Trigger Warning: Eating disorder, depression

"Don't you have work?" 

It was a Wednesday, two days after Andy's outburst with his parents. He was sitting up in the bed with a wordsearch open in his lap, and Remington had just stepped into the room with a plastic pot of coloured highlighters and pens. "Nah, switched my hours around," he explained, putting the pens on the table where Andy could reach. "Work's taking the piss anyway, so I was like, why spend all my time there when I could be here instead?" 

"Money, I assume," Andy said. He looked through the pens, picked a blue highlighter. 

"What's the wordsearch on?" 

"Uh...types of plant." 

Remington hummed, started folding and putting away the clothes of Andy's that had been washed. "You're so emo," he decided, and Andy shook his head. 

"So are you." 

Remington hummed again. "Of course. It's the only way to be. Oh, this one's still damp." He took the shirt to the window and draped it over the edge of the windowsill.

"Is this all you do all day?" Andy asked, not rudely. He was desperate for a real conversation with someone; every time his parents and his band visited, he found it impossible not to cry, and the majority of the hospital staff would talk to him only about his health. He wanted a normal conversation. 

"Pretty much. I'm the only volunteer on this floor though, so it can get quite chaotic, y'know, when eleven people are asking for a different drink from the cafe at the same time and I only have two hands." 

"There's a cafe?" 

"Oh. Yeah. Downstairs." 

"Can I go? For a change of scenery?" 

"You're on bed rest, aren't you?" 

"Yeah, but...oh, come on. Please. You can ask a nurse, at least. Please? I'd get down on my knees and beg, if I was allowed." 

Folding the last of the shirts into the small drawer, Remington headed for the door. "I'll go ask," he said. "But I make no promises." 

"Thank you."

For the few minutes that Remington was gone, Andy found two more plant names in the wordsearch, crossing them off the list at the bottom of the page and replacing the lid on the highlighter when the door opened. He looked up expectantly. 

"Okay," Remington started. "So, you can go down to the cafe, but you have to stay in the wheelchair. They were very strict about you not walking." 

"Fucking wheelchair," Andy complained, and huffed. "Okay. Fine. Whatever." 

Standing, even just to sit in the wheelchair, felt odd. Though he was a lot less exhausted than he had been the first few days after collapsing in his parents' house, it was like his legs weren't meant to be stood on, like they were foreign and brittle and couldn't be trusted. He planted his feet on the footrest of the chair and wrapped his hand around the frame that was holding his feeding tube. Remington manoeuvred him out of the room and begun down the corridor to the lift. 

The cafe was larger than Andy had expected, though it was such a big hospital that he shouldn't have been surprised. Finding an empty table by the window, Remington parked the wheelchair and said, "You want anything? Tea? I'm getting tea." 

"Yeah, alright. Tea sounds nice. Thanks." He leant forwards, rested his elbows on the white table, watched people walking past and going into the WHSmith's shop that was opposite. He thought about all his fans and how they still hadn't been told anything, hadn't heard from him in what must have been months. He thought about his band and how much he'd been neglecting it, ow frustrated the others must have been with him.

When Remington sat down with the teas, the first thing to jump into Andy's mind was the milk in it, the liquid calories. "Thanks," he said quietly, touching the cup. 

"So...excuse me if this is weird, but some of your visitors, they look like they've come straight out of a rock band." 

Andy laughed at that. "Probably because they are in a rock band." 

"Shit, really?" 

"What did you think my job was? Teacher?" 

"That's so cool, man, holy fuck. I think I love you." 

"I have that effect on people," the elder joked. "So, what's your job? Teacher?" 

"Hah. No. I'm a makeup artist." 

"No shit, of course you are." Andy glanced at the drink on the table, became starkly aware of the tube and the tape on his face, could feel the calories absorbing into his body. It was frightening, being tube fed, having no say in the amount. The worst was yet to come, what with a weigh-in approaching and a meal plan that meant he had to actually start eating in just a few weeks, if not less. The last time that had happened, he remembered, he could barely get through one mouthful without wishing he was dead, needed Jinxx to baby him for the entirety of every meal. And even after he had been discharged, it was still such an impossible task that he had given up before he even had a chance to properly try. It was a wonder his parents were still so patient with him. He hated being so dependent and needy.  "Sorry," he mumbled, realising he had blanked out of their conversation. 

"That's okay. Are you alright? You've gone a little pale?" 

"Yeah, uh...yeah. I'm fine." 

Remington didn't ask, knew it was inappropriate to ask. He could of course talk with patients about why they were in the hospital, but only when they brought it up first, only when they wanted to talk about it. 

"So, you're a makeup artist. What sort of makeup?" 

"Oh, I do a lot of brides. Some grooms. Lots of celebratory events and things. So it's basically just glittery eyeshadow and red lipstick. To be honest, I wish someone would come in and be like, 'I wanna look like I just woke from the dead.' But what can you do? They pay me, so I can't really complain. There are worse jobs." 

Andy wrapped his hand around the cup and took an uncertain sip. "Mm, edgy, bro," he said into the drink. "Don't cut me with all your sharp edginess." 

"You know, I like you. You're not boring like most people here." 

"Duh. I'm not like other girls." 

Remington laughed. 

"What about funerals? Have you done any funeral makeup?" 

"Makeup on the dead person, or on someone who knew the dead person?" 

"Both?" 

"Nope. But I did do a woman who was going to a divorce trial. She lost in the end, I think, lost all her money to him. I tell you, she was a real cunt to me. Excuse me, I asked for red, not dark orange! Excuse me, this is unacceptable! Are you colour blind? Are you colour blind, man?"

"Are you colour blind?" 

"Nope." 

"Did you use dark orange?" 

"Like I said, she was a cunt." 

Andy smiled, took another sip. "You're fun," he said. "I like you."