Feeding Arthur molten glass -

Pouring it into his open mouth from an irregular mold. The light of it shines through the skin of his cheeks; delicate veins shadowed over sunset pink. It's painless, and thick on his tongue, sticking to the roof of his mouth and between the crevices of his teeth. It tastes like pure heat - the way an opened oven feels, the way a fire looks when it's low and smoldering. It cools into a brittle pane inside his stomach, and when it breaks the shards of it pierce through his organs and his muscles, finding their way out through his skin. He picks glass out of himself with his fingers until he's smooth inside again.

Feeding Arthur paint with a spoon -

That gnarled steel spoon in the back of the drawer that's been caught in the garbage disposal over and over again. Pitted metal coated in liquid tack; chalky bitterness hiding a razor tang. It poisons him and he's violently sick, sweating and vomiting up strings of colored acid. But paint coats him inside like a remodeled house and he's refreshed by an unfamiliar newness.