Trigger Warning: Eating disorder 

Committing to recovery after 5+ years of repeating the same ED cycle has definitely not been a straight line for me, and I think it's just as important for someone to recognise the signs of a relapse during recovery as it is to recognise the disorder in the first place, so that's why I'm writing this. Please please know that if you're struggling with an ED, I understand how isolating it can feel and if you at any point need someone to listen to you, I'm here!! And if you've been searching for a sign to choose recovery, maybe this could be it?? 

All my love (comments and votes always massively appreciated) <3  

* * * 

Andy was waiting at the restaurant and Remington was ten minutes late. Not unusual - he often lost track of time while putting on makeup - but it wasn't an isolated incident: two days ago, he had gone out for what he claimed was a walk and hadn't returned until well into the afternoon, hours after lunch. 

And yesterday morning, Andy had left early for a photoshoot, leaving a croissant for Remington's breakfast as he often did. But he had found it still in the paper bag, and when he brought it up, Remington had told him that he'd had yogurt and granola instead, that he didn't want the croissant. 

Andy knew for a fact there was no granola in the house. It was on the shopping list for the following day. 

He hadn't said anything then, didn't trust himself to word it the correct way, knew better than to risk sounding as though he was accusing, blaming, pointing a finger and saying, this is your fault, you're failing. Because it wasn't true. Remington wasn't failing and it wasn't his fault. 

He was almost half a year into recovery. At the beginning, the first two months at least, Andy had eaten almost every meal with him, as well as the three snacks he was required to ensure regular eating. But he was far enough in now that Andy had taken a slight step back, didn't want Remington to feel suffocated or worse, incapable. Besides, Remington was talking to his therapist, Abigail, every week, so if something was wrong, he was sure it'd be discussed.

So he sat for breakfast with his husband that morning, eating toast and sipping coffee, and he tried to determine whether he was being paranoid.

If something was going on, would Remington have already brought it up to Abigail, since he'd had a session just two days ago?

It was difficult to know; in the past, he had lied to every single person he spoke to in order to protect his then undiagnosed disorder from being discovered. In theory, he could do that again, if things escalated to such an extent that he was having trouble ignoring the unhealthy thoughts. 

So Andy didn't know what to think or what to do, didn't want to raise alarm over something that potentially wasn't an issue and yet couldn't bear the idea of not doing something if there was an issue. 

He would have stayed for lunch, too, but had an interview for a new solo album, and so he proposed they meet afterwards in their usual restaurant for dinner. Besides, it had been a good while since they'd gone out together without the company of friends or industry acquaintances. 

And now he was waiting at the restaurant, and ten minutes late, Remington still wasn't there. Andy checked his phone, the concern festering inside him, wondered if something had come up with his brothers, waited another five minutes before sending him a message. 

Andy: You coming?? 

No response after ten minutes. He stood, hadn't yet ordered and so could easily leave without waiting for the cheque, walked home in the evening light of summer. It was warm enough not to need anything more than the black hoodie he was wearing. 

The front door was unlocked, which meant either Remington was home, or someone had broken in. Andy chose not to consider the second option, called as he bent to untie his shoes, "Rem? You in?" 

For a few seconds, nothing. Then from the living room, "Yeah." 

Andy picked up Femme, who was rubbing against his leg, and began in the direction of the voice. "You stood me up," he said, not unkindly. 

Remington glanced up at him. "Hmm?" he was sitting on the couch with one leg bent up against his chest and an arm around his knee, but the television wasn't on, and he didn't seem to be doing anything. A sure sign, Andy knew, of something being wrong. 

"We were supposed to have dinner tonight at Zeff's." Sitting beside him, Andy let the cat free from his arms, watched her make a bed of the armchair. 

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," Remington apologised, barely looking in Andy's direction.

"I texted you." 

"Phone's dead." 

That was a lie. Andy was certain of it. The way he looked away as he said it, lifted his hand to his collar, fingers pressing into the dip above the bone. Something he did in an effort to soothe himself. He was lying. 

His worries almost completely confirmed, Andy asked, "Are you okay?"

Remington didn't look at him. "What?" 

"Are you okay?" He repeated. 

Remington blinked, his fingers moving over his collar bone. "Yeah, of course," he answered. "I just forgot is all." 

For a long moment, Andy was quiet. There was no doubt about it; he had to bring it up. He couldn't sit idly by and let Remington sink into a relapse just because he worried that saying something about it might upset him. He couldn't ever do that. "Have you eaten?" He asked. "I'm gonna boil some pasta." 

