to do. He couldnât let himself wasting good baby away, hmm? No.
He chews, and chews, and takes a bite, and chews again, swallowing in slow rhythm until there are only his hands. And her hands.
âGosh baby,â she says, her hands running over his big, round, packed gut. âSee, I knew you were starving. Youâre always starving after a nap, huh.â
âMmmnh,â is the only sound Archie can muster.
âIâm always starving, huh,â he thinks, his head bobbing slightly in fatigue and loose agreement he does not fully understand.
Her rubbing hands coax out a burp, then another. Archie feels them rumble out of his fat body, a deep shift that seems to travel through him and jostle the water in his head.
âGo ahead and rest, baby, sleep it off,â she says through the water. âMake some space for when you wake up.â
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