Trigger warning: Mentions of eating disorders, self harm

Abigail, who's sitting across from the inpatient manager, puts a file on the table, with the words Remington Leith (Biersack) In bold lettering on the front. "This is everything you need to know," she says, "about his depression, his PTSD, his anxiety, and of course, his anorexia." She pushes the file across the desk. "He's been talking to me regularly, at least once a week, since the 8th of June, 2017. That's more than three years. Please take a moment to read through some quotations from various conversations we've had about his anorexia."

The woman opposite flicks through the file. "I see he's 26," she says, and then, "are you aware that the cut off age for a patient being considered vital is 21?"

"I am, of course. However, I don't understand how you can kick him out when he clearly is not stable enough to recover on his own."

"I understand," the woman says, reading through a page from the day Remington was first diagnosed with anorexia.

Abigail sighs. "He's been through so much, as you can see, and I can't sit by and let you dismiss him when, in all honesty, he's never needed anything more than he needs this hospital right now."

"How has his recovery been on a whole?"

"Since he was diagnosed? He's been through cycles of seeming to be recovered and then relapsing badly and ending up in hospital in critical condition. He finds it really hard to take responsibility for looking after himself the way adults should be able to."

"Mrs Bridges, excuse my bluntness, but from where I'm standing, it's not that recovery is impossible for him, but that you aren't doing all you can to help him."

Abigail looks at the woman in shock. "Excuse me?"

"I've seen countless patients like Remington, Miss, and they've all been just fine."

"You can't compare patients."

"My job is to monitor the inpatient ward, not to get emotionally attached to every patient here. Remington is over the vital age and, as an adult, he can take care of his own recovery at home. This ward is primarily for teenagers."

"Are you not listening? It doesn't matter how old he is! He's got a deadly disorder and he's literally begging for help, and how the hell is he supposed to ever recover if the people who can give him help are refusing him?"

"Mrs Bridges, please re-think your therapy strategies."

Abigail scoffs. "Are you kidding? I'm a qualified professional!"

"Look, all I'm saying is that if Remington isn't getting the appropriate help from you, then no matter what we do, he isn't ever gonna recover. This should be obvious. At the end of the day, he's an adult male and he is not as important to us as a teenage girl."

"You're gonna turn him away because he's a man? I'm sorry, but d'you know how many times he's heard that shit? 'Men can't have eating disorders.' 'You're faking it.' You are a hospital! Your primary goal is to stop people dying! And not to be negative, but if you turn him away, he will die. He's barely six stone, he's got crippling depression and a history of suicide attempts, and the only damn thing keeping him going at the moment is being inpatient, where he knows he is safe! Are you gonna take that away from him just because of his damn gender?"

She folds her arms, angry.

"And don't you dare blame me for not doing enough! I have done more than you would know for him and his family. I've stayed up over night to stop him hurting himself. I've talked to his husband and his brothers when they've been doubtful of him recovering. I've opened my door to him when he has no one else. I have kept him alive and been here when he doesn't have hope. I have seen him at his worst and I've seen him at his best and I have never ever told him he is not important because of his gender or his age, because at the end of the day, he is a human with a fuckin' awful past, he's battling with himself all the damn time, and the least anyone can do is help him when he asks. Your damn job is to help people like him. Your job is to help them when they need it most! Yet here you are, turning him away. Shame on you!" She stands up, snatches the file, and leaves, slamming the door on her way out.

Abigail sits in her car and cries, because all she wants is for Remington to feel important and valid and she can't believe a medical professional would say that. She remembers how she was close to quitting a few years ago, that she told Remington about it, and she thinks about it. About why she bothers anymore if her hard work isn't appreciated, not by those who should appreciate it.

In the hospital room, Remington, while trying not to let the tears in his eyes escape, folds his clothes into his suitcase, since he's been told he's to leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Andy's coming to pick him up, of course, and while he can't deny being relieved that he can go home and sleep in the same bed as his husband, he's still as terrified as he was that day Andy sang him to sleep, just two months ago.

He zips the suitcase up and leaves it on the floor, sitting on the bed and looking at his hands, at his wrists, at his fingers. He touches the tube and sighs, deciding to call Andy to occupy himself, instead of letting himself scratch. "You know I can get a taxi," he says, when the man answers, "save you driving for four hours."

"Don't be silly," Andy responds, "oh, hold on, someone's at the door."

Remington falls onto his back and waits for Andy to answer the door.

"There's a package for you," the man says, looking at the box in his hand.

"I didn't order anything."

Andy smiles. "Nope, I did. I'll show you tomorrow. How's your day going?"

"You got me a present?" Remington asks excitedly.

"Damn right, I did. You're gonna love it. Now, tell me all about your day."

"You tell me about your day."

Andy chuckles. "Alright. Well, I finished writing two songs, spoke to the guys in America for a while, who are doing great. Their new singer is really cool. I think you and him could be best friends. I found two dead mice in the living room, chased an alive one around for a while, put the mouse out, fed Jenny, listened to the new single by the guys in America, did some painting, and now I'm talking to you."

"Busy day. You should'a kept the mouse."

"Why?"

"As a pet. We could call it squeaky Andy."

"Why me? You're more like a mouse than me."

Remington giggles. "Yeah, but...no."

"I see."

"You always sound weird over the phone."

"Thanks?"

"I like your voice," Remington says.

Andy cuts open the box, his phone on speaker on the table. "I like your voice, too. Oh fuck, this is awesome."

"What's awesome."

"This thing I got for you."

"What is it?"

"Oh no, you gotta wait to see yourself." He picks up the designer boiler suit, with Remington's name embroidered carefully into the top pocket. "I might keep it."

"Like hell you will!"

Andy laughs.

"But what is it?" Remington whines.

"Not telling."

"Spoilsport."

"Bitch."

"Love you."