hunger

Though Peter has finally found a way to eat that doesn’t cause him emotional distress, the semi-frequent meals aren’t enough. He brings out his yellow journal at the end of his patrol, tallying up his active hours and burnt calories. If he were a normal person, he could manage with Deadpool’s weekly meals. He’d still be losing a lot of weight, but it would be nowhere near the rate he’s been losing as of late. This diet of his (because it is a diet, not an eating disorder, never has been an eating disorder) is getting out of hand, but he doesn’t realize it until he’s two and a half months in. Peter finds himself staring at the pages in his journal incredulously before patrol tonight, his slow, foggy brain slowly coming to the realization that he’s in deep shit now. 

He’s still standing at 5’10, but he’s weighing in at 115. Two and a half months ago, he was a healthy 172 pounds, mostly compact muscle. In just two and a half months, he’d lost over a third of his starting body weight. 

Peter had severely underestimated how much energy his enhanced metabolism burned through in a day. He thought he’d be losing 4 pounds a week at the most, but it’s been closer to 6, and he’s been completely blind to it, despite the ridiculous amount of warning signs blaring in his face. His healing factor has slowed down to something comparable to an unenhanced person. His senses are dull, his agility turned to sluggishness. He comes into school and work every day looking fresh out of a car wreck. Overall, his performance hasn’t been top-notch, but he was managing it just fine, right? 

He can’t deny the elation he feels when he flips through his journal, seeing written evidence of those 57 pounds dropping like stones, but he just… he doesn’t feel like he’s managing “just fine” anymore. Certainly not with the twisting pain in his gut, God, hunger hurts. Sometimes it puts him on the verge of tears.

The twisted satisfaction he used to feel when looking at his bones in the mirror turns to guilt and disgust. When that Bugle article came out a couple weeks ago, he could still brush his everything off as harsh lighting or overenthusiastic journalists hankering for a headline. Now, the ever-so-opportunistic Daily Bugle isn’t the only news source hawking papers about his weight loss anymore. In the past week, he’s been feeling crushed by every radio show, news screening, articles, papers, headline after headline—

“ ‘Spider-Man’s Sudden Weight Loss’.

‘Doctors Weigh In on Spider-Man’s Declining Health’

‘It’s Not Just You: Health Experts Agree That the Hero of New York Has Lost a Concerning Amount of Weight’

‘Locals Worried About Spider-Man Declining Once-Beloved Treats’

‘New York’s Favorite Vigilante Under Fire for Being Dangerously Underweight’

‘Is Spider-Man’s Weight Loss to Blame for His Sudden Hostility?’

‘Experts Reveal Possible Causes for the Extreme Weight Loss of Spider-Man’

‘Is Spider-Man Okay?’

Well? Is he?” Deadpool asks. 

“Were all of those from today?” Peter asks weakly, ignoring the question. He barely even remembers leaving his studio to go patrol tonight. 

“Yes!” Deadpool throws his hands up, flapping the articles he’s clutched with a scarily tight grip. “Are you even eating outside of our weekly dinners?”

Peter sheepishly looks down at the grainy concrete of the building they’re currently on. The silence speaks for itself.

“Seriously?” Deadpool’s voice is strained. “This can’t just be about the money anymore, Webs. You were able to keep yourself fed when you started, and suddenly you’re declining free food left and right? Literally everyone is worried about you. Maybe you developed some sort of allergy recently that I don’t know about for some reason, or you got really sick– do you have cancer? One of the doctors in the news said that chemo could be the root of the weight loss, and another said hyperthyro-something-or-other, and someone else said it could be a parasite you picked up from one of the people who always offer you food on patrol, so maybe that’s why you turn down food now? What goddamn illness do you have, and how advanced—”

“I’m not sick.” Peter cuts him off. 

“So what the hell are you? ‘Cause you sure as hell aren’t healthy. Even I've noticed that something is off. Do you know how much of a red fuckin' flag it is for me to notice that something is off and actually care about it? Anyways, I was reading on this Spider-Man Fan forum that I’ve been an elite member of for ages, so I get access to everything, and they were saying that maybe you’re being abused, and at first I was like, ‘no way, he lives alone!’, but then I realized I don’t actually know if you live alone or not, and even if you did, you do get beat up on the regular, and maybe that counts as abuse—”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not being abused.” 

