EAT.

FOUR

Trigger warnings: Mentions of weight, disordered eating, anxiety/stress.

Andy is overworked. That is clear. To everyone around him. In the studio they watch him pacing, pushing fingers through is hair, frowning and sighing, all while getting increasingly frustrated with everybody in a hundred mile radius of him. He insists that the tour is going to be a disaster, that everything is going wrong and they're doing fuck all to fix it. He claims none of his band mates are dedicated enough, that they all sit around on their arses while he does all the work, firing insults blindly and without much thought into what he's saying. By lunch time, he seems to have calmed down, though leaves the studio because 'my lunch is in my car'. He doesn't come back until the lunch hour is over so the others can only assume he's eating in the car, most likely for some peace and quiet. 

Definitely not so he doesn't have to lie about not eating lunch today. 

Normally he would eat lunch. It's not like he's going to start skipping meals daily, only he had a large breakfast and so eating lunch on top of that would make his calorie count too high, and if his calorie count is too high, he won't achieve the slim, toned build he desires, so he must be careful. Yes, be careful. No one ever got their desired body by being lazy and sloppy with their dieting. That's what this is, isn't it? A diet. Yes, a diet.

For the hour, he sits in his car scrolling through various different apps on his phone and trying not to worry too much about how incredibly behind they are now. They're never going to be ready for this fucking tour, and at this rate, there might not even be a fucking tour to be ready for. 

Andy returns to the rehearsal in a much calmer state, though doesn't apologise for the way he was lashing out earlier, doesn't even mention it. They play through the complete set list and, as usual, find so many things wrong with each song that, by the end, Andy is just as agitated as before lunch. "What the hell is happening?" He asks sharply after they've finished the set list. "That was a fucking mess. Have you been practicing, or have you spent all your time here just pissing about like bloody usual?" He shakes his head. "I know we haven't toured for a while but for the love of God, start acting like professional musicians. You're not a school band playing for our parents, get a grip."

"You made mistakes, too, Andy," CC says daringly. 

"Don't pull that tone with me, I'm the only one here doing anything about the venue situation while you lot sit about giggling. I'm all for having fun but fucking hell, you're just taking the piss!" Andy pushes the microphone back into the stand with a thump. "We have so much shit to do and what? You expect me to do it all? I'm not a fucking machine, I'm one fucking person!"

"You don't let us help," says CC. 

Andy looks at him with anger. "Oh, I don't? You expect me to tell you what to do all the fucking time now, huh? Have some initiative, Jesus Christ!" 

"No, Andy, you're so dominating that we literally can't do shit without you lashing out."

Silence now. The accusation turns Andy's expression from frustration into hard anger. He shoves the microphone stand over and walks away without responding, only in his eyes are pricking tears and in his head, a voice yelling how much of a fucking cunt he is. There was no reason to get angry at CC like that, no reason to get angry at any of them. They're all doing their best, that wasn't fair at all. Yet, it happened, he snapped, now they'll be hurt by what was said and the band will be faced with tension and that will only further ruin what's left of the tour. It'll be a bloody car crash. 

Andy sits in his car. He covers his face with his hands and cries, realises he's hungry but isn't that a good thing? He jumps at a knock on the window and looks up to see Jake stood outside the vehicle with a worried frown. He winds down the window and continues looking at the guitarist.

"Andy, mate, what's going on?" Jake asks, without a hint of the anger that Andy expected him to hold. "There's no need to cry over this. We'll make it work, we always do." 

Andy wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm just tired," he says. "It's fine, go back in. I'll be five minutes." 

"We're just worried about you. There's really no need for you to get so stressed like this, it's just a tour." 

"Just a tour? Jake, if this tour doesn't go well, we're all fucking screwed." He shakes his head and wipes his eyes again. "Seriously, I'm fine. Go back in. Get everyone to go through Legacy. It was a mess when we played it earlier." 

"Okay, you got it. Just..." He sighs. "You don't need to get so stressed. It'll be a whole lot easier if you stayed calm." 

"Yeah, sure," Andy mutters. Well if that ain't the most useless piece of advice I've ever heard. "I'll be five minutes, please don't mention that I was crying." 

* * * 

In bed just gone midnight, Andy finds himself crying again. It seems the more he tries to make things right, the more the world likes to fuck him over. He sits up and gets out of bed, turning on the light and squinting at himself in the full length mirror. He draws his fingers up where the abs should be, upset that they aren't there and closing his eyes to suppress further tears. Once he opens them again, having failed to stop them from leaking, he turns away from the mirror and looks instead at the bed, covers ruffled, un-made. The he turns back to the mirror and stares furiously at himself, yawns, and decides to finally go to sleep, only he can't sleep because he's worried about the tour and about his body and about what everyone must think of him and about the way his fans long for what he looked like ten years ago. He can't sleep, so he burns his eyes through his reflection until it hurts to look at himself. Then he wonders whether skipping the occasional meal would have its benefits.