Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I need to take a vacation,” are the first words off Ryan’s weary lips, as soon as they’re out of the doors of the treatment center and heading toward Jon’s car, suitcases behind them clacking against the sidewalk.

Jon looks over at him and smiles. “A vacation? You’ve been cooped up from the outside world for at least six months.”

“Exactly.” Ryan squints up at the sun. “I’ve been cooped up in the same place for months. And it wasn’t as great as most people would think-- although, I doubt you need to be reminded.”

Jon definitely doesn’t need to be reminded. As Ryan’s main support system through his recovery from anorexia as well as an overdose attempt, he knows all about it. He visited as much as he was allowed; Ryan’s bitterness only left so many friends, and while Pete had come once or twice, he had his own boyfriend, Gabe’s, own recovery and futile attempts at reaching out to Patrick to focus on as well.

And so, Jon had visited three days a week, driving an hour from LA and back to sit in a recreational room for forty-five minutes to listen to Ryan’s tales of treatment, of irritating weigh-ins where he couldn’t see the number and patients throwing accusations of who had hid the afternoon snack in the rec room couch and even a music therapy group leader that couldn’t deal with her own patient having more talent and fame than she ever would. Not to mention, Ryan was always complaining about how bloated he was, and how the nutritionist refused to reduce his meal plan, and how he could see the fat oh-so-slowly piling on every second if he just watched his bare legs in absolute stillness and silence in the shower. A lot of lyrics had come out of it, though; Ryan’s entire experience could be summed up in the notebook he would hand to Jon and ask if it was any good, only to be met with his horror at the lavish descriptions of whatever trauma had come up in therapy that day.

But Jon’s responsibility to Ryan didn’t end when he left those rec room visits, or when he left him back at the hospital when Ryan had advanced enough in the program to be taken out for off-property excursions like movies and dreaded restaurant outings. After visits, Jon would sometimes talk to one of the nurses or a psychiatrist to be updated on Ryan’s progress, and when he got home, sometimes he had a call with Ryan’s insurance company to sort out or Ryan’s apartment to keep clean or Ryan’s royalty checks to cash or a book he had to buy for Ryan. Most of his time and energy was spent on Ryan, so Ryan could focus on recovery, point blank. And it was well worth it-- he’d gotten this far, hadn’t he?

“Yeah,” is Jon’s simple answer. “Not easy at all. But I’m proud you got this far. You’re out of the clinic! You can do anything-- well, almost anything you want, as long as you go to outpatient.”

“Of course I will.” Ryan sniffs. “I don’t want to end up in there again. And don’t say you’re ‘proud,’ that’s what all the other patients told me and it was cheesy as hell. Like the end of some ‘90s Lifetime movie.”

“Well, you’ve worked hard,” Jon states. They stop at his car, a brand new 2010 model he’s paid off thanks to the last Panic album before the pair left the band, and after unlocking, he throws open the trunk and lifts the suitcases in. “Like…”

“I know.” Ryan chuckles, although his heart pangs in disappointment, even if baggy clothes cover the body he glances down upon. “Nobody would have expected me to get this far.”

“So, what do you want to do about lunch?” Jon asks, slamming the trunk shut. “We could go to that pancake place I took you to on our last visit…”

“For lunch?”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t you gotta break food rules or something?”

You already broke too many, Ryan reminds himself, but he forces a smile. He can’t go back. One plate of pancakes is nothing compared to another month in the program. “Sure. Pancakes would be nice.”

“Great!” Jon opens the passenger door for Ryan. “After you, sir.”

“How charming,” Ryan deadpans, although the gesture makes him warm, even under the already-beating sun. “And by the way, I meant what I said. I need a fucking vacation, Walker.”

“Alright,” Jon says, “We’ll talk about it over our pancakes. A little getaway, just the two of us-- if you think you’re ready for that sort of thing.”

Just the two of us. Just him and Jon, no bothersome nurses looking over his shoulder at meals, no nosy patients asking how much he weighed on admission. “Please, I’m more than ready. I can handle a little vacation.”

Jon gives him a grin and shuts the door. As Ryan pulls his seatbelt over, he watches Jon as he gets in, and he can swear, just barely, that something is different. He fits smaller into the seat, a little more narrower, his wrists resting on the wheel with just a bit more bone. Ryan glances up at his face, noticing slightly more defined cheekbones, a collarbone poking out from his shirt collar. Not that Jon wasn’t already lean, or that Ryan ever stopped to notice what was background noise to his starvation, but something is different, and Ryan is a master of noticing these sorts of differences.

Hoping he’s wrong, both for selfish and worried reasons, Ryan watches through the window as the clinic disappears behind them. Once it’s out of sight, he sneers, “Good riddance.”

Once their orders have been taken and the waitress collects their menus, Ryan traces the wood patterns in the table with his nail for a few minutes before Jon finally asks, “Where do you think we should go on vacation?”

Ryan raises a brow. “You’re already thinking about it?”

“I mean, we shouldn’t get our hopes up. It would probably be better to ask whoever will be running your outpatient treatment if it’s alright to travel. But let’s pretend for a second we can go anywhere in the world. Where would you go?”

“I feel like we’ve already been everywhere in the world. We’re in-- or we were in Panic.”

“You told me touring never felt like it was worth it though. You were sick and miserable all the time.”

Ryan picks up his water, the frosty glass cool and wet against his fingertips, and takes a sip. He has to remind himself not to eat the ice; once he got ice in his water at the treatment center, and when he tried to eat a chunk, he was sternly reprimanded for what was apparently a ‘disordered behavior.’ Ryan doesn’t think it’s disordered in the slightest still; ice is just very crunchy and zero calories, and normal people can appreciate that. “I mean, I guess. Maybe I’d like to see the world again, but that can wait. Let’s limit our options to the continental United States.”

“Sure. What about Hawaii?”

Ryan shoots Jon a look. “I said continental.”

“Okay, not Hawaii.” Weighing the options, Jon leans back, and asks, “Anywhere off limits?”

“It has to be outside of California and Nevada. And not in the South, either. I already feel like I’m going to overheat with all this damn blubber under my skin.” Ryan pinches his arm, even though he really shouldn’t be doing that at all.

“Ryan, it’s not blubber. You aren’t a whale.”