“Not abused, not sick, it’s a little bit about the money but not all the way…” Deadpool frantically flips through the articles again, scanning the titles. He comes to an abrupt halt at a stub of an article buried in a magazine. “No, Yellow, don’t be ridiculous— he wouldn’t! Right?” He rubs at his chin, seemingly deep in thought. Something makes him pause, his eye lenses widening at some sort of realization.

“You have an eating disorder.”

“What?" Peter chokes out. Christ, could he be any less tactful?

“You have an eating disorder.” He repeats, more firmly this time.

“I don't have an eating disorder.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense outside of accidental tapeworm ingestion, and you’ve been giving me half-answers this whole damn time, so I know that whatever’s behind this, you already know what it is, and apparently you’re doing jack about it.”

“I’m not sick, I’m not housing a tapeworm, I’m not being abused, and I don’t have an eating disorder,” Peter lists them off on his fingers. “Sometimes shit happens for no reason, ‘Pool. And regardless of whatever crisis I’m in, it doesn’t excuse me from helping people.” He stands up with a grunt, ignoring the dark spots in his vision and sudden sense of vertigo. He adjusts his web shooters, and then walks over to the edge of the building. “I’m going on patrol now. You coming?”

“Not until you tell me what ‘it’ is.”

“Fine, have it your way. I’m leaving.” Peter shrugs. 

“Baby boy, you won’t last a minute out there without your human shield!”

Peter ignores him, letting his webs fly out with a soft thwip. He swings over to the building across the street with relative ease, trying to keep his mind off of his growing sense of disorientation and fatigue. He knows Karen would be making a fuss of it right now, if she hadn’t been muted for the past month. He takes a rest stop by crouching down in an alleyway, listening for sounds of trouble, before mentally slapping himself for having forgotten about his dulled senses. He’s practically just some guy at this point; no supersenses, no enhanced strength or speed, no sense of danger. 

His unimpressive hearing picks up on a shout nearby, and he springs up, ready for action… and then he falls down, fully unconscious. The echoing crack of his skull against the pavement isn’t very reassuring.

— POV Switch —

"Fuckin' hell, Webs, what did you get yourself into now?" Wade asks himself, after having to drag an unconscious Spider-Man out of an alley for the second time this month. This time, he took the liberty of dropping him off at his apartment— don't look at him like that, of course he knows where Spider-Man lives! Hello? Professional merc versus an exhausted, overly trusting vigilante in college? 

"Whatever." He grumbles, wiping away the dark patch on the front of his suit. He's all too familiar with the tacky feeling of blood, but he's not hurt, which means... yep, giant red stain on Spidey's suit. Normally, Spider-Man bleeding wouldn't be a huge concern to anyone, much less Wade, but his friend hasn't exactly been up to par with healing lately. He'll need some sort of medical intervention. Wade fumbles around for the zipper in the back, pulling the top half of the suit down just enough to see the injury, a large gash from Spider-Man's (entirely too visible) ribs down to the center of his abdomen. It's not from tonight, if the scabbing serves as any sort of indicator, and the suit has already been stitched up. The gash should have been stitched up as well, clearly, but it seems a bit late for that, so Wade settles with basic first aid and a solid amount of gauze circling the torso.

Spider-Man is yet to wake, at this point, which should be a point of concern, but Wade is willing to wait a while longer before freaking out. In the meantime, he can have some fun snooping around the apartment of New York's favorite vigilante!

New York's favorite vigilante is a total fucking nerd, apparently, much to Wade's delight. And his name is Peter Parker. Accepted into all the top tech schools across the country— he could've gone to MIT, but decided to stay in New York, for whatever reason. Wade found the acceptance letters in a pile of boxes off in an empty corner of the already pretty empty apartment, next to a stack of The Daily Bugle. It would be confusing if not for the resume buried beneath both of them, stating it as his place of employment. The idea of Spider-Man having to write articles about himself is pretty damn funny. 

