TW: Eating disorder/depression/suicide/panic attack

When I fell asleep, I'm not sure, but I woke in my bed, disorientated and (despite how much I wished I wasn't) fucking hungry. There was a warmth to my pillow, which I realised after blinking my eyes open was Ambrose, and he was lightly dragging his fingers through my hair. I swallowed and remembered that I'd yelled; my throat was raw and unhappy. I groaned. 

"Hey, darling," Ambrose said gently. 

Groaning again, I lifted a hand to my face, rubbed my eyes. I can confidently say I'd never felt as godawful as I did then. My stomach growled loudly. 

"Let me get us some breakfast," he said. "You slept through dinner yesterday. I didn't wanna wake you because you were so distressed before you went to sleep. It seemed you needed it. The sleep, that is." He lifted my head off his chest and got up. 

"I'd rather die," I mumbled coarsely. 

"I know, but I'm not going to let that happen. I'll bring it here, you don't need to get up." 

"No, just..." I dragged my hand across my face. "I think it would just be easier for both of us if you did let it happen." 

Ambrose sat on the bed and his knuckles danced over my cheekbone. "I'm so sorry about the way your mother spoke to you yesterday, I really am. Nobody deserves that." 

"Maybe she's right." 

"No, she's not." 

"Maybe I'm just not meant to be okay." 

"No, darling, of course you are. Of course you are. Listen to me. Struggling doesn't mean you'll never feel okay. It just means you need help to get there." 

I closed my eyes and swallowed even though it hurt. 

"So here's what we're gonna do, okay? I'm gonna get breakfast, and we'll eat it together. Then we can talk, if you want. Or sleep. Whatever you need. We could put a comfort movie or show on downstairs and make a nest of cushions and blankets on the couch? It doesn't matter, just so long as we eat, okay? If that means you spend the day crying, that's okay. Listen to me, that's okay." 

"No, it's not," I argued weakly. 

"Yes, it is." 

"I'm - I just - Ambrose, I don't care anymore. I don't care if I black out and hit my head. At least then it'd be over." I kept my eyes closed so I wouldn't have to see his expression. 

"I know, that's why I'm here. I care enough for the both of us."

"How can you say that?" 

"Because it's true?" 

"It can't be true." 

"Well, it is." 

"Why can't you just stop caring? That would make it a lot easier for both of us." 

"No, it wouldn't. It would probably make you kill yourself. That's not easier." 

"Yes. It is easier."

"No, Andy." 

I wanted to scream at him for his determination to help me when I no longer saw any point, but my throat was painful and I didn't have the strength to make that sort of noise. "I'm just so tired of everything," I muttered. 

He took my hand and circled my palm with his fingers. "I know you are, darling. I know you are." 

"And you're willing to let me continue feeling like this? That's nice." Sarcasm thick in my voice. 

"You won't feel like this forever." 

"How the hell do you know?" 

"I know you're arguing to deflect from the fact I was going to get breakfast, which, by the way, I'm still going to do. I don't care if you argue with me all day, I'm still going to make sure we eat." 

"Can you just fuck off?" 

Ambrose hummed, unphased by my rudeness, and kissed the back of my hand before standing. 

While he was gone, I pulled the covers up over my head and tried to will myself to death. Thinking, if I want it bad enough, maybe it'll come. I think I was too exhausted by that point to go to the efforts that suicide required. 

Ambrose returned but I didn't move from under the covers. I listened to him put what I assumed was a tray on the bed and sit beside me. I said without moving, "What is it?" 

"Two options: porridge with honey and banana or toast with butter and jam."

I pushed myself into a sitting position and looked at the tray, hesitated before taking the porridge. "You're not going to quit, are you?" 

"No." 

"Great." 

"Do you want a hug?" 

"What?" 

"Do you want a hug?" 

"Why are you asking that when I'm mad at you?" 

"So you don't want a hug?" 

I sighed heavily. Why did he always have to be fucking right? Putting the bowl back on the tray, I put my arms around him, sighed again, mumbled, "I'm sorry. I know you're helping. I just..." 

"I know, you don't need to be sorry." 

"Shouldn't you be painting or something?" 

"Stop trying to make me leave. It won't work. Painting can wait." 