“Well, I feel like one. Los Angeles is for skinny people.”

“You aren’t--”

“I know, I know, I’m not fat, I’m still technically underweight, whatever.” Ryan waves him off, the heels of his shoes scuffing against the restaurant carpet as he looks off to the bright windows, feeling the slight heat of shame. He’s not supposed to be disordered anymore. He can’t go back. So, he changes back to the topic at hand and mentions, “New England seems like it’d be nice this time of year.”

“New England would be nice,” Jon agrees. “Maybe if there’s still bookings available, we could rent a cottage in Nantucket. The idea sounds very idyllic.”

“Alright then,” Ryan says. “So Nantucket it is. I’ll start looking for bookings once we get back--”

“No,” Jon says. “You just got out, there’s gotta be more fun things you wanna do than look at cottages on the net all day. I can do all that, don’t worry about it.”

“I really don’t have a lot else to do.” Ryan shrugs. “Maybe buy some new clothes that will fit me. Go grocery shopping--”

“I already bought groceries for you.”

“Oh.” Ryan really wishes Jon didn’t, but he grits his teeth and says, “Well, at least that’s taken care of. Thank you.”

“It’s not much,” Jon says. “We’ll have to go shopping again soon, but it should be enough for us for the next few days while we figure things out.”

“So, just clothes shopping, then. Maybe I could do some cleaning. Read that fucking recovery book so my therapist stops bugging me about it. Write happy songs or whatever for our ripoff Beatles project. And… uh, that’s basically it.”

“Don’t you have any friends you want to see?”

Ryan shakes his head. “The ones I want to see are still in the hospital.” And as for the remaining few, I can’t let them see me at this weight. “You’ll just have to put up with me.”

“That’s what I signed up for,” Jon says, taking a sip of his coffee just as the waitress comes over with two full plates of pancakes.

“Banana pancakes?”

“That’s mine,” Ryan says, and the waitress puts the plate in front of him. Six round wheat pancakes, mixed with mashed banana and topped off with sliced banana and powdered sugar. And although his stomach practically rumbles just looking at it, having gotten used to the luxury of fullness, uneasiness creeps up Ryan’s veins. Last year, he wouldn’t have even dared to touch them, and if he did, they’d land in the toilet straight after.

But at least he didn’t get the chocolate chip pancakes like Jon. Ryan can’t imagine willingly eating chocolate. The entire taste would be sin on his tongue, and each dot on the pancakes is just another dot screaming of extra calories and sugar and ignorance.

Ryan knows Jon’s eyes are on him as he picks up his fork and knife, cutting his first tiny piece without bothering to even touch the maple syrup bottle in the middle of the table. But as soon as he takes a bite, he chews, swallows, and smiles, assuaging Jon’s worries and allowing him to shift focus to his own food. Ryan knows how to comfort people by now. You chew, swallow, and smile, so they feel better thinking that you’ve had an epiphany by having a protein drink forced on you.

Another habit Ryan has picked up in recovery is watching others eat. Not that he didn’t already find his own friends’ eating habits fascinating, but especially in recovery, it became as much a hobby as birdwatching is to some. Ryan thinks birds are fucking boring, and birdwatchers probably think anorexics are fucking boring, but flip it around and everyone’s happy. Although during the approved restaurant excursions with Jon, he definitely was not as interesting as an anorexic trembling holding a fork with a piece of white unseasoned chicken, but Ryan can certainly make do with what he has.

This time though, is a little different. Jon usually eats like a completely normal person. And for the most part, he does, cutting off a piece of pancake and putting it in his mouth. He chews for a moment, but his expression souring, he grabs his napkin and spits into it. Although he covers his mouth with his hand, Ryan can still hear an unmistakable and disgusted gag from it.

“Uh…” Ryan blinks. “I thought I was supposed to be the one who was weird with food. No offense.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Jon pushes his plate away, managing a smile as he crumples up his napkin. “It’s just that the pancakes are kinda undercooked. I’m not feeling in the mood anymore.”

Ryan glances between each of their plates. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. You totally can go on eating, I feel bad that I can’t--”

“Not everyone in treatment was a shining example of recovery, I’ll be fine. Can I steal a bite of your pancakes?”

“Go ahead.”

Ryan reaches over with his fork and tears off a piece, making sure this particular one has no chocolate chips before lifting it to his mouth. He chews, and shrugs. “Tastes fine to me.”

“I’m just… uh, particular about my pancakes, I guess.”

“You never had a problem when we were eating before.”

“Well, they weren’t undercooked before. You can have mine later if you want, I’ll ask for a box so they don’t go to waste.”

Ryan simply nods, because he would love to binge on chocolate chip pancakes tonight. “I can call the waitress over to ask for the menu, maybe you can ask for something else--”

“It’s fine, really,” Jon promises. “I’ll eat when we get back. My appetite’s been ruined.”

Ryan wishes his appetite could be ruined by undercooked pancakes.

Ryan wishes he was still strong.

So although his stomach begs to be filled, he only eats three of his own pancakes and puts the rest of his along with Jon’s in the to-go box. It’s only fair.

It doesn’t feel good to watch Jon so intently. In fact, Ryan swims in guilt whenever he so much as glances over at him during mealtimes. Ryan should be the one being watched, but it’s like the roles have been reversed.

Jon isn’t very good at finishing a lot of meals, and so Ryan isn’t either. He tries some of the meals that Ryan’s dietician has recommended, and while they taste absolutely fine to Ryan, Jon will say something about the meat being undercooked, or the salad dressing ruins the texture of the lettuce, or whatever excuse he can come up to push his still-full plate toward Ryan and ask if he wants any. Then Jon will get up and pour himself a bowl of cereal.

Ryan doesn’t want to blame him, because other than that, Jon is completely invested in his recovery. Jon makes sure he makes an honest attempt at finishing his dinner, drives him to outpatient appointments, tries not to walk in the kitchen while Ryan is binging and comforts him when he comes out crying and bloated.

But in the dead of night, when Ryan can’t sleep, sometimes he wonders if Jon wants to sabotage him. If Jon wants to be the skinny one. They haven’t talked about it, but it’s clear that he’s lost weight; sometimes when Ryan is watching him, the hem of his shirt lifts just enough for hipbones to be exposed when he has to stretch for a top shelf, or when he tilts his head down the caverns behind his collarbones sink deeper.