There's not much else to look at, though. Certainly not much in the kitchen. It's about as empty as he'd been expecting. Energy drinks, two protein bars, and... well, that's it. In fact, there's a non-food related item on the counter. A yellow journal, just small enough to fit in a pocket. Wade really can't help his curiosity. He hesitates, just for a second. Then shrugs. Bright yellow journal? Out in the open? That’s basically an invitation! So he picks it up. The intro page is simple: Property of Peter Parker, if found please return to— 

Yeah yeah yeah, okay, no one gives a shit. Bo-ring. The second page has two photos, printed out in black and white on cheap printer paper, which is considerably more interesting. A front view and a side view of Peter Parker, presumably from a while ago. He's wearing a tight undershirt and loose shorts. He looks healthy. Muscular. A bit on the lean side, but he is enhanced after all. A small note in the corner reveals that this was taken quite a few years ago. First semester, tenth grade. High school.

The page after that is more of an organized spreadsheet. The top half of the page is taken up by recordings of his height, weight, estimated body fat percentage, estimated lean mass, and measurements of his torso and limbs. The lower half of the page has been turned into a table with multiple columns. The y-axis is just for intake, expenditure, macro stats, generally boring shit. The x-axis is just the days of the week. Then, at the very bottom, Wade notices something highlighted in blue. Weight lost, week 1: -4.6lbs | End week 1: 154.2lbs | Goal weight: 105lbs.

Hm.

Wade's no genius, that's for sure, but for someone of Peter's height, that doesn't sound very healthy.

He continues going through the pages, week by week. A small section called "symptoms" gets added in his second semester of sophomore year. Peter doesn't end up reaching 105 pounds, but he gets awfully close at the start of junior year, at which point Wade finds a sticky note that reads: Stark concerned by weight loss, regain lean muscle mass. He gains weight, he loses it, gains it back again, ending senior year at 145 pounds before dropping off the face of the earth for two years. Peter's starting stats for two and a half months ago are impressive by anyone's standards; mostly lean muscle, coming in at a solid 172 pounds. His goal is to lose 25 pounds. Skipping to this week, he's gotten down to a gut-wrenching 115 pounds.

"Damn, Pete, you live like this?" Wade mutters. A third of his body weight lost in two and a half months, seemingly intentionally. Not healthily. Wade stares at the numbers from this week with disbelief, then looks over at Peter, still sound asleep. Wade cautiously reaches over to check his pulse; it's faint, and slow. His skin is cold to the touch, and it slides sickeningly over his protruding ribs with each breath. Wade can’t say he’s unfamiliar with being insecure, but his insecurity stems from something a bit more objective. Most people actually shudder when they see him without a mask, but Wade is happy to go without it when he’s around those who don’t. Peter, on the other hand… apparently, he sees his bones in the mirror every day, and still thinks he can stand to drop a few more pounds. The very thought makes Wade uneasy.

His best friend has an eating disorder.

— POV Switch —

Peter’s first thought upon waking is: Damn, second time I’ve passed out in the past month. His next thought is something along the lines of, wait, where am I?, and, this is my mattress. 

He cautiously cracks open an eyelid, noting the cool air on his bare chest. His mask and the lower half of his suit is still on, thank God, and most of his abdomen is wrapped in a generous amount of white gauze. The edges itch a little, admittedly, but the pressure feels oddly comforting. Peter sits up, resting his back against the wall, and waits for the rest of his dark studio to come into view before realizing that, on top of everything else, his night vision is also practically non-existent. He can make out a large dark shape sitting on the floor next to his mattress, and it takes a second for him to realize it’s a human, and another second for his delayed reaction time to kick in, making his body jolt as he startles. His elbow hits the wall. The figure moves a bit at that, and Peter keeps himself perfectly still. Dread stirs up within him when the figure’s head begins to raise. 

“Webs? Are you awake?” It whispers.

“Oh, thank God it’s you,” Peter laughs, somehow feeling out of breath. 

“Couldn’t you tell? Don’t you have night vision?” Deadpool asks.

“My senses haven’t been in peak performance as of late.” Peter says softly. 

“Yeah, I think I know why.” Deadpool sighs. “Here, gimme a sec.” His dark silhouette stands up, reaching to a towering height in comparison to Peter's floor mattress. He walks over to the light switch, bathing the room in a dim, yellowish light, and sure enough, it’s Peter’s studio. It doesn’t look quite like how he left it, though. Three shopping bags have been shoved onto his small kitchen counter, another three having made it to the top of the fridge for the apparent lack of space. The very idea of a full kitchen leaves him in shock, and suddenly Peter comes to the realization that Deadpool knows where he lives.  

