EAT.

TWENTY

Trigger warning: Eating disorder, self harm, anxiety, depression

Wholesome parents 

The front door is unlocked when Andy returns home. He frowns. He could have sworn he locked it when he left. Mildly concerned, he steps in and closes it behind himself, and when he goes to hang his jacket up, he spots two familiar coats that he definitely doesn't own, and looks down to locate the correlating shoes. Quietly impressed at how quickly they got here, Andy goes through to the living room, where, as he had expected, his parents are sitting, waiting for him. He stands in the doorway and looks at them. 

At the sight of him, their faces become those of deep concern, and he knows why - they haven't seen him for months. From there they're standing, their son has transformed from a healthy young man into a pale skeleton. Neither of them talk, so he decides to, and asks, "What're you doing here?" 

"We're worried about you," Amy tells him. Again, she sounds close to tears. "And we know you don't want any help, but we couldn't not come here after our phone call." 

Andy has his eyes on the ground. He plays with the strings of his hoodie. His hands are cold but he doesn't mention it, and besides, he's used to it. "You didn't need to," he says, though really he's never been more relieved to see them in his life. 

"Yes, we did," Chris says. "Come and sit down, you look tired." 

"I'm fine," he weakly insists. For some obscene reason, their presence makes it so much harder to lie, so much more difficult to keep his failing act up. He knows they don't fall for the two words, and why would they? As he speaks them, he hears the wavering in his own voice, and for the first time in months, he's grateful for it. Folding his arms to warm his hands, he slowly approaches the couch the two are sitting on. Between them, he sits, rigid, trying to remain dry-eyed and sane. His eyes land in his lap and he doesn't lift them, even as his mother talks. 

As she speaks, she puts her hand on his knee. "Please talk to us," she urges, though softly. "You can't suffer alone, we won't let you." 

Andy drops his head down as though he can no longer hold it up.

"We love you, Andrew, we love you so much." 

He takes a heavy breath and closes his eyes through a long blink. 

"You've taken care of us so well for all these years, making us proud, being the greatest son anyone could ever ask for, and now you need to let us take the baton for a while. We know it's not easy to do that, to give up all that responsibility, but you need to. We can't let you do this to yourself, we love you too much. Will you let us take care of you?" She looks from her son to her husband. 

"Let us do that for you," he says.

Andy wants to cry, and, in a voice edging on a whisper, says, "I...I can't make you do that." 

"No, darling," Amy corrects. "You're not making us, we're offering. Rather, we're making you let us, because we can see that if we don't, something awful is going to happen. You look so fragile now." 

"For how long?" He asks. 

"For as long as you need, love. As long as you need. Will you let us do that for you?"

"I..." He lifts his head, looks at her. She's looking back with gentle sympathy. His eyes fill so he looks back down, blinks, wipes a single tear away with a sleeved hand. "Okay," he whispers. 

Chris takes his hand and his sleeve falls down to his elbow. "Oh, son..." 

Andy knows what he's reacting to without looking and it brings more tears to the surface. He covers his mouth and nose with his sleeved hand and begins crying into it, leaning into Amy, who wraps her arms around him and whispers that they're gonna help, that it's okay. 

* * * 

Quietly, after packing a suitcase with clothes and such, Andy sits in the back of his parents' car and watches the darkness through the window. The blackened outlines of trees, of buildings, of vehicles. He leans his head against the door and the journey is peaceful. No one talks, the radio isn't on, and the warm air is a strange comfort. Andy finds himself half-asleep by the time Chris is pulling into their driveway and pulling the key from the ignition. His actions are slow as he gets out the car and closes the door. The familiar rumble of his stomach is enough to make him want to cry all over again, and he follows them into the house, sits on the stairs to until his laces. Chris steps past him with his suitcase. He rests his head on the wall beside him and closes his eyes. 

"Come on, darling, come and sit somewhere comfy," Amy suggests. 

Andy nods but stays where he is. 

Taking his hands, she pulls him up, alarmed, as everyone else is, by how light he is. "You let us look after you, okay," she says, walking with him into the living room. "Make yourself nice and cosy, I'll make you some tea." 

The chair he sits in is a large armchair, big enough that he can curl his legs up comfortably. He nods again. 

She returns minutes later with a mug of hot tea and a slice of buttery toast, which she sets on the coffee table. "Here were are, sweetheart. You think you could give this a go for me?" 

Andy looks at it and then covers his face and shakes his head. Say no. Say no, you fat bastard. Tell her to fuck off.

"Just a little bit?" 

"I can't," he mutters. 

"I can't let you not eat, darling, I just can't. Just try a tiny bit, okay?" 

"No, please..." 

"Would you prefer something else instead? I can make you something else." 

"No, I...I just can't. I can't." He takes a shaky breath. "I didn't want it to get bad again. I tried. I really tried, mum, I did. So hard, but...but I can't. I can't do it. I don't know why I ever though I could." He shakes his head again, cries once more into his sleeves. Shut up, Andy! Shut up, you're saying too much. Stop being such a pussy. Tell her to fuck off, you don't need either of them. 

Chris comes into the room, having made Andy's bed and hoovered the floor. He observes the situation quietly for a moment before striding over to the armchair, scooping the singer up into his arms, sitting down, and beginning to stroke the side of his head, which rests exhausted against his shoulder. "Shh, it's okay," the elder soothes. "Oh, Andy..."

Andy doesn't move for the best part of ten minutes. When he does, he reaches for the tea, which Amy passes to him, and sips it without speaking, still in his father's lap and still hungry. Eventually, he pulls the plate of toast towards him and picks up the food, looking at it for a long time before tearing a small piece off with fingers that tremble, and eating it. He covers his mouth with his hand and his eyes fill again, so he turns his head and lets it rest against Chris, as it was before. Then he pulls off another piece and, with shiny cheeks and uneasy thoughts, proceeds to finish the slice.

"We're so proud of you, darling," Amy says sincerely. 

Andy closes his eyes and wipes his face with his sleeve. Without words, like his voice has been used up with tears, he sinks further into Chris' arms, pulls his hood up, and goes to sleep.