Not that he would ever dare to ask Jon about any of this. At least Ryan learned one thing in recovery, and that thing is that he can’t trust his own mind.

A few weeks into outpatient, Ryan gets the go-ahead from his treatment team for his well-earned vacation. Him and Jon spend all day on their laptops, comparing hotel prices and taking notes on possible excursions, until later two airplane tickets to Nantucket have been ordered and they both realize none of them have eaten all day.

“Haven’t you been hungry at all?” Ryan asks, kneeling in front of the fridge. Since going inpatient, Jon has ruined the order of his fridge. Although that’s something Ryan’s currently working on with his therapist, he can’t help but swap the contents of the fruit drawer and the cheese drawer. The box of strawberries obviously is not going to fit in the cheese drawer, but Jon doesn’t want to say anything about it.

“Eh, maybe I was. I tried some of the cheese crackers earlier, but I think they were old. The taste was so artificial and dry it made me feel weird, so I threw them out.”

“I just bought those, dude. They weren’t old.”

Jon shrugs, turning to the cabinet for a box of cereal. “Maybe it was a bad batch.”

“Then you could have angrily called the number on the back of the cracker box for a coupon.”

Cereal rattles into a bowl as Jon snorts. “What, have you ever done that?”

“Uh, yeah.” Ryan begins his attempt at shoving the strawberry box into the cheese drawer. “Binges get expensive.”

“Can’t blame ‘ya.”

The plastic strawberry box crinkles as Ryan manages to squeeze it in, and he looks over his shoulder as Jon reaches past for the milk. Ryan wanted almond, and Jon wanted whole, so Ryan suggested skim, and Jon vehemently refused to go anywhere near skim milk, so they compromised at 2%. “Are you really gonna eat cereal for dinner again?”

“I mean, I’m not stopping you from having cereal for dinner if you want some too. As long as you listen to your hunger cues after.”

“Hunger cues.” Ryan almost rolls his eyes. “I might try to eat a real dinner, but thanks. But don’t you ever get tired of cereal?”

“Nah, if I do get tired of it I just get another type of cereal I know I already like.” Jon holds up the cereal box, this one Cheerios. “I know what to expect every time.”

At that innocent phrase, Ryan laughs. “Be careful, or you’ll be the one thrown into treatment next.”

“What, how is that disordered? I just know what I like.”

Ryan shuts the fridge, finished with his organization. “If you say so,” he says, grabbing a bowl and the box of Cheerios as well.

Two weeks later, they’re in Nantucket. It’s now July and the tourist season is in full force, so the cheapest room they’d been able to reserve is more of a splurge than anything.

“Thank God for ‘I Write Sins,’” Ryan huffs as they put down their luggage and start looking around, because it’s more than a bungalow than a hotel room, including a full kitchen, thirty-two inch flatscreen TV, two bathtubs (one of which is in the bedroom) as well as a jacuzzi on the back porch that looks out over the ocean. “This is too much.” This is more than I deserve. 

“It’s perfectly affordable for us nowadays, don’t worry about it,” Jon says, patting Ryan’s shoulder as they stroll through. And then they both freeze in the doorway to the bedroom. “Wait, there’s… only one bed?”

“What?” Ryan reaches into his pocket, unfolding a sheet of paper confirming their reservation he’d printed out just in case. “It says right here that this room can sleep up to four people--”

“The fucking couch.” Jon snaps his fingers, pointing to the paper. “They counted the fold-out couch as sleeping arrangements, damn it.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” Ryan drops the paper on the queen-sized bed and heads into the living area, inspecting the couch. Finding straps underneath the couch, he pulls at them. “This is perfectly fine. One of us can just sleep on the--”

The bottom of the couch does not budge, despite looking perfectly blue and brand new. Ryan tugs at it again, harder this time. “Why isn’t it fucking working?”

“Let me try.” Ryan scooches out of the way for Jon to lean down and pull at the straps. Still, nothing happens, the couch only creaking ever so slight. “Okay.” Jon sighs. “Uh, okay. I guess we can call the front desk and see if there’s anything they can do.”

Thirty minutes later, one of the housekeepers confirms there isn’t anything that can be done about the fold-out couch being stuck, and the resort is at full-occupancy, meaning that they can’t be changed to another room that would have two beds or even a functional couch.

As soon as the housekeeper leaves, apologizing for the trouble before giving them a coupon for a free appetizer at the hotel restaurant to keep the guests appeased, Ryan turns to Jon and asks exasperatedly, “What are we gonna do now?”

“Well… the answer’s obvious,” Jon says. “We sleep together.”

“Don’t say it like that. We’re sharing a bed.”

“Technically, actually, we are--”

Ryan’s cheeks flush, red and hot. “Nope, nope, nope. Do not imply anything right now. Don’t we have dinner reservations in twenty minutes? We should probably get going…”

“Ryan, I’m joking. It’s gonna be fine, really.” Jon shoots him a reassuring, completely friendly smile, without any hidden ulterior motives behind it at all. “Come on, it’s 2009. Two guys can be best friends and share a bed. I mean, we’ve spent months on tour buses together and fallen asleep on each other more than once.”

“Right.” Ryan sucks in a breath, smiling back and ignoring the burning heat on his face. “We’re best friends. We can totally share a bed.”

“You didn’t look at the menu before we came here… right?”

Ryan quickly picks up his menu again from the teak wood table and flips it open, lying straight through his teeth, “No.”

“Ryan…”

“It’s not disordered to look at a menu before you go to a restaurant,” Ryan states. “Plenty of people do it. I think it saves time, actually.”

“So that’s why you were agonizing over your iPod at the airport.”

Ryan shrugs, still skimming the selection of seafood to avoid Jon’s eyes. “It’s hardly my fault the airport had free wifi. Besides, I’m not letting calories or health stop me.”

“I believe you.” Jon puts down his menu and leans back, the romantic yellow glow of the jar-shaped lights above emanating across his face. “So, what’re you gonna order?”

“Shrimp scampi and a glass of white wine. What about you?”

“Fish and chips. I’ll probably have some white wine, too.”

