Trigger warning: Mentions of eating disorders (somewhat graphic?), vv brief mention of substance abuse + self harm.

Remington wakes in the same place that he passed out. He rubs his eyes, groans, presses a hand to the side of his head. The world is fuzzy, unstable, and Remington finds his phone, calls Andy because he doesn't want to listen to anyone else.

"Hey sweetheart," Andy greets, "this is a surprise."

"Are you-can I talk t'you?"

"Of course you can, kitty cat."

"Can't do it," Remington says shamefully.

"Can't do what?" Andy asks.

The boy brings his knees up into his chest. "Just...be alive. Can't do it no more."

Andy sits up straight. "Where are you, sweetie?"

"Outside our house. Can't find my key."

"Have you checked in your inside pocket? You keep losing it there."

Remington unzips the small pocket on the inside of his jacket, finding the key there. "Oh, thanks," he mumbles, "sorry."

"Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, good. Make yourself some tea."

The boy opens the door, steps in. "Okay." He closes it behind him. "Sorry."

"Shush you, don't start. How's your day been, huh? You having a bad one?"

"Mm." Remington hangs his coat up and goes into the kitchen. "Are you alright?"

"I'm actually quite okay," he says, and he means it. "Still taking it, but I'm getting there."

"Promise?"

"I promise, angel. What've you done today?"

Remington puts his phone on speaker and fills the kettle. "Shouted at Sebastian then collapsed," he tells his husband, grateful that they can go through a rough patch and still talk like none of it happened.

"Collapsed?" Andy repeats, "oh baby."

"Sorry," the boy says, for the third time in less than three minutes. He gets a mug from the cupboard.

"I'm banning that word from your vocabulary. You don't need to apologise for any of this, honey, I'm just worried. D'you wanna have something with me now?"

"No," Remington pouts, "why couldn't you just come home with me? I don't like sleeping alone. It's scary."

Andy sighs. "Martin's really adamant on getting to the end of tour. He might fuckin' kill me if I don't stay." He laughs but Remington knows it's not a real one.

"Well then fuck Martin, all he does is insult everyone. You can tell him I'm never gonna eat a burger."

"I don't wanna fuck Martin. You think I wanna see his crusty arsehole."

Remington giggles. "I didn't mean it that way, weirdo."

"I know. I just wanted to make you smile. Did it work?"

"Maybe."

"Are you making tea?"

"Yeah."

Andy hums.

"Why?"

"I want you to do something for me," he begins, "put plenty of milk and sugar in it, alright?"

"But..."

"But nothing, sweetheart."

Remington huffs. "You're a dick."

"I know," Andy chuckles. He rolls his sleeve up. "How are you feeling now? Still bad?"

"Like a forty one," Remington says, hoping Andy still remembers their system.

"What was it earlier?" The man asks.

Pouring the hot water into the mug, Remington replies. "Forty three," is his answer, and then he says, "how many spoons of sugar?"

Andy smiles. "How about two? Can you do that?"

"Mm."

"Good boy."

"I am."

"You are," Andy agrees, "now, I need to go. You keep yourself safe for me, alright? You know where the first aid kit is, don't you? Un-"

"Under the sink, yes. I know. It's cute when you get all protective. I'll be fine. Thanks for not shouting at me like Sebastian did."

"And thank you for still trusting me after what I did."

"Call you later?"

"Sure, baby boy. Enjoy your tea."

"Enjoy the show," Remington returns enthusiastically, "love you, bye!" He hangs up once Andy has said it back, tipping milk into his tea and picking the mug up. He sips it and sighs.

In the late evening, Remington lies in bed unable to sleep. He can't get the picture of Emerson out of his mind. You need to be thinner, his mind is telling him. He's trying to win. The boy tries shaking it off, telling himself that's ridiculous, that Sebastian was right. It's not a competition and Emerson has nothing to do with him. He covers his face with the covers and screams into them because there's no one here to hear him. He thinks about the food he reluctantly had on the phone with Andy just half an hour ago.

You need to win.

Remington gets out of bed. He gives up on trying to sleep and accepts that it's gonna happen either way. In the bathroom, he kneels by the toilet, the light still off, and pulls his blanket over his shoulders before leaning over the toilet bowl and shoving his fingers deep into his throat. It hurts more than he remembers it to, though he thinks some of that pain might be more to do with the fact that he couldn't just get better like he was supposed to. That he keeps promising it's not as bad as it was and that it's 'not a big deal', that it's 'only a small relapse'. The fact that he keeps going back on promises and threatening a second heart attack simply for the chance of getting below four stone, his lowest weight yet. He's sure, once he's at three stone, he'll be satisfied. He's sure, by then, he'll stop.

When he's done and there's nothing left to get out, Remington washes his hands and rinses his mouth out and flushes the toilet. He goes back to bed and then he regrets it and still can't sleep. His stomach begins rumbling after a while and Remington shouts at it to leave him alone because he's sick of feeling it. He hits at his stomach and keeps screaming for it to go away until he thinks he might pass out. That's when he calls Abigail, hopes she's not fed up with him.

"I can't do it!" He cries to her, touching his ribs to find he's given himself a bruise.

"I'm coming over," Abigail says, "sit tight. I won't be long."

Remington inhales clumsily, letting go of his phone and waiting for her.

Abigail locks the door from the inside once she's arrived, ascending the stairs and knocking on what she can only assume is the bedroom door. "Can I come in?" She asks.

Remington hums into the pillow. He doesn't turn to look at her.

"What's going on?"

"Messed it all up!" Remington cries, "did it again!"

Abigail picks up the glass of water by the bed. "Did what again? Hurt yourself?

He shakes his head violently.

"Let's sit up, okay?"

The boy does as she wants, avoiding looking at her. He lets her hold the glass to his mouth, swallowing the water and wiping his eyes.

"Now, without rushing, you're gonna tell me what's going on," Abigail says softly, putting the glass down.

Remington can't stop wiping at his eyes. "Didn't mean to," he mumbles.

"Can you tell me what you did?"

He nods but doesn't say anything.

Abigail strokes hair from his face. "Have you made yourself sick?" She asks, voice showing no signs of disappointment.

Remington nods, tears beginning again. "I'm sorry," he stutters, "I'm sorry I can't just-why can't I just-why won't it stop?" He messily wipes tears across his face with the back of his hand and looks at the woman, on the verge of a complete meltdown.

Abigail continues stroking his hair. "I need you to get all your bad thoughts out," she decides, "so I'm gonna hug you and you're gonna let it out, okay? You need to get it all out." She waits for a nod before wrapping him in her arms. "Tell me everything you need to get out. Say it all. No judgement, nothing. Just release."

For a moment, Remington takes in the comfort of the way she holds him, and then, with great relief, he cries about everything he's been trying so hard not to cry about. Abigail doesn't talk. She just listens, strokes his hair, lets him use her as a much needed release. She stays quiet even after he's said everything, says nothing as he sobs into her shoulder and his delicate body shakes with relief and regret and anger and confusion. When he's quiet, she knows he's exhausted himself into sleep, and moves, tucking him in bed and wiping tears from under his eyes. She fills his glass, leaves the door ajar, and sleeps in the spare room so he's not on his own in the morning.