Trigger Warning.

When Andy asks about diet pills, Remington averts his gaze and sighs, answering Andy without saying anything.

"Do you want to tell me where they are?" Andy asks, releasing one of Remington's hands to play with his hair.

The boy lets his arm drop down beside the sofa. "No," he replies.

"How long have you been taking them?"

Remington turns his head to the side. "I don't know," he whispers, "eight days."

"And how many do you take each day?"

Sitting up and shrugging, Remington looks at Andy. "Four or five," he says slowly, and looks away. "Sorry."

Andy can hear how ashamed he is, and rubs his shoulder. "It's okay. Don't apologise. Thankyou for telling me."

"I'm so scared of gaining weight," Remington says quietly, "and I thought-I thought that it would get easier, but it isn't, and everytime I see myself I hate it and I can't stop thinking about how I just wanna starve." He puts his head in his hands. "And I know that diet pills are bad and that I said I'd stop taking them last time but I don't know what else to do because I need to he thin, Andy, I just need to." A moment of quiet passes. "People keep saying I'm thinspo."

"What people?"

Remington sighs. "On Instagram."

Understanding more what's going on now, Andy hums. "Okay. I want you to come with me." He stands up and offers a hand.

The boy frowns. "Come where?"

"You'll see."

Confused, Remington accepts Andy's hand, and follows him up the stairs. "What're you doing?" He asks.

In the bedroom, Andy gently pushes Remington down, so he's sitting on the bed, and kneels in front of him, hands on the boy's knees. "I want you to look at me," he instructs, "and listen to what I'm gonna say. Okay?"

Remington just nods.

"I know you think that being thin means you're pretty, but you are pretty all the time. And I know that it might feel nice having people say you're thinspo, but sweetheart, it's not good. Being thinspo is not good, okay? You are so much more than just a body. You are a complex, intelligent, incredible person, with the purest, most beautiful soul. You aren't alive just so people can look at you and comment on how thin you are. You are alive to make people happy, and to love and be loved, and for people to admire and look up to and say 'he saved my life.'

"And, darling, I understand why you're doing this. I get it. You're scared, but honey, that's okay. You don't need to be ashamed of being scared. You don't need to be ashamed of anything, okay? You are so inspiring and so so fucking strong and you can beat this. I know you can. But please, sweetheart, please, don't keep doing this to yourself. I understand that you don't know how to deal with gaining weight, and I know it's really hard for you, and believe me when I say that you are doing so so fucking well, and that I am so so fucking proud of you. I love you for your mind, and your grace, and your beautiful soul, not just because you're gorgeous, which you are, by the way. You're fucking beautiful. Starving yourself isn't the way to cope with any of this, honey. It kills me to see you hurting and I know it might feel like starving makes everything better, but I promise it doesn't help. You'll end up back in hospital with a feeding tube and you'll feel so much worse. Please tell me where they are, and I promise I will help you, okay? But I'm not willing to let you do this to yourself, even if you are. I refuse to let you wither away."

Remington rubs his eyes. "I don't want to be like this anymore," he murmurs, sad. "I just want all the hurt to go away." His eyes close and he heaves a breath. "Everything hurts inside all the time."

Straight away, Andy pulls the boy into his arms. "I know, sweetie, I know. It's alright. You're okay."

"They're in the same place," Remington whispers, and presses his cheek against Andy's chest. "You're gonna get rid of them, aren't you?"

"I certainly am."

"Are you gonna get rid of me?"

"Certainly not, sweetheart. I would never. Thankyou for telling me. Right now I'm gonna cuddle you and hopefully make you feel a bit better, okay?" He sits on the bed and Remington nods. "I need you to tell me if you buy some more, okay? You know I never want you hurting alone."

"'kay," Remington whispers, head in Andy's lap.

They're quiet for a while, with Andy stroking the younger's hair. They only move when Remington's phone starts ringing from downstairs, and he runs down to see who it is.

"Sebby, hi," he answers, flopping down into the couch.

There's a pause before Sebastian speaks. "I had a call from the record label today," he says, "they need a yes or no for tour by tonight or they're dropping us."

Remington isn't sure how to respond. "I don't know yet," he says, "I'm kinda in the midst of an eating disorder crisis over here. I haven't even started thinking about tour."

"Oh, shit, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Kinda. I've been taking diet pills again."

The guitarist is, of course, worried at those words. "Does Andy know?"

Remington leans forwards with a sigh. "Yes. I told him earlier. What happens if we say no to tour? Will they drop us?"

"Yeah."

"So the only way not to lose the deal is to tour?"

"Yeah."

Remington closes his eyes. "Well that's great," he says sarcastically, "what do you want me to say? Either way, it's gonna end badly."

"Try being optimistic for once."

"Shut the fuck up," the singer snaps, "say yes, tell them we'll tour. And fucking get a coffin ready because it's gonna kill me. Bye." He hangs up and leans back on the couch. "Fuck," he says out loud, "fucking fuck I'm screwed."

"You're screwed?"

Remington doesn't look at Andy. "Yep. We're touring soon. I'm screwed. You'll come, though, right?"

Andy sits next to his husband. "Of course. I'll be there the whole time."

"I'm fucking screwed."