“We make reservations at a fancy restaurant and you order fish and chips?”

“It’s not that fancy.”

“Any restaurant with that kind of view is fancy,” Ryan says, motioning to the window beside them. The ocean sits picturesquely, the sun setting over the water tinting it with hints of orange and the sky lined with pink, although a few dark storm clouds in the distance threaten to ruin the image. As the classical songs playing for ambience go from one to another, leaving a second of silence, the waves can be heard lapping softly at the restaurant foundation.

When Ryan drags his eyes away from it, he catches Jon’s expression as he still admires the ocean, eyes filled with awe and the sun’s dim reflection. 

Ryan’s heart pounds faster in his chest, and he’s pretty sure he’s been eating enough to ensure that it certainly can’t be his usual malnutrition-induced heart palpitations again. Jon is just very nice and caring, and of course Ryan’s ill brain would see him of some kind of fucking savior or whatever-- no reason to panic.

“Ryan?”

Fuck, Ryan’s been staring too long. He glances down and just mutters with a pathetic smile, “The reflection just looked nice in your eyes.”

Jon beams, but the waitress comes to take their order before he can say anything in response.

Dinner goes pretty much fine. While waiting for their food, Ryan and Jon sip their wine and watch the sun set, clouds still looming over the darkening horizon. When the food arrives, Ryan finishes all of his meal and even steals a few of Jon’s fries. It feels good to do better than usual, and although guilt still creeps at the back of his mind, it’s easy to ignore. It’s been a while since he last indulged like this, cream coating the roof of his mouth.

Jon doesn’t have any complaints about his fish and chips, either, and finishes it, which is a rarity now. That makes Ryan feel a little better, too; mostly better about himself.

After the bill is paid and they step out of the restaurant into the cool and salty air, Jon points in the distance and asks, “Wanna walk to that lighthouse over there? We might have some time before those clouds get over here.”

Although Ryan doesn’t feel bad about his meal, he is still very glad to have the chance to burn a little off with some extra walking. “Let’s do it.”

They stroll down the streets of Nantucket, past beach houses worth millions of dollars and docks crowded with yachts bobbing in the water. By now, the sun has disappeared, leaving only the streetlamps and porch lights to lead the way.

The island is small and so the walk doesn’t take as long as Ryan would expect. They arrive at the beach, a narrow and creaky wooden walkway leading up to the small lighthouse, glowing red and magenta into the distance. Apart from the splash of waves against the shore, it’s silent, no other tourists around apart from them.

“Wow,” Ryan says, staring up at the sight as he leans against the wooden rail of the walkway, white paint flaking off it. “Didn’t it say online this is the second oldest lighthouse in the US?”

“I believe so.”

“If it’s the second oldest, it could at least be a little more grand.”

“Cut them some slack. I bet the Puritans built it.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I dunno. There’s a whaling museum nearby if you’re that curious.”

“I already told you, we are not going to a whaling museum.” Ryan elbows Jon. “It’s all kid’s exhibits and whale bones.”

“What else are we going to do here, then? Look at lighthouses and eat all day?”

“That can’t be all there is to do,” Ryan insists, although he certainly wouldn’t mind eating all day or admiring Jon’s face in the lighthouse’s bright pinkish-reddish glow.

“I guess we could swim.”

Ryan frowns, turning to face the beach littered with seashells and the glimmering lights of the houses and hotels beyond. “If you’re fine with me keeping a shirt on the entire time.”

“You don’t need to…”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Ryan swallows back the lump in his throat. All the effects of dinner come crashing down, a mix of disgust, shame, nausea, the building of unnecessary and nasty fat across his body. He grips the rail, nails picking the peeling paint, and glances back at Jon. In the pink light, his jawline is so fucking sharp that Ryan wants to cry. “It must be nice to be normal and still lose weight.”

“I…” Jon gapes, eyes filled with pity. “Ryan, I’m not--”

“I know you’re losing weight, don’t fucking deny it,” Ryan spits. “We’re around each other all the time. All you eat is cereal and your smoothies.” He turns back to the beach, lifting a hand from his tense grasp on the rail so he can wrap his fingers around his wrist. His thumb used to go all the way between the first and second knuckle of his middle finger; now, it barely reaches past the first. “But good for you, Jon. At least one of us can still be skinny.”

“I don’t want to lose weight.”

“That’s absolutely wonderful. So then fucking eat something other than cereal.”

“I’m trying,” Jon insists. “But I can’t focus on myself right now. I just can’t.”

A wet raindrop pelts Ryan’s forehead, sliding to his eyelashes. “Because you have to take care of me?”

“Yes,” Jon says honestly. Another raindrop lands on the walkway, and then another on his shoe. “But it isn’t because you’re a burden, don’t take my words the wrong way. I just think you deserve to get better first.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ryan spins around. “You don’t… no, I’d know if you had an eating disorder, right?”

Rather than answer, Jon looks up at the clouds, unleashing more and more drops of rain by the second that aggregate slowly into a sprinkle, about to burst into a shower. “We should get back to the room before it rains harder.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

But Jon is already walking away, and Ryan has no choice but to follow.

When Jon slides into bed alongside Ryan and says, “Night,” he gets no response. Assuming that his friend has already fallen asleep, he shuts his eyes and nestles deeper into his pillow.

Meanwhile, Ryan is curled up under all of the bedsheets, loathing how fucking hot it is but not bothering to change is position. It’s not like he would mind accidentally bumping a leg into Jon in his sleep, but more like there’s no way he’d let Jon see his gross, fat, bloated body right now if he happened to glance over. It’s also a reminder of how disgustingly far he’s come; Ryan used to shiver under layers of blankets during the Nevada and then California heat, but now, he’s in fucking New England and even a few sheets are akin to stepping in a sauna.

Distracting him from overheating though is Jon’s previous words, the conversation at the lighthouse playing over and over again in Ryan’s head so vividly he can still see Jon’s face awash with the magenta light. I just think you deserve to get better first.

But Jon can’t have an actual eating disorder, right? Ryan hasn’t seen him count calories, and Jon has no problem eating when he’s hungry as long as he can find something he likes. And sure, Ryan’s heard him vomit a few times here and there, but they were never forced; it was always some yogurt that was too chunky or some tomatoes in the salad that a bite of sent him running to the bathroom. Jon just has very specific preferences, and that would be absolutely fine if Ryan wasn’t a little jealous and triggered by those behaviors.