Immediately, Remington nodded. 

"What did you have?" 

There was an undeniable hesitation in which Andy knew he was trying to remember what they had in the fridge. 

Before he could come up with something, Andy spoke again. "I'm gonna make pesto pasta," he explained. "And we're going to eat it together, okay?" 

Remington still wouldn't look at him but had evidently abandoned the attempts at lying, for he muttered, "Okay," didn't say anything more as Andy headed for the open kitchen. Then, voice raised, "I'm sorry for skipping the restaurant without telling you." He turned to watch the man fill the kettle at the sink. 

"It's okay. I understand." Andy returned to the couch while the kettle boiled. "You wanna talk about it, or not now?" 

"I just...I feel like I'm out of control." 

"How so?" 

"I'm - I've been so hungry and...well, you know what I'm talking about, you've been here the whole time." 

"You mean your extreme hunger? Darling, that's not because of a lack of control, it's because your body and your brain needs everything it's been deprived of. It's your body trying to heal itself." 

"No, I - I know. But..." he shook his head. "God, I'm just so sick of being scared of gaining weight." Dropping his hand finally from his collar, Remington breathed a heavy sigh. "I don't know. I thought in some fucked up way that going back to what I was doing before would help, or make me feel better, or at least, in control. And for a bit, Andy, it did. It did make me feel better." 

Andy hummed. "And now?" 

"Well I just made everything harder for myself, didn't I? I just undid everything like a fucking idiot-" 

"No, you didn't." 

"No, I did, I just ruined it all. God, I don't...I feel so stupid. One bad fucking thought and I give up on everything." 

"No, darling. You haven't ruined it all. Because you're acknowledging right now that it wasn't a healthy choice, and if we'd had this conversation a year ago, you'd have told me until you lost your voice that it's better to do what the disorder wants than what your body needs. That's a big thing you've been able to accept; don't downplay your progress because of one relapse. We can pick you up from this, okay? It's not all ruined." 

Remington ran his hands over his face, sighed again, then heaved himself up from the couch and realised quite suddenly how little he'd managed to eat the past couple of days. He found Andy's chest with his hand to steady himself. "Fuck," he muttered. 

Andy took him around the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "Definitely pasta for you," he whispered. "You okay? You wanna sit back down?" 

"No, yeah, I'm good." 

"You want tea or something?" 

"Yeah, okay." 

"You're gonna have to let go of me, then." 

Groaning into his shoulder, Remington mumbled, "God, I'm so fucking hungry." 

"There's still a croissant leftover," Andy suggested. "While the pasta boils?" 

Remington pulled back to look at his face. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. Okay." 

With a gentle smile, Andy stroked his cheekbone. "Remember," he said, "unconditional permission to eat, always." 

"Unconditional permission," Remington repeated. "To eat. Always." 

The kettle clicked off and Andy stepped back from Remington to pick it up and pour the water over the pasta. "Unconditional permission," he said again. 

Remington found the paper bagged croissant, took out the pastry and sat on the worktop, took a bite. "Thank you," he said after swallowing. "For noticing. I was starting to feel all, like, trapped again." 

"You don't need to thank me, my love. I'm glad I could help." 

Leaning sideways, Remington opened the cupboard above, awkwardly got his fingers around the Nutella jar, asking Andy to pass him a spoon. He coated the end of the croissant in the spread and took another bite. "Fuck," he said, dipping the spoon back into the jar. 

Leaving the pasta to cook, Andy began to make mugs of tea, leaning over Remington for the tea bags in the corner and murmuring, "Proud of you." 

Remington pulled off a piece from the croissant. "You are right," he said. "It's not all ruined. I wouldn't have done this a few months ago." He gestured to the Nutella covered pastry.

"See, told you. You're doing amazing. And look how ready you are to pick yourself up from those bad days. You're fucking smashing it."

"Can I have another hug?" 

"Absolutely." Momentarily abandoning the task of making tea, Andy stood between Remington's knees, held his head against his chest, whispered, "I love you, pretty darling." 

"You sound so posh when you say that." 

"Pretty darling?" 

"Mhm. You know the pasta's boiling over?" 

"Wonderful." 

"Are you going to do anything about it?" 

"In a sec. I'm giving you a hug right now." 

Remington hummed, smiled, took a deep breath in. "You smell like my cologne." 

"Probably because I'm wearing your cologne." 

"What's wrong with your cologne?" 

"I like yours," Andy mumbled.

"Why?" 

"It's yours." 

"You're actually so obsessed with me." 

Andy laughed, pulled back. "Don't I know it."