“How the hell do you know where I live?”

And somehow, Deadpool’s are you serious? face is so strong that Peter can feel it through the mask. 

“I’m so done with all this ‘how did you get into my house?’ nonsense. Whatever happened to ‘Thank you so much for the food, Deadpool!’? Or ‘You’re the best, Deadpool!’?” He shakes his head with a dramatically disappointed sigh. “Honestly, kids these days… You’re really asking how a professional stalker got your address? I thought you were smarter than that, you got offers from all the top tech schools in the country!”

“You looked through my acceptance letters folder?” Peter asks incredulously. “The one in a box in another box?” Does that mean he knows my name??

“No duh.” He thinks Deadpool is rolling his eyes as he begins to walk over to Peter’s mattress. “You hardly got anything going on in this damn apartment aside from that pile of boxes in the corner. How’s a gal supposed to get juicy gossip without a little snooping?”

“I mean… you could just not.” Peter says. “I appreciate the food and all, I’m just really disoriented, and I just— I really thought I did a better job of hiding where I lived.” 

Deadpool laughs, shaking his head. “Not a good enough job for me!” Peter is about to take comfort in the familiar banter, but Deadpool sobers up in a split second, muttering to himself (his boxes?), “Right, right, talk, thanks for the reminder.” 

Deadpool presses his hands together and holds them in front of his mouth. He takes a deep breath through the mask. 

“We need to talk.”

Shit. 

“About what?” Peter feigns cluelessness. Deadpool stares at him, then aggressively gestures to Peter’s whole body.

“About this.” He says. 

“I didn’t even have the chance to get beat up tonight, what is there to talk about?”

“Stop playing dumb, Spider-Man.” Deadpool’s voice is unusually harsh. “We do need to talk about your injuries, obviously, you have nasty abdominal gash that’s not healing, but that’s not— fuck, just look at yourself!” He aggressively gestures towards Peter for the second time, then starts frantically patting his suit as though he were looking for something. “I didn’t just find your college acceptance letters.”

Peter’s stomach drops when he sees Deadpool pull a certain yellow journal out of his pocket. 

“You need to explain this to me right-the-fuck-now, Peter.” 

“Well, you weren’t supposed to see that, Wade.”  Peter grumbles. He’s not even surprised that Wade knows his name, so he may as well retaliate.

“Who cares about that? You have a severe eating disorder!”

“It’s not an eating disorder.” 

“Well what the fuck is it, then?!” Deadpool waves his hands. 

“It’s just some diet I used to—”

“NO, it’s not!” 

Peter tries to hide his flinch at Deadpool’s explosive behavior. Deadpool seems to notice, and he draws back into himself, eventually opting to sit on the floor next to Peter’s mattress again. He flips the yellow journal open to the page Peter had updated earlier that night. 

“Fifty seven pounds in two and a half months.” Peter winces at the numbers he’s gotten painfully familiar with. “That’s not a diet. And this goes wayyy back. It’s not some quick fad.” He thumbs through the pages until he hits one near the start of the journal, pointing at the date at the top. “Your sophomore year of high school. Halfway to your goal of a hundred and five pounds.” His voice sounds strained. He flips a few pages ahead. “Junior year. You gained muscle. Senior year, you tried to lose it. Then nothing, for two years.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods. “First year of college was hectic. I just didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with it, I guess.” 

“This year,” Deadpool continues. “Fifty seven pounds lost out of your original goal of twenty five. Low estimated body fat percentage. When you started, your meal plan was pretty much that of a normal guy with a really high activity level, and you were losing three or four pounds a week. More recently, your ‘meal’ plan consists of energy drinks and a single ‘night out’, putting you at minus-ten goddamn pounds in a week. Symptoms recorded are nausea, fatigue, disorientation, brain fog, inappropriate bradycardia, syncope, low mood, and worst of all,” Knowing what comes next, Peter cringes at Deadpool’s sudden switch to a dramatically devastated tone. “No libido.”

“So it’s an unhealthy diet.” Peter concedes.

“Eating disorder.” 

“Diet.”