So if he’s not starving himself, or forcing himself to purge, what is wrong with Jon? Ryan isn’t even sure if he could fit the definition of EDNOS. Whatever it is, at least Jon gets to lose weight.

Preoccupied by his thoughts and sinking deeper toward sleep, Ryan jumps when the ringing of his cell phone startles him awake. He sits up, Jon groaning beside him. “Sorry,” Ryan says, his first words to Jon in an hour as he reaches over to the nightstand to unplug his phone to look at the caller. Reading the name, excitement fills his chest. “Oh shit, it’s Gabe!”

“No way, did he just get out of treatment too?”

“Guess we’re about to find out.” Ryan slides out of bed with a grin. “I’ll be on the couch. In case… y’know, he starts talking about personal shit or something.”

“Got it.” Jon flicks on the lamp and grabs a book he’s been reading. “I’ll try to stay awake, otherwise you can update me in the morning.”

The phone still ringing in his hand, Ryan runs out of the bedroom and to the couch, answering as soon as he flops down on the cushions. “Dude, are you discharged?”

“Yeah!” Gabe exclaims, the whir of open car windows in the background. “Pete just picked me up. I heard you got out too, hence why I’m calling you. So congratulations, man.”

“Thanks. What are you gonna do first, now that you’re out?’

“Pete’s taking me out for dinner,” Gabe grumbles, and Pete says something inaudible to the phone in response. “I mean, Pete, I am excited to eat out, but it’s still not all sunshine and flowers just ‘cause I’m weight restored-- no, I am weight restored, that nurse was fucking wrong.”

“Did your team give you your weight?”

“Yeah, I think you ‘earn’ it once you pass the third stage of the program or something. Pete will probably freak out if I tell you it. But my BMI is definitely a few points higher, and it doesn’t hurt to sit down now. Oh, and I fart all the time, dude. I forgot how much normal people fart. Pete’s starting to hate me.”

“Really, still? Jon got lucky that mine kinda petered out after two months. But that’s crazy you got to know your weight at all-- my therapist thinks I’ll spontaneously combust if I go anywhere near a scale.”

“Makes sense. You are the star anorexic, Ryan Ross.”

“Wow, do not remind me of how fucking self-aggrandizing I used to be when I was on the brink of starving to death.” Ryan giggles. “I do deserve that, though.”

“For real, though, you do sound a lot better,” Gabe says. “Like, you haven’t bragged about eating ice today in the two minutes we’ve been talking. That’s a huge improvement. I think you actually… have a personality outside of your eating disorder?”

“Ryan Ross has a personality?” He snorts. “That’s news to me.”

“So, how’s recovery going in the real world? Pete told me Jon’s living with you-- do you think that’s helped?”

“It’s going about as well as you’d expect. ‘Recovery doesn’t happen overnight’ and all that shit everyone says. I guess it could be worse though, if I got the okay to take a vacation in Nantucket with Jon.”

“Nantucket? Nice, I should bother Pete to take me there. What’s it like this time of year?’

“The only things to do are eat, look at lighthouses, and swim.”

“Nevermind, actually. That sounds boring as hell.”

“Well, it’s better than I’m making it sound. The view is worth it. It’s just that...” Sitting up straight and looking toward the bedroom, making sure the door is closed, Ryan whispers to the phone, “Jon’s been acting kinda weird lately.”

“Weird how? I think Jon is the most normal person I’ve ever met.”

“He eats a lot of cereal. Like, a fuck ton,” Ryan hisses under his breath. “And if he’s not eating cereal, it’s a smoothie. And if it’s literally anything else, he’s like, the texture is weird or it’s undercooked when it doesn't even taste weird or undercooked at all, and sometimes he literally gags, and then he either won’t eat or gets up to have some cereal. I mean, he’s trying his best to help me out, but… he’s been losing weight.”

Gabe sucks in a breath. “Man, that’s tough. And you’re sure he’s not like… an anorexic, right?”

“I’d know,” Ryan insists. “It’s not that he has a problem with eating. It’s that he has a problem with eating anything other than cereal.”

“That sounds like someone that was in the ward, actually.”

“Wait, really?”

“Her family forced her into treatment, at first the doctor misdiagnosed her with anorexia with binge-purge subtype. But it became pretty obvious after a few days she wasn’t one of us. She didn’t really care about her weight as much as us, or how much she ate; it was just what she was eating, you know? Like, she was more than a picky eater. She had a list of safe foods just like us, but they were like the only foods she could actually enjoy without spitting it out or throwing up.”

“Do you know what she had?”

“She got kicked out eventually, she had ARFID and none of the staff really knew shit about that one.”

“ARFID?” Ryan’s brows furrow. “Does that stand for something?”

“Uhh… it’s like, Avoidant… Restrictive Food, something starting with ‘I’-- Disorder? I don’t know, it was months ago.”

“And you think that’s what Jon has?”

“I mean, I haven’t seen Jon in a while, so I really have no idea. But hey, it’s worth looking into. Good luck with it.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says sincerely. “Guess we’ll see. If he’s put up with all of my recovery bullshit, the least I can do is try to understand his weird shit too.”

“Aw, that’s cute.”

“I… it’s not cute!”

“You’re getting awfully defensive there, Ross. I mean, I don’t blame you; being bandmates and now living together is bound to cause sexual tension.”

“Okay then, Gabe, if you’re allowed to be so interested in my feelings, what are you and Pete’s plans for tonight, huh?”

“Nothing for a while, actually. I hate my body-- Pete, I know you think I’m sexy or whatever because you don’t have to fuck a skeleton anymore, but I’m still allowed to hate myself.”

“Tell Pete I agree.”

“Ryan says he agrees with me.” There’s a pause, and Gabe tells Ryan, “Pete just called us malnourished and mentally unstable. You can tell he’s really suffering from being blue-balled by his anorexic boyfriend.”

Ryan laughs over Pete’s totally-not-horny protests in the background.

“How’s Gabe?” Jon asks, setting aside his book when Ryan returns to bed almost an hour later.

