Help Me (sequel to Save Me)

Chapter 69

Trigger warning.

(I have researched. You can have anorexia that includes making yourself sick.)

"Alright, Remington," Abigail begins, with her laptop open on the table. The boy is terrified of what she's about to tell him. He can't look at her. "Based on the questionnaire, the blood tests, and everything you've told me, you've been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa." The words are like a kick in the gut. Remington can't process what he's being told. He never thought it was that bad. He wishes he hadn't agreed to let them take his blood the other day. Apparently they had to check that the weight loss isn't caused by a disease. It turns out it definitely is not. "I understand this is a lot to take in, but please understand that having an eating disorder doesn't define you."

Remington stares at the floor. Andy is going to be so disappointed in him. He keeps fucking everything up. "I can't have...anorexia," he says stiffly, "I can't have an eating fucking disorder."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

The boy rubs his temples. "Yes, it is," he argues, "why did you tell me? Why did you fucking tell me?" His voice is quiet but not calm.

Abigail closes her laptop. "You're going to be okay," she says, trying to ease his mind.

"No, I'm not! I'm not! Everything's going wrong. My band's dying and Andy's probably gonna leave me and I can't keep a fucking meal down and I haven't slept and-oh my god-I'm going fucking crazy!" He inhales, like the words sucked all the air out of him, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I keep fucking everything up." Suddenly he's sobbing.

"What makes you think Andy would leave?" All Abigail wants to do is hug him, but she knows damn well that touching patients without them asking is out of bounds.

Remington shakes his head. "'cause I'm a fuck up," he mumbles through tears, and really does believe that Andy is going to leave him.

The therapist hates how he can convince himself that things are true when they're not. "You're not a fuck up. You've been through so much and you're still here, Remington, because you don't give up. You're a fighter, and you can get through this."

The boy is twisting his wedding ring round on his finger. It's loose and he's worried it's going to fall off. "I'm so scared of him leaving me," he whispers, as if only now realising how terrified he is of being abandoned. "What if I get home and he's just-just gone?"

"That's not going to happen."

He still isn't convinced. Everything is gong wrong and it seems like the only thing worse than being diagnosed with an eating disorder is Andy leaving. "It might."

Abigail sighs. "Andy loves you, Remington. He wouldn't ever leave because of this. From what you've told me about him, I don't think he'd leave you even if you killed someone."

The boy's mind flashes back to that day in Greece, when Andy said he'd help Remington hide a body. "I just want to be okay," he whispers.

Andy isn't home when Remington gets back, and that only makes the boy more paranoid. Having anorexia makes this all seem so much more real, and so much scarier. At least before he was diagnosed he could pretend that there was nothing wrong, that it's normal to be sticking his fingers down his throat every time he eats. But it isn't, and that's scary. He isn't normal and he wishes he was.

When Andy does get back, Remington nearly knocks him over in his flurry to hug the man, and grips his husband like he's the only thing keeping him standing. Maybe he is.

"Baby, what's wrong, you're shaking?" Andy asks softly, stroking his hair and telling himself not to worry too much about whether he's eaten or not. Surely he spoke about that with Abigail. Andy never mentioned that he knows about Remington making himself sick. The right time never came.

Remington feels faint. He should have eaten when he got back like he promised Abigail he would, but he just felt so sick at the sight of food. He really needs to tell Andy about his eating disorder but it's so hard to say anything. "Are you gonna leave me?" The question is so sad and broken and Andy tears up at the sound of his boy so upset.

He pulls back and looks at Remington, who's pale and quivering and it seems like he could collapse at any moment. "Never." He sounds so serious and it does make Remington feel a bit better. "Come and sit down, sweetheart, you look like you're about to faint."

The boy just nods, and follows Andy into the living room. "Haven't eaten anything," he mumbles, as if it isn't already pretty obvious. He hasn't even told Andy about the blood tests. He lied and said he was meeting Emerson, when in reality, he was driving to hospital.

"Have you talked about this in therapy?"

Remington knows he has to tell Andy. "Yes," he answers, pauses, and takes a breath. "I've been-I've been diagnosed." He's wrapped in his lover's safe arms and curls up against his chest, needing the comfort and protection that only Andy can give him. "With-with-" he trails off. Saying the word means accepting it, and he isn't sure if he can do that.

"Take your time. There's not rush," Andy soothes, already pretty sure he knows what Remington is going to say.

"I did a questionnaire and a blood test and Abigail asked me questions and she said-she said I've got an-" he gulps, -"anorexia."

Andy knew it was coming, but hearing the word is so much worse than just thinking about it. "Hey, no tears, it's okay. It's okay. I love you and I'm going to help you, okay? You're going to get through this. I know you will." He rubs Remington's back and kisses his head. "Do you think you can manage something now? A piece of toast or something? I don't want you collapsing."

"Okay," Remington murmurs, "I don't want to collapse."

The man would smile, but it seems like the wrong thing to do. He sits Remington on the sofa and stands up. "I'm not going to let you make yourself sick," he says, and Remington's eyes widen. He hadn't realised Andy knew he did that.

"I-"

"Remington, it's okay. It's alright. I know you've been making yourself sick after eating. I should have told you sooner, but it's okay. I'm going to look after you, and you're going to beat this. Okay?"

How is Andy so calm? "Okay," he whispers, and wipes his eyes. "Sorry."

"Nope. Not listening. That word doesn't register in my brain when you say it. How about you find a movie and I'll get you your onesie and we can cuddle, yeah?"

Picking up the television remote and nodding, Remington yawns. "'kay."

Andy toasts two slices of bread and spreads butter on them, hoping Remington will eat at least one, and finds his onesie while the kettle is boiling. He makes tea and carries everything into the living room, putting it on the coffee table and handing Remington the onesie. "Here we are, pretty."

It's funny how the pet names help so much. Remington checks the curtains are closed before stripping from his clothes, and Andy is relieved when he doesn't try to hide himself from him. The trust is as strong as ever. "You know I'm going to fall asleep half an hour into the movie, don't you?" Remington sits himself back in Andy's lap and reaches for a piece of toast.

"Good. Sleep is good. What did you choose?"

The boy is more cheerful now, all of a sudden. "When Harry met Sally," he says, and bites into the toast, humming at the buttery taste. How did Andy know it was just what he needed? How is Andy just what he needed? Every time things feel impossible, Andy is there, and he makes it feel okay. How does he do that?

Andy kisses his head. "Perfect. How's your toast? Not making you feel sick?"

Remington shakes his head. "Thankyou."

They're quiet as the film plays, and Andy is glad when Remington falls asleep in his lap. He's more than happy to carry him up to bed every night if it means it stops him from running off to the bathroom to be sick.

One day at a time.