TW: Eating disorder, depression, self-harm

(For the sake of this story, Andy and Lonny live within walking distance K thanks)

Between my refusal to accept help or to tell Noah the true extent of the cause for the relapse, we argue constantly. Neither of us intend to, but with both of us tired, me angry at myself and Noah confused and concerned beyond words, there seems there isn't much we can do other than argue. 

On the journey home, while Noah drives, I sit stiff and silent. As soon as either of us talk, it'll descend into a fight, but if we don't talk, nothing is going to change. I wish the radio was on so that at least we wouldn't be sat in a tense silence, but don't want to be the one to put it on because for some reason that would feel like a weak cop out, even though all I've been doing is copping out of talking about it. It's a wonder Noah hasn't snapped and yelled at me yet. 

Thankfully, the queue from last night is gone and the roads are fairly quiet, so we get home within an hour, and as soon as he kills the engine in the driveway, I undo my seatbelt, throw the door open, and get out. I hear him sigh loudly. 

While I'm untying my laces, Noah says tiredly, "Andy, please can we just have a conversation about this?" 

I don't look at him and I don't reply, because he already know what I would say and there's no need to waste my breath. 

"Andy," he tries, frustration heavy in his voice. "You can't just ignore it." 

"I'm not," I mutter dumbly, pulling my shoes off and pushing them up against the wall. I stand up and before I can register what's happening, Noah hugs me. I shove on his chest, mumbling, "Get off," because if I don't separate myself from his arms, I'll start to cry, and I've had enough of that. I'd rather be in denial than in tears all day. 

Wounded by my hostility, unsurprisingly so, Noah folds his arms and says my name again. 

I turn away from him, walking towards the living room. 

Behind me, he says, "You're better than this, Andy." 

"Sorry to be such a disappointment," I respond without turning to look at him. 

"No. Don't do that. For god's sake, Andy. I don't understand why you're doing this. Just talk to me, please." 

"Shut the fuck up." 

"You're being so defensive-" 

"Fuck off," I retort, walking further into the living room. 

Noah doesn't follow me, instead goes into the kitchen. I sit on the couch and stare at my hands, and when he sits next to me,  I don't move, but I notice the plate he puts on the coffee table. 

"I don't care if you're pissed off with me," he tells me. "You're not skipping morning snack." 

My eyes land on the plate.

"I'll eat with you but you have to eat." 

"No, fuck off." 

"Andy-" 

"No," I spit. "No, Noah. No" 

"You can't skip it, you know that." 

"I don't fucking care." 

"You have to care. It's your life you're risking." 

I push the coffee table back and stand up. "Well, I don't care, so fucking deal with it." 

Noah grabs my wrist and I yank it away. 

"Get the fuck off me!" 

"I'm trying to help you, Jesus Christ." 

"Help someone who cares." 

"You're going to kill yourself like this, don't you see that?" 

"I told you. I don't care. Get over it." The expression on his face makes me want to crumble and tell him everything, but I can't, and when he insists I should at least try, I shout, "I'm not eating it! I'm not fucking eating it, alright?" 

Noah shakes his head. I can tell he's just as close to tears as I am. "Please-" 

"No." 

"Andy-" 

"No, fucking hell!" 

Standing, he attempts to take my hand, and I shove him back harshly, desperately trying not to cry.

"I'm not letting you do this to yourself," he insists. "You're fucking playing with fire, Andy, you know that? You're not superhuman. You can't survive of a fucking bowl of fruit a day and expect nothing bad to happen! You collapsed twice yesterday and now you're just going to act like that doesn't even matter? This isn't a fucking game! You don't get more than one chance at life and your health won't magically fix itself if you keep ruining it. You're not fucking immortal!" 

"Shut up," I demand, not wanting to hear something I know is true. Something I've been trying to ignore. Trying to tell myself that it's fine so long as I'm thinner, as if being thinner might eliminate the possibilities of serious health issues even though I know all it's doing is making the chances higher. "I ate breakfast, so shut up!" 

"You ate a bowl of fucking fruit and some yogurt. You and I both know that is not enough." 

"It is!" I shout. "It is enough, fuck you!" 

"You have to stop this!"

"Fuck you!" I repeat loudly. Then I march out of the room, pull my shoes back on angrily, and slam the front door behind me. 