“He sounds like he’s doing a lot better,” Ryan says with a grin, because he really is happy that Gabe has returned to his jovial and boisterous self. “He claims he’s got a lot of crazy inpatient stories to tell whenever he gets around to visiting California, but I doubt that any of them will live up to mine.”

“I think of all people, Gabe  will find a way to live up to the girl who flooded the toilet after sneaking in laxatives.”

“Eugh, do not remind me.” Ryan drops back on to the bed. “Sorry I talked to Gabe for so long, I really didn’t think it’d last more than a few minutes.”

“Nah, I get it. You guys were close and you haven’t been able to talk to him in months. We have all the time in the world to sleep, anyways.”

“Mm, you’re right.”

Ryan leans over Jon to flick off the light and turns over, resting his head on the pillow. But before he can say good night, Jon asks, “Have you heard anything about… the others?”

Ryan rolls to his other side to meet his eyes. “Not much. William still refuses to go for inpatient treatment. And Patrick is… well, I’ve tried calling and texting him, but he won’t speak to me or Pete.” Glancing up at the translucent curtains, the star-studded sky shining behind Jon, he adds, “I don’t know why I’m getting better when they’re doing worse. I was the worst fucking bitch in the competition.”

“That wasn’t you,” Jon assures. “You were starving yourself and nobody believed you. You were trying to help them.”

“Hardly,” Ryan mutters. “I wanted to brag about how fucked up I was. I knew I wasn’t helping and I still did it.”

“Hey, you know now that what you were doing was unhealthy, and you’re trying to move on and be better. You’ve improved a lot since I’ve first met you, Ry. You do care about them; I mean, I could hear you laughing with Gabe from here.”

Ryan sniffles, glancing back at Jon. “But what if Brendon was right?”

“He never was,” Jon says. “He didn’t know shit about what you were going through.  You’ve been through a lot, and I’m proud of you for getting through it and making an effort, alright?”

“I haven’t.” Ryan’s voice trembles, a tear wetting the pillow. “I’ve barely tried.”

“No, you’ve gotten so far.” Raising an arm, Jon gently asks, “You need a hug?”

His vision bleary and tongue salty, Ryan nods. Jon moves closer, his warm arms wrapping around Ryan’s shoulder. Patting his back as Ryan breaks into a sob, Jon quietly reassures him, “You’re doing great, it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay.”

“But they’re not okay,” Ryan chokes out. “And you’re not okay.”

“I’m okay, Ryan.”

“No.” Ryan hugs him back, tugging Jon close enough that tears stain the collar of his shirt and he feels rough, unshaven facial hair scratch the side of his face. “You’re getting skinnier and it scares me and I don’t want to fucking lose you, you’re all that I have right now.”

“I’m going to be fine, Ryan, I’m not going away anytime soon.”

“I used to say that too.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really,” he mumbles into Jon’s shirt.

Ryan wakes up, still curled close to Jon and one arm slung over him. The embrace is too warm for the weather, but rather than move away, Ryan’s eyes shut and he nestles closer. Still halfway between consciousness and sleep, all he thinks is that this feels safe.

Neither of them get up for another hour, wanting to savor this instead of waking the other.

“This is literally the third ring of hell.”

“This is not the third ring of hell, Ryan.”

“The third ring of hell in Dante’s Inferno was gluttony,” Ryan states, pointing at the hotel breakfast buffet. “Thus, I am in the third circle of hell.”

Pouring himself a bowl of cereal, Jon comments, “I didn’t know you read Dante.”

“I didn’t.” Ryan picks up a plate and scoops mixed fruit onto it. “After my attempt, my roommate at the first hospital was a fucking classics major who thought his jokes were hilarious.”

“Right, that dude. Good thing you were only roommates with him for a week.”

“At least the third ring thing stuck.” Finished with filling half his plate with fruit, Ryan swiftly moves past the pastries and grabs a yogurt from the mini-fridge on the counter. “It’s the only eating disorder joke that makes me actually sound smart rather than insane.”

“Calling a breakfast buffet the third ring of hell would still sound insane to most people,” Jon points out, spIashing some whole milk into his cereal and moving past the pastries as well. “Even if I do have to agree with you.”

After they find seats at a table tucked away in the corner, Jon asks, “So, what do you wanna do today?”

“That binder in the hotel room had a list of different walking trails,” Ryan suggests, fork stabbing through a piece of kiwi. “Getting to see more of the island would be nice.”

“It would be. But if we’re going to be doing a lot of walking, you should probably eat more than that.”

Ryan glances down at his plate before swallowing the piece of kiwi he’s been chewing. “This is plenty. I’m just not that hungry after last night’s dinner. The shrimp scampi was really filling.”

Jon raises his brows. “Are you sure this is going to fill you?”

“Are you sure a bowl of cereal is going to fill you?” Ryan retorts.

“It’s different.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan says. “Look, I could totally eat a muffin or whatever if I wanted to, no problem. I’m just not in the mood. I’m in tune with my hunger cues or something. I’m going to have lunch later, don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget about a morning snack.”

“That’s recommended, not required. And I’m never hungry enough for it.”

“I really think--”

Ryan’s fork clatters to his plate. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to listen to you when I don’t even know what the hell is going on with you?”

Jon falls silent, becoming preoccupied with stirring his cereal. Shame washes over Ryan.

“Sorry,” Ryan mutters, chair creaking as he leans back. “It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, I’m a hypocrite.” Jon sighs. “I can’t expect you to face your shit when I can’t do that myself.”

“Look, I appreciate everything you’re doing, and most of the time, I really do think I’m getting better… but it sucks when you can’t eat something or throw up, and my disordered brain doesn’t have a lot of ways to reason it besides…”

“I can promise you that I’m not trying to lose weight at all,” Jon says. “And even though I am, I really don’t want to. It might sound a little weird, but I don’t like looking in the mirror and seeing this bony, lanky guy in front of me. I wish I could eat normally without nitpicking all these weird things most people don’t notice or care about, and I really want to try. But when it comes down to it, I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Gabe mentioned someone who put into his program by mistake. He said she had… uh, ARFID?”

There’s a flash of recognition behind Jon’s eyes. ”Yeah. That seems to be it, basically. I don’t know for sure, I’ve never had an official diagnosis, but the behaviors match up pretty well.”