"Okay, cool. Let’s just pretend you didn’t just gaslight yourself. Super healthy. Proud of you, bud." Deadpool mutters. “Five years, not counting the break at the start of college, unhealthy goal weight, and pretty severe side effects. I’m no doctor, but it sounds like an eating disorder to me.” 

Peter sighs. “I’ll fix it later, I just,” Deep breath in, deep breath out, stay calm, “Ten more pounds. Just ten more pounds, and then I’ll go back to normal.”

“We’re not negotiating here. I think even five more pounds would kill you.”

“Technically, I’ve got twenty more to go before actually risking organ failure.”

Deadpool’s worried expression finds its way through the mask. Peter’s starting to think that the reason his stomach hurts all the time isn't because he's hungry, but because it’s actually been replaced with a mass of perpetual guilt.

“So what is it?” 

“What’s what?”

“The reasoning behind it all. Why are you doing this? You’ve recorded just about everything in this journal except the why.”

Peter shrugs. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated. Try me.” 

“Long story?” Peter sighs at Deadpool’s expectant expression. “It just started as a way to save money, since my Aunt May didn’t know I was enhanced, and then I realized I could get skinny too. I never cared about that until then. So I worked out how much weight I could lose before risking organ failure, and tried to eat as little as possible to cut back on the grocery costs.” He picks at the edges of his gauze absentmindedly. “I kept everything neat and organized in the journal, but I didn’t really think it through, you know? And then things just… got out of hand.”

"Yeah, no shit." Deadpool says. "You can't live like this, Webs, you need to be hospitalized—"

"I can't afford that." Peter interrupts. "And the hospital can't accommodate an enhanced person like me anyways."

"Then I'll drag you over to Iron-Ass Stark, he's got Dr. Banner. If anyone can figure out how to feed you, it's those two."

Peter shakes his head. "Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how humiliating that would be?"

"Baby boy, you look like you're on death's door and you probably will be if you keep this up. Humiliation should really not be a concern of yours right now." Deadpool rubs his chin thoughfully. “Tell you what, I've got a deal for you: you stop losing weight, and I won't dump you at Stark's door. I’m making you dinner tonight. And every other night, for that matter. And lunch, and snacks, and breakfast... I got a killer blueberry pancake recipe, did you know that?”

“I can’t just go all in like that. You know that, right?” 

Deadpool shrugs. 

“Gotta start somewhere. Maybe we’ll hold off a bit for now, but eventually we have to get you up to your maintenance of— Jesus fuck, ten thousand calories a day? Am I reading that right?” Deadpool’s eye lenses squint disbelievingly at the page in the yellow journal. Seven thousand maintenance, three thousand activity based.

“I just told you I'm enhanced.”

“I didn’t know you were that enhanced. Oh man, we gotta build you back up fast, no wonder you’re losing so much weight when you were eating a normal amount for an unenhanced guy. Ten thousand.” He whispers that last part to himself, mask as expressive as ever, conveying utter shock. “That settles it, we’re following through with our pasta night from ages ago. You can handle a plate of pasta right now, right?”

Peter’s stomach howls. Deadpool takes it as his cue to stand up and take the grand total of five and a half steps over to the kitchen, finding a pot that Peter hasn’t used in ages and filling it with water. 

“Right. Yeah, I think I can.”

Peter doesn’t talk much after that, but Deadpool seems happy to keep chattering away to his boxes. Peter will admit that the view is nice, albeit unfamiliar. Someone else is in his studio, his studio has food, hell, the lights are actually on for once instead of Peter leaving his curtain half-drawn. It’s oddly domestic, despite the man clad in red and black leather, wielding a katana as an incredibly impractical knife because ‘you seriously have a cutting board and no knives?’. He finishes chopping the herbs and dumps them into a bowl, which is left on the counter for later, and then moves over to check on the pasta. He grumbles when the steam puffs out, rubbing his face to get it out of the lenses of his mask.

“You don’t have to wear that around me anymore, you know.” Peter says. “I’ve seen your face.” 

“Don’t want you to lose your appetite.” 

“You really don’t look as bad as you think.”

“I don’t want to be the odd one out.”

“You… got me there.” Peter sighs. 

Deadpool keeps dancing around the kitchen, this time in silence. Peter’s not sure if he’s just imagining the awkwardness, but luckily it doesn’t last much longer. Wade strains the pasta and plates it quickly, topped with pesto (where the hell did he get that from?) and parmesan. He picks the plates up, then comes to a stop. 