As soon as I'm out of the house, I begin to cry, then sob. As I walk, I swipe the back of my wrist repeatedly over my eyes, everything blurry. My heart pounds at the thought of what just happened. Everything I did and said to Noah was wrong. I was wrong. I knew I was wrong as I yelled at him, as I refused to eat. But yet I still couldn't stop myself from doing it. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

I keep walking despite the rapidity of my breathing and the hot, plump tears dripping down my cheeks, ignoring the few people who attempt to ask me if I'm okay. The only place I can think of going is Lonny's, and only once I'm at his door do I realise there's a very high chance he isn't in. 

I ring the bell twice, wiping at my eyes, now aching and heavy. 

When the door opens, it's Rhita. She says nothing for a moment, presumably trying to make sense of her husband's bandmate sobbing on the doorstep. "Andy," she then says, voice thick with worry, like Lonny might have told her something is wrong. I suppose it's not out of the question. He's always been very perceptive. 

"I-I'm sorry, Rhita," I stutter, struggling to take full breaths. "Is Lonny in? I really - I really need him. Fuck. I'm - I'm sorry to bother you." 

She steps aside while saying, "It's no bother, honey, come in. He's in the living room. Let me get you some tea." 

"Thanks," I mumble, following her through to the open kitchen and living room, still wiping helplessly at my eyes, tripping over each breath. 

"Lonny." Rhita taps his shoulder, since he's wearing headphones to edit a Youtube video. She gestures in my direction and he turns to look at me, his face sinking. 

"Andy, hey," he begins, getting to his feet. "What's going on? What's wrong?" 

I shake my head in place of words. 

"Here, sit down," he suggests, putting a hand between my shoulder blades and leading me towards the couch. He sits next to me. "What's wrong?" He asks again, his voice soft. 

Dropping my head into my hands, I try to calm my breathing. "Fuck," I mutter. "Lonny, I - I don't - I don't know what I'm - I don't know what I'm fucking doing any - anymore." 

"Hey, it's okay. I'm sure whatever it is, we can sort it out." 

"No, I...fuck." 

Rhita puts a mug of tea on the table. Lonny returns his hand to my back. "You don't know what you're doing in what sense?" He asks, keeping his voice level, calm. 

"I fucked everything up." 

"How so?" 

"I just - I thought it would - I thought it would be fine, and - and now I can't - I can't stop, and I - and I fucking - I thought I just - I just - I was trying to feel better, but - but...oh my god, oh my god, oh my god-" 

"Andy," Lonny cuts in. "Breathe. You're okay. Just breathe." 

I do my best to steady myself and my breathing. 

"Take it slow," he says. "From the beginning." 

I lift my head. No doubt my face looks horrific from the excessive sobbing. Taking the tea in my hands, I sip it. 

Lonny waits quietly for me to talk. 

I put the tea back on the table and lean my head back against the couch, closing my eyes. "I relapsed," I say. "And now I can't - I can't stop." 

"You relapsed? You mean in your anorexia?" 

I nod. 

Lonny pulls me against him. "Is Noah...does he know?"  

"Yeah, I - he's been tryna' help and all I've done is - is yell at him, so he probably fucking hates me." 

"He doesn't hate you. No one would ever hate you for this." 

I exhale slowly. 

"Why won't you let him help you?" Lonny asks now, and I know if I don't tell him the reason, I won't tell anyone. 

So I press my head into his shoulder and say, "I don't know, I think I just only feel valid when I'm - when I'm sick. Like, when I look sick." 

Lonny begins to stroke my hair. There's such an intense relief in having said it that I again start to cry. "It's okay," Lonny soothes. "I got you." 

"I wanted to feel better." My voice is muffled against his shirt. "And now I just - Lonny, I started fucking cutting myself." Not something I planned on telling him, but it just comes out. Purgatory, or something. I don't know. 

"You're what?" He asks, sounding alarmed. "Oh, Andy, I'm so sorry."

"Nothing helps anymore. Like...everything is just wrong, y'know? All the time, it's like, I feel wrong. I can't fucking - I can't do it anymore. I'm so tired." 

Moving, Lonny turns and sits sideways, has me settle between his legs. I lean against him, vaguely aware of the sound of his mouse clicking as he continues to edit his video, letting me calm down quietly. Ever since we met, Lonny has seemed to just know what I need and how to help. 

For a long time, we remain like that, me half-asleep against his chest. At some point he closes the laptop and I worry he'll make me move, but instead, he circles his fingers over my shoulders until I fall asleep.