Fix Me (Alternative ending)

Chapter 69

Sorry that updates are slower than usual :(
I keep thinking up ideas for oneshots lmao

Trigger warning: Mentions of anorexia, depression, general sadness I'm sorry

There's a storm today. It started in the early morning, waking both Remington and Andy with loud crashes of thunder and large raindrops against the window. They had both had the same idea once they'd woken, sleepy as they wrapped up in the other's arms and went back to sleep like that.

Remington is the first to wake in the morning, finding that he's lying the wrong way on the bed, using Andy's lower abdomen as a pillow, feet off the edge of the bed, cold in the stormy draft seeping through the window frame. He lifts his head, looks at his husband, at his fast asleep face.

The boy moves slowly, trying not to wake Andy, and gets out of bed to find their hot water bottle. Once he's filled it with boiling water, Remington crawls back into bed, holding the warm bottle to his chest and curling up into Andy, half asleep. He ends up drifting back to sleep after a while, waking again when the water bottle is pried from his fingers.

"'s mine," he murmurs, Andy humming quietly. "'m cold now." He's pulled closer, pressed to the man's body so the water bottle is between their chest, warming them both.

"Better?" Andy asks, cheek against Remington's, hand on his back. "I've gotta go in later."

"To the studio?"

"Yep."

"'kay."

"What about you, kitty? What're you doin' today?"

Remington yawns. "Dunno. Stayin' in bed?"

Andy does go into the studio, after the two have had lunch together, happy that Remington seems to be coping better than usual with his eating. The hope is returning.

"You know you're late?" A voice says behind Andy as he's opening the door to the studio.

He spins around, closes his eyes at who it is. "Go away."

"Not the way to talk to your bassist."

Andy sighs. "Not my bassist. Get lost."

Phoebe smiles rudely. "Oh come on, you didn't really think I'd do what mother wants, did you?"

"Seriously, get lost," Andy warns, "there is a fine fucking line between me keeping it together and punching this wall until the building falls down."

"You and Remington, such drama queens."

"You keep his name outta your mouth."

The girl shrugs. "So he has anorexia, huh?"

"Get lost," Andy repeats.

"You know, I don't get why he'd wanna 'get better.'"

"Of course you don't," mumbles the man, fed up.

"I mean...wouldn't you kill to be that thin?"

Andy raises an eyebrow. This is not where he was expecting this conversation to go. "Look," he starts, "he nearly died more than once. He has to get better."

"But does he want to?"

"Phoebe, I don't like you. I'm not gonna talk about my husband's private life with you." He pushes the door open.

"No, wait."

"What now?"

"How'd he do it?"

"Do what?"

"Lose all that weight?"

"If you need to know that, then I suggest you talk to someone about it."

Phoebe sighs.

Andy goes into the studio, breathes out in relief when she doesn't follow him, and gets on with what he came to do.

A few hours later, Andy and Jess agree to take a break, to have something to eat. Andy walks down the hall, almost kicking the wall out of sheer irritation when Phoebe turns up again. "The fuck you doing?" He asks, willing her to leave.

"How did he do it?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Don't you think it's sad that he's just gonna put on all that weight that he worked so hard on losing?"

Andy presses a hand to the side of his head. He thinks the migraine is returning. "No."

"Wouldn't you want to be that skinny forever?"

"Would I wanna be on the verge of death? No, funnily enough, I wouldn't. Now please, for the love of God, go away." His arm falls beside him and he steps past her.

Phoebe calls after him, "isn't it abusive to force him to gain weight if he doesn't want to? Doesn't that make you an abusive husband?"

Andy locks himself in the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror above the sink, presses both hands to his head. It hurts. He drinks water straight from the tap, hoping it'll help, but it doesn't and the lights hurt and he turns them off before sitting on the ground and praying that it'll pass.

He had googled the causes yesterday, read that migraines can be caused by depression, stress, and anxiety, and decided that's what must be happening.

He doesn't want to cry. In fact, he tries not to. Really really tries. But he realises it's probably making it all worse, so he grips his head in his hands and whimpers and cries and it doesn't go away.

Phoebe feels guilty when she passes the bathroom and hears the man's sobs. She knocks on the door to his studio, where Jess is sitting. "I think you need to call his husband," she says, "he's crying in the toilet."

Jess picks up her phone. "He is? Poor guy. I don't think I have Remington's number." She scrolls through her contacts. "No, not there." She stands up, picks up Andy's jacket, finds his phone in the pocket. "We can push this under the door," Jess suggests, "he can call Remington."

Andy jumps at the knock on the locked door. He expects to hear someone talking but instead, his phone is slid under the door. He reaches for it, squinting at the bright screen in the dark room, his eyes aching.

"Evening, handsome," Remington answers with, and then, "Andy? Are you alright?"

"Might be late home," the man says.

"Are you crying? What's wrong?"

"Got another fucking migraine. Hurts so bad." He groans after.

"Are you at the studio? I'll come get you."

"Rem, it's fine," Andy mumbles.

"See you in fifteen."

Andy retreats to lying on the tiled floor, eyes closed and wiping tears that run down his face with no real intention of getting rid of them. They just keep coming. He weakly crawls towards the door when Remington knocks and talks through it, turning the lock and covering his face with his hands to avoid the light.

"Oh Andy," Remington whispers, helping him off the ground. The man stumbles against him, still covering his face.

At home, the younger runs a hot bath, dropping in a lavender bath bomb and making hot mugs of tea, returning to the bedroom, where Andy is face down on the bed. He guides him across the hall, helps him with his belt when he can't do it, and together, the sit in the water, the light off, just enough coming in from the landing.

Andy sips the hot drink and is grateful that Remington doesn't try talking to him. He leans back into his husband, holds his hand, face distorting every so often in a rush of pain to the left side of his head.

Remington knows Andy is asleep after a while, the water no longer hot but just warm. He gets out carefully, gently wakes Andy, who groans and rubs his eyes. "Come to bed," the boy says quietly, offering a hand.

The two snuggle under the covers, still damp, not caring to put on any clothes. The older is weak in his every movement, not managing to find a comfortable position because whatever he does, his head just keeps on reminding him of the broken state he's in.