“Baby boy, do you even have a table?” 

“Sitting on the floor to eat is actually a pretty common cultural practice—”

“Of any culture that you’re a part of?”

“Well, no, but– okay, who the hell can afford a table these days anyways, huh? We’re not all wealthy hitmen-for-hire.”

Deadpool shakes his head. “Fine, we’ll eat on the floor. At least tell me that you have some utensils.”

“I have two forks. Both technically belong to you.”

“Spider-Man stole my forks?”

“You gave them to me! In the tupperware, remember? I just forgot to give them back. Look, they’re right here.” Peter swings his legs over the edge of his mattress, tying the loose sleeves of his partially removed suit around his waist. He stands awkwardly, suddenly aware of the amount of pain he’s in, but he manages to walk over to the kitchen. He picks the forks out of their hiding spot in the sink and quickly dries them, handing them off to Deadpool. “I’m gonna go change, okay?” 

“Changing all by yourself, handsome?” Deadpool croons, taking the plates to the center of the studio and setting them down with the forks balanced on stop. 

“Yes.” Peter says firmly. He quickly grabs a change of clothes from his chest of drawers and makes his way to the bathroom. The bandages make him pause. Blood is dotting through them, but he figures it’s a problem for later. He’s not sure where he got the injury from, exactly, but he’s got a lot of healing injuries right now that have gone without identification. His arms are… not looking amazing. Warm pain radiates from his left wrist, and shit, has he really had that many scabs and scars all this time? He pulls a shirt on, and then slips off the rest of his suit. His legs aren’t looking much better, covered in dark bruises. A handful of cuts he’s been meaning to treat start to bleed sluggishly when he pulls the spandex off of them. The thick sweatpants he picked should keep that under control for a while, at least. Lastly, he pulls up his mask. He has one black eye instead of two now, so that’s an improvement. It looks like his lip is split too. Could be worse, overall. He yanks it back down and opens the door, but hesitates for a moment. 

“Hey, about that coworker of yours—”

“You’re not stupid, Webs.” Deadpool interrupts from his spot on the floor. “You know who ‘coworker’ is referring to.”

“Yeah, I know. I have one too, though.” He laughs. He steps back out into the studio, leaving his Spider-Man costume in the bathroom. He can hear Deadpool’s breath hitch when he notices that Peter’s fingers are working on the zipper on the back of his head. He manages to pry off the spandex, blinking to adjust to the light, and runs a hand through his flattened hair with a nervous grin. “I know you already figured it out, but uh. Name’s Peter.”

“Oh my god, he is cute.” Deadpool whispers. Peter holds back a laugh. 

“I’m a bit beat up.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Peter smiles and walks over to where Deadpool is sitting on the floor, cautiously taking the plate of pasta offered to him.

“You mentioned that ‘Wade’ was a big Spiderman fan. I thought he wanted to eat dinner together at some point?” 

Deadpool freezes. 

“Pete, you’re about to eat. You don’t wanna see—” 

“You can’t eat with a mask on.” 

“I eat with my mask half-on all the time. What happened to your precious plausible deniability?”

“I’ll lie.” 

Deadpool looks down at his plate. 

“Look, you don’t have to if you really don’t want to.” Peter says. “I’d just like to see you, that's all.”

“Okay.” Deadpool whispers. “Whew, yeah, okay. This is— this is fine. Gonna be fine. Totally.”

His voice is strained, but he makes like Peter and bows his head, pulling down the small zipper on the back with very visibly trembling hands. He pulls his mask off a lot more slowly and deliberately than Peter did, but sure enough, it comes off. Peter is left face-to-face with Wade, who now holds his mask awkwardly, not sure what to do with it. 

“Nice to meet you.” He says. 

“Nice to meet you too.” Wade says, significantly more subdued without the mask. Peter can’t tell if he’s blushing or not. A lot of the scars seem to be fresh, still red and raw. The gnarled tissue looks painful, but, like Peter said, it’s really not that bad. “Cheers?” He asks, tilting a glass of water towards Peter.

“Cheers.” Peter nods, clinking the glasses against each other. “Wait, where did you find these? I don’t own glass.”

“You do now!”

"Where are they from?"

"You don't need to know that."