Weight Is Just A Number

Seventeen

so this about three weeks later and its their last show in the US before they head to Europe

Patrick was panicking. Their last show in the United States had just ended and during the show blood had soaked through a thick wrap of tissues, his boxers, his black jeans and stained the back of his white guitar red. Nobody had noticed it except for him.
The show itself was amazing, it was a huge crowd and everybody was energized. Pete was hopping around like he was mentally five years old, with a grin on his face  Joe was head banging and spinning in circles and every now and then he would kiss Pete's cheek or slap Patrick's ass. Andy was perfect like always, smiling a bit more then usual and ended up throwing his shirt to a pink haired boy in the front row. Patrick sang his heart out and had a smile that wouldn't disappear, he was wearing a short sleeved black button up for first time since his cuts and scars had been discovered a few weeks prior.
By the end of show: Patrick had thrown his fedora into the crowd, Pete returned from crowd surfing and had lost one of his vans, which somebody threw on stage when he asked for it back, Joe had found a new t-shirt cannon and fired FOB merch into the crowd. Everything went great.
All four of them went to meet up with fans afterwards, Andy and the pink haired boy went off to somewhere, Pete ended up signing some guys forehead, Pete hugged everybody who came up to him and started crying when some girl handed him an old poster from one of FOB's first shows. A girl no older then 14 came up to Patrick and just hugged him before she handed him a thick notebook and disappearing into the crowd. The boys had armfuls of letters, presents and Andy had a giant smile on his face. The pain in Patrick's leg was growing but he ignored it and listened to Pete's rambling about the concert.

When Patrick finally made it to the bathroom in the bus he stripped off his sticky jeans and boxers, when he saw the bloody mess of tissues he almost threw up, after over two hours his cut was still bleeding and it was the deepest he had ever cut. After his attempt to clean it it was still oozing blood, he couldn't of hit his bone? Could he?
Of course not, fatrick is too obese for that. Fat fat fat fat fattypatty. you could never get to your bone with all that fucking fat.
Patrick ignored the burning pain as he pored peroxide on the his self inflicted wounds. His head started to spin when he members the food that Joe had handed him before the show, it had been at least 400 calories so Patrick forced two fingers into his mouth and he tickles  the  back  of  his  throat,  aiming  for  that  one  sweet  spot, tears sting his eyes and he feels the burning sensation in his throat as bile forces its was up it, forcing the boney strawberry blond to gag up the mixture of blood and vomit.
Patrick Stump had fucked up, again. His weight had dropped to the dangerously low number of 108 lbs, his cutting had gotten point of mental and physical scaring for life, his self esteem was still at rock bottom zero. He had been fainting so often that he had a permeant bruise on his left knee, he was broken but nonetheless he still managed to smile at every concert and never failed to make a fans day.
The dull colors of the wall start to intertwine as he tried to cling onto the sink but it was out of his reach and Patrick's tiny frame falls to the floor with a thump.