I pulled back. He kissed me on the mouth. I said, "You're the best person in the world." 

He said, "I know." 

I said, "Fuck off," while taking the porridge in my hands, the bowl warm. Ambrose took a piece of toast and I waited for him to bite it before lifting the spoon to my mouth. 

After breakfast, Ambrose went to wash up and make tea, and I sunk back down into bed and wondered how the hell I would ever get up. 

The day was fuzzy. I slept on and off between meals to escape the shame, Ambrose lying with me when he wasn't in the kitchen. He pulled me out of bed every few hours for the bathroom, stood with his back turned while I used the toilet and washed my hands, my actions slow and more tiring than they should have been.

In the evening, after crying over nothing in particular, probably just the fact that I was still alive, he encouraged me into a hot bath, knew I wouldn't last very long standing under the shower. 

He sat behind me in the water, both of us wearing underwear, so that I didn't try to drown myself, said softly as he traced the ink on my hand, "Why 'dragonfly'?" 

"Ex," I said. "Before I came out. My nickname for her was dragonfly." 

"You've never wanted to get it covered?"

"She was good to me. We never argued. I just realised I was gay, and she was like, 'Okay, that's cool. Go do your thing. I don't want to keep you from who you really are.' Someone else might have told me just to ignore it." I yawned and added, "Her name's on my arm. Juliet. I figured that she helped me come to terms with my sexuality so I don't want to just erase her. I think she still has the tattoos of me." 

"Absolutely. I think it's lovely that she didn't hold you back just for the sake of keeping you loyal to her." Ambrose wrapped his arms around my torso. 

I yawned again. "I feel like shit," I muttered. "I don't fucking understand how I can still be so fucking hungry. It's not fair." Then, "Now you're going to make me eat." 

"Correct." 

"Fuck off." 

"As you keep saying." 

"Are you immune to insults or what?" 

"No, far from it. But I am not an idiot and you telling me to fuck off has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you being in the midst of a breakdown." 

"Did I really yell at my mother?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh." 

"I think she deserved it," he said. 

"She did, but she's never going to talk to me civilly again." 

"I'm sure she'll come around." 

"Your cup really is half full, isn't it?" 

"Yes. What's yours?" 

"Smashed into shards which I'll use to cut myself." 

"Mm, that's not very positive." 

"Well, duh." Straining to look at him, I smiled.

He smiled back. The thing about Ambrose is that he's fucking gorgeous and he doesn't even realise it. 

I said, "Since when did you have a tattoo on your temple?" 

"Oh, for years. I just cover it up most of the time. My family doesn't like it. My sister thinks I was possessed when I got it." 

I couldn't not laugh at that, turned around somewhat awkwardly, splashing water onto the ground, and settled with my knees either side of him so I could see him properly. "It's hot," I told him. 

"Thank you." 

"Tell your sister I say it's hot and she can suck it." 

"Suck what?" 

"I don't know, my dick?" 

"Mm, okay." 

Touching my fingers to the ink - a small, swirling pattern - I said, "But you don't have anymore?" 

"I do." 

"Where?" 

He raised his eyebrow. 

"Oh." 

"Yes, there." 

"That's very brave." 

"It's not actually on my dick. Just near to it." 

"I'd totally get a dick tattoo." 

He chuckled. "What of?" 

"Do you think I plan my tattoos before getting them? I just walk into the shop and whatever comes to my head first is what I get. Will you wash my hair?" 

"Absolutely. Turn around." 

"But I just turned this way though." 

"That was your decision." 

I leant forwards into him and he wrapped his arms around me. I didn't know how I'd ever get through a day without spending a considerable amount of it in his arms. 

"Okay?" He asked quietly. "Hon, you're shaking?" 

"I know. I know. It's called 'I'm about to have a panic attack because I just thought about everything I've eaten'. It's fine, just do the loud breathing thing." 

Thankfully, it was a quick attack, and only when it was subsiding did I turn around and sink down so that Ambrose could wash my hair.

Clean and calm-ish, I pulled on a hoodie and tracksuits, ventured downstairs to a tidy living room where I sat, then lay. Ambrose brought down cushions and the comforter from my bed and I slept against his chest after eating. 

I thought, my life may have fallen apart, but at least there was a gorgeous and very comforting man refusing to abandon me.