EAT.

ELEVEN

Trigger warnings: Eating disorders, mention of death

They're told only one person is allowed in at a time, to minimise the risk of the already overwhelmed man suffering a panic attack or worse. They decide CC should go in, since he knows the most about the situation and Andy obviously trusts him.

When he opens the door and steps in, after having been stood outside mentally preparing himself  for two minutes, his eyes land on Andy and he almost bursts into tears. Andy looks to be asleep, but when the door, opens he half-open his eyes to see who it is. Both his hands are neatly resting on his covered chest and his skin is gray.

"Hey, man," CC says softly. He sits down beside the bed and Andy turns his head to look at him. He isn't sure what to say. No matter the words he uses now, it won't change the fact that, for three months, the man has been silently suffering, forcing himself to starve. And for what? Why would he do such a thing? To gain control? But control over what, and why would that ever help? He doesn't exactly understand, and he knows he shouldn't expect to. It's a disorder, an illness, a faulty connection between to wires in his brain. No one could understand, not if they hadn't felt it for themselves.

Andy makes minimal movements. It's as though he's too weak to lift his arm or sit himself up. As though his heart can barely hold on to each coming second.

There are several needles in his wrist, each connected to a machine, and, of course, a tube on his face going into his nose, feeding him because doing it himself is too difficult, too stressful. Now he's in such a place, it's clear to CC the damage he's caused himself, what with the darkness around his eyes, the jut of his cheekbones which have never been so alarmingly sharp before, the bones in his hands and his fingers that he's hid for so long beneath sleeves. He's the epitome of a tragedy.

Andy closes his eyes. His hair has been pushed back from his forehead by a nurse and they've changed him into a pale blue gown. He doesn't make any attempt to speak and doesn't resist when CC takes his hand to hold. The nurse hasn't told him what she's told the others, that he might die. He needs rest and he won't be able to if he knows that information. It'd only make him feel worse, and that's the last thing they need.

* * *

"How is he?"

CC sits down beside Jinxx in the waiting room and sighs. "Not good. He didn't say anything to me. I just sat there holding his hand for five minutes."

"He was awake though?"

"No, yeah. He's awake. Hardly awake. But awake." He shakes his head. "I can't believe we let this happen. Everything he's done for us, and now it's like he's being punished. This is so horrible."

"No one's to blame. Not him, not us, not anyone."

"What if he dies, Jinxx? What if he's been killing himself this whole time and we've done nothing about it? He's been crying for help for months. Avoiding us by 'eating' in his car, not coming out with us, yelling all the time, holding back tears during the sad songs. How didn't we notice?"

"Because he didn't want us to notice, CC. People who have issues with food, their whole thing is that they try to hide it. Clearly, they're good at it. You can't blame yourself for any of this."

"Are you going to see him?"

"Yeah, when I've finished this coffee."

* * *

Hours later, CC and Jinxx leave the hospital - Lonny and Jake left earlier since they were told it'd be better for them to see Andy in the morning, when he's had more time to rest.

Alone in the room, Andy lies staring at the ceiling. There are tears running silently down his face and he doesn't bother wiping them away. A nurse comes in. He looks at them and then back up at the ceiling. "How long have I been here?" He asks. His voice wavers thinly.

The nurse turns to him. "Just over eight hours. How are you feeling?"

"Like hell."

"I encourage you to get as much sleep as you can. Would you like anything before I go?"

"Like what?" He's still looking at the ceiling.

"Something to read, the TV remote, a glass of water."

"No. Thanks. I'm just gonna sleep."

"Of course. Take it easy. There'll be someone in every two hours to check everything is okay, if you feel lightheaded or short of breath at any time, please push the emergency button just here."

"Okay."

"Sleep well."

Andy closes his eyes now. "How long will I be here?"

"I can't say exactly. Anywhere between a few weeks and a few months."

"I have a tour in three months."

"Ah, is this with your band? Your friends were discussing that earlier, yes. I'm afraid that, because of how weak your heart and your immune system is at the moment, the chances of you being physically strong enough to engage in such demanding tasks daily are very small. Right now, we can't risk any physical activity that could put you at risk."

Andy looks at them. "But I have to tour," he insists. "I can't cancel it. I can't let them down."

"Your health is the priority, Andrew. You can't put yourself in danger like that."

"What sort of danger? What could happen?"

"You may suffer a heart attack."

"A heart attack?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Would that kill me?"

"I can't say for sure. If you were to suffer one in the coming weeks, most likely, yes."

"I might die?" He frowns. "Why did no one tell me I might die?"

"Please get some sleep. It's very important you rest."

"Do my friends know I might die?"

They sigh. "Yes, they were told when you first woke."

"You told them but not me?"

"You're under a lot of emotional pain, Andrew, the last thing anyone wants is to add more to it."

He closes his eyes again and yawns. "I don't want to die," he mutters, mostly to himself. "I don't want to die. I never wanted to die. I just wanted to be a little fitter. Now I might die." He sighs heavily, then turns onto his side - the one without all the needles - and tries to sleep.