“Alright, so you have ARFID.” Ryan shrugs. “No big deal. If I could recover--”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

Ryan blinks. “What do you mean?”

“When my parents realized it was more than just being a picky eater and I wasn’t gonna grow out of it anytime soon, they did try sending me to a therapist.” Jon clears his throat. “It’s not like I had any traumatic experiences attached to any food to work out, so it was basically just, force myself to eat the stuff I didn’t like. Sometimes it was fine and it just made me really uncomfortable, but other times… kinda just ended up with me gagging, or even throwing up. Maybe for other people it could have worked, but it didn’t for me; it just made it worse.

“I pretty much stuck to safe foods after that and made an effort to eat more, and I managed to make it work for a while, even on tour. But when you went into recovery and I was busy with you, I started slipping and didn’t have a lot of time to go grocery shopping, or sometimes the stress ruined what I thought had been a safe food for a while-- I was so invested in you getting better I forgot I had to take care of myself, too. Man… I feel fucking horrible, that brushing all off my shit as normal just ended up hurting you instead.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I know I did, Ryan. I was stupid to think you wouldn’t notice by now.”

Silent for a few moments, Ryan says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t really know…”

“It’s alright.” Jon musters a smile. “I mean, it’s always been there. Not like I have anything else to compare it to, so I’m used to it.”

“That’s still shitty, though.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Jon shrugs, picking up his spoon. “Now that all that is out in the open… I guess let’s see if that helps at all. Let’s just… look out for each other, right?”

“Sure,” Ryan says, “I can get behind that.”

They end up picking the walking trail at the Masquetuck Reservation, taking a shuttle and walking the rest of the way down to the road to where the trail begins. Situated on the shore, the winding trail takes them through lush and mossy green forest to the freshwater bog and then salt marshes by the water, long grass sweeping in the wind and limbly-legged herons judging them from a distance. The short-lived rain from the other night has muddied the trail and mud cakes the bottoms of Ryan and Jon’s sneakers, but that’s hardly on their minds; the view has caused what little was left of the previous tension from that morning to melt, too distracted by absorbing the sight of the sprawling marsh.

And then a sharp jolt of pain digs into Ryan’s rib, causing him to falter as his hands fly up to hold his side.

“Could we stop for a moment?” Ryan asks, grimacing. “I.. uh, I’m tired.”

A few feet ahead, Jon stops and turns to him. “Sure-- you okay?”

Ryan quickly removes his hands from his rib. “Of course. Just tired.” Jon dubiously narrows his eyes at him, obviously not believing him. “Okay, fine, I’m not that tired. It’s just that my rib hurts, no big deal.”

“Did you hit it against something or--”

“I’m not eating enough,” Ryan mutters, cheeks heating. “Like, for me, it’s one of the first symptoms or whatever. My body gets sore or hurts in random fucking places. It’s not a big deal though, it’ll go away and I can still walk fine.”

“You sure you can walk the rest of the way?” Jon raises a brow. “You want me to carry you?”

Ryan snorts. “Oh, please. I’m nowhere close to fulfilling the classic anorexic delusion of being light enough for my boyfriend to pick up.”

“So I’m your boyfriend now?”

“No! I didn’t mean that! I meant--”

“I’m kidding, dude, don’t worry about it,” Jon assures. “Although, now I am curious whether I could pick you up.”

“You’re too skinny,” Ryan states, although his heart pounds at the thought of Jon’s warm arms around him again. “I’d crush you.” Maybe if you lost ten pounds again, he could-- no, I can’t relapse, I can’t go back.

“You wouldn’t crush me.”

“I so would.”

“Okay, then let’s prove it.” And then Jon’s hands are on Ryan’s hips, lifting him into his arms. Ryan shrieks much like a teenage girl, but then his arms are wrapped firmly around Jon’s neck, their chests are pressed tight together, and his legs are on Jon’s hips, one hand below his thigh to keep him up and the other on his lower back.

Ryan’s heart pounds, and although his rib still aches, it’s long-forgotten when he and Jon are this close, enough so that he can catch the glint of the sun in his eyes and the sweep of his eyelashes as he blinks and an uneven hair on his eyebrow.

“See?” Jon grins. “You’re not crushing me. It’s totally fine.”

“For being malnourished, you’re pretty strong.”

“Or you weigh way less than you think you do.”

“Not really, you’re already out of breath,” Ryan says, leaping back to his feet when he feels Jon’s arms start to tremble. “I appreciate the effort, though.” Still leaning close and with added confidence, he asks teasingly, “So, would I earn the title of your anorexic boyfriend?”

“By just being able to pick you up? Because you’ve already won that in a multitude of ways.”

“We get it, I’m a fucking disordered piece of shit--”

“No,” Jon interrupts, “I mean you would have already earned the boyfriend part of it.”

Ryan’s cheeks flush harder, even the cool air of the marsh doing nothing to dull the enveloping heat of his body. “Huh?”

“Um… because we shared a bed!” Jon quickly says, and punches his shoulder playfully. “You okay to keep walking? Sooner we get back into town, the sooner we can eat, so…”

“Sure,” Ryan says, following him down the trail although he has an innate feeling that this conversation ended a little too quickly.

Looking out over the marsh, grass dipping in the wind, the water lapping calmly, he finds himself thinking this would be a nice spot for a first kiss. Or something like that.

After returning to town, Ryan’s knees ache in relief when they finally reach their lunch destination: a coffee shop. Standing in line isn’t much more fun, but at least there’s air conditioning. Jon orders a chicken avocado wrap without avocado, as well as a chai latte. Ryan, meanwhile… doesn’t have a clue what to order.

“Um… we’ve got really good sandwiches,” suggests the poor cashier. “The cookies in the display case are pretty fresh too. There’s also the soup of the day, it’s broccoli cheddar--”

“Cake,” Ryan blurts out, not knowing he was thinking it until he said it. “Um. Yeah. A piece of chocolate cake and an americano. Please.”

As Ryan pulls out his wallet and the cashier rings their order up, he’s swallowed by absolute dread, slithering like stiff roots around his stomach. Cake? For lunch? Really, Ryan?

