Help Me (sequel to Save Me)

Chapter 128

Trigger warning

Tour begins in two months, and the boys start rehearsals in Sebastian's basement, where they keep the instruments and have it set up so they can play music down there. The rehearsels don't go as well as they hoped, because it's been so long since they played, and because Remington's mind is elsewhere.

The rumour of him having anorexia is out. It's spreading so fast through the fanbase and so many people are tagging him in posts with the the hashtag Remthinspo. The pictures are screenshots from livestreams he's done, and from his Instagram stories, where his cheekbones are sharp, and his hands are bony, and people are commenting on how much they think he weighs. He doesn't even know how much he weighs. Abigail said that it's better not to be constantly weighing himself, so they got rid of the scales so he can't.

He finds another hashtag.

#helpforremi

Under it there are the same screenshots, this time with people tagging him over and over in the comments, begging him to 'get help', and 'go to therapy.' It shows how much they don't know. He's been 'getting help' for years. They don't understand anything about what is going on in his life, because he doesn't tell them any of it. He knows that if he did, they'd only bombard him with questions and make it impossible for him to have a private life away from the band. It’s already hard enough. 

Remington pushes a stressed hand through his hair. He has no idea how he’s supposed to respond to all of this. He hears the front door open and close and puts his phone down with a heavy sigh. “How was your day?” He asks, loud enough that Andy can hear from the hallway. 

“Pretty hectic, actually. How about you, sweetheart, how was rehearsal?” Andy takes his jacket off and hangs it up. 

The younger man groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fucking fantastic,” he replies dryly, “they wouldn’t let me go to the fucking bathroom on my own and made a huge fucking fuss when I didn’t finish lunch and I couldn’t sing Death Dance without tearing up and I don’t even know why.” His phone buzzes and he picks it up, swiftly putting it back down when he sees it’s another picture he’s been tagged in. “And there are these fucking hashtags with people literally guessing how much I fucking weigh and I thought they’d be happy that we’re touring again but all they care about is that I’m skinny and I’m tagged in so many fucking posts about it and I don’t know what I’m meant to do because they keep telling me to ‘get help’ like they know me and they fucking don’t!” When he stops talking, he realises he shouted, and flops down onto his front on the couch, screaming into a cushion. 

Andy kneels down by the sofa and rubs Remington’s shoulders. “You gotta stop looking at social media, honey. Here, come cuddle.” 

“Everything fucking sucks,” the boy complains, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. 

“I know, sweetie.” Andy sits beside his husband and puts an arm around his shoulder, gently pulling Remington into him and kissing the side of his head. “You know you can’t let stuff on Instagram get to you. They want to get your attention and sometimes they go too far.” 

Remington knows Andy is right. No one on there knows how he really is. “I really don’t wanna tour,” he whines, leaning against Andy and exhaling. “I should have just said no and lost the record deal. At least then I wouldn’t have to hug thousands of strangers.” 

“You don’t have to hug anyone if you don’t want to, kitten. No one can force you to hug them if you’re not comfortable with it.” 

Yawning and swinging his legs over Andy’s lap, Remington shakes his head. “Try telling that to Holly,” he mumbles, “and that girl who made Sebby wake me up last tour. I bet you all the money in my bank account that something like that will happen again. No one gives a crap about me. They just wanna say they met me.” 

“Lots of people give a crap about you. Do you want some tea?” 

Remington shrugs. “No. I want to lie in the middle of a fucking train track and wait for a train to hit me.” 

“Yeah, let’s not do that. I’m making you tea." He kisses his head again and lifts the boy's legs off him to get up. 

"Well I think it sounds like a great idea." Remington watches Andy leave the room, and picks up his phone again. 

User 1: literally discovered @palayeroyale yesterday. Just seen all the comments about @remingtonleith having anorexia. Can someone fill me in? I'm confused? Does he really have anorexia? And is it true he was abused? 

User 2: @user1 he was abused. There's an interview about it. And a fan saw him the other day. Apparently he nearly collapsed and his husband @andyblack was feeding him like five mins later. 

User 1: @user2 he's married to Andy?? I didn't even know he was gay. 

Remington looks at the picture. It's a photo of him from the last tour, taken in VIP. His body looks so small in the hoodie he's wearing. He recognises it as one of Andy's goodies. He finds himself zooming in on his hands and comparing them to his hands now. They're more bony in the photograph, and the bracelets on his wrists are so loose. He looks at his wrists and frowns. "Andy, I'm spiralling!" 

"Put the phone down!" Andy responds from the kitchen. "I'll change your password again if I have to." 

"Do you think I'm fat?" 

Andy returns with two mugs of tea, and puts them down on the coffee table. "No. You're really not fat, princess. Put that down." He sits down again and looks at the phone screen. "Sweetheart, you collapsed the day after that, I'm pretty sure. That's not something you want."

Remington sighs. "Yeah, but I don't wanna be fat."

"You aren't fat. You've literally never been even close to being remotely fat."

The singer reluctantly puts his phone down and picks up the tea. "Anorexia can fucking do one." He sips the hot drink. "Fucking stupid fucking disorder."

Andy ruffles his hair and hums. "Apart from tearing up in Death Dance, how was rehearsal?"

"I don't know. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't...fun."