After paying and sinking into seats at a table by the window to wait for their orders, Ryan sucks in a breath of air and really, really hopes that he’ll collapse and die before the cake can make it to their table. It’d be a lot easier than eating cake for lunch.

“That cake looks pretty good,” Jon says, twisting in his seat to look at the display case. “You mind if I have a bite when you get it?”

“Sure.” Ryan’s voice verges on anxiety. “You can have all of it actually, if you want. I’ll be fine with my coffee.”

“You doing okay?”

“Nope. Nope. Not at fucking all.” Ryan sighs and leans back in his seat, nails scratching against the surface of the table. “Why did I order cake? I wasn’t even thinking about the damn cake.”

“Maybe, it’s because you do want cake.”

“No. Why would I want cake when I could have gotten literally anything else?”

“Just out of curiosity,” Jon asks, “when was the last time you had cake?”

“Uh…” Ryan thinks back. He didn’t do anything for his birthday last year, or the year before, and he’s barely gone to any parties either-- and cake was definitely enough of a fear food he didn’t dare to even think of it during his rare binges. “Maybe 2005 or 2006. I think it was some awards show. Brendon was acting weird that I didn’t want any, so I had a few bites and gave the rest to him.”

Jon stares. “You haven’t had cake in four years?”

Normally, Ryan would be proud of this, but instead, shame creeps up to his cheeks, because he is anything but normal. “It’s part of the disorder, Walker.”

“I get that. I know it’s a fear food for you, but… at least try, alright? It’s not as scary as you think, and we just did a lot of walking. Your body needs it.”

If Ryan got a penny every time he heard the phrase your body needs it, he’d be one of the richest men on earth. Unfortunately, he does not get a penny every time it is said and only slight discomfort and nausea. “Well…”

“Just a few bites, please?”

“Fine,” Ryan mumbles, although his heart is going at a million miles an hour. “I guess I did pay for it.”

A few moments later, an employee calls out, “Ryan, your order is ready!”, sliding two plates and two cups of coffee onto the counter. Ryan and Jon temporarily leave their seats, quickly grabbing the food.

And now, Ryan has the most fucking decadent piece of chocolate cake he’s ever seen, right in front of him. A thick layer of chocolate icing is spread in the middle, the actual cake dark and moist, and the top is covered with more icing as well as chocolate shavings more thin and delicate than he ever will be.

First, though, he takes a sip of his americano. Because if he can do that, maybe he can eat a bite of cake too.

While Jon tears a bite off his avocadoless chicken avocado wrap, Ryan pokes his fork at the slice of cake. It’s soft and spongy, just like a picture on a cake mix box, and his stomach rumbles; he wants this cake so bad.

But you haven’t had cake in four years, and you’ve been skinny ever since, his disorder taunts. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Nothing tastes as good as--

Finishing chewing a bite of his wrap, Jon asks, “What are you thinking?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“It’s like, this proana quote.” Ryan huffs. “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. See? It’s stupid.”

“And what does skinny feel like?” Jon points out. “You were miserable. You were always cold and shivering, and weak and out of energy. Not to mention hungry and constantly binging. Like, your rib started hurting just because we were on a walk. None of that’s any better than being skinny.”

“But I was skinny.”

“And, like, dying. One piece of cake isn’t going to make you fat, and you have a long way to go for your body to heal from all the damage you’ve done to it. And if you can conquer cake, you can have a proper birthday this year-- that’d be fun, right?”

Ryan manages a smile, dragging his fork through the icing. “That would be fun. It’s been a while since I actually celebrated it.”

“Come on, you’ve got this. A piece of cake will not defeat the Ryan Ross. If you want it, you deserve to enjoy it.”

Ryan’s fork digs through a small piece at the edge of the cake, and he goes for it, lifting it to his mouth quickly before he can change his mind. The decadent taste of chocolate floods his mouth, smooth and creamy. “Wow.” Flushing, he hides his grin with his hand. “That’s better than I remember it, holy shit.”

“Can I try a bit?”

“Sure.” Ryan spears off another piece and raises the fork. Rather than take it, Jon just leans forward and eats it off the fork, which Ryan totally doesn’t think is kinda cute or anything.

“Woah, that’s seriously fucking good,” Jon says after swallowing. “I think it’s definitely worth the title of being your first piece of cake in years.”

They continue to eat, Ryan taking tiny nibbles of his cake and Jon tearing off a bite of his wrap, but right then, Jon coughs, rushing to put down his wrap and spit into his napkin. “Sorry.” He huffs, wiping spit off the corner of his mouth. “I was trying to put up with it, but the bottom of the tortilla is soggy and ruins the entire thing-- I’m sorry, I don’t want you to feel, like, weird about it or anything, you really do deserve to enjoy your cake.”

“It’s fine, I get it.” Ryan swallows back his last bite of cake, although in his throat, it now goes down like a thick and large lump he wishes he didn’t have to digest. “Maybe we’ll save the cake and share it later--”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Unless you want to order another piece of cake and eat it while you’re nauseous to make me feel better about myself, then--”

Jon’s chair scrapes against the floor, standing abruptly. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get a piece of cake to eat with you.”

Bewildered, Ryan asks, “You’re sure?”

He digs out a five, holding it up. “I might as well try if you’re trying.”

And so, Jon goes to the counter, buys a piece of chocolate cake, and sits back down with Ryan. The cake slowly becomes easier to eat, between sips of coffee and words of encouragement, and Ryan does the impossible-- he finishes it.

After relaxing in the hotel room after what Ryan considers to have been a very laborious afternoon, Jon suggests they use the jacuzzi outside for a while before going out for dinner. Ryan, sweaty and bloated, is not a huge fan of the idea, but throws on an old t-shirt and gets in anyway, hoping the bubbles will hide his body. Jon sighs and lays back against the edge, shirtless and so stretched out that the grooves of his ribs are visible, while Ryan sits low, submerged up to his collarbone.

“How do you think we’ll make this work?”

“Make what work?” Jon asks, glancing away from the sky.

“Us,” Ryan says, and then, realizing the connotation, quickly backtracks. “I mean, uh, us living together. Now that we both know we have eating disorders.”

“Right. Maybe we should talk about that at some point.” Jon leans back again, kicking his feet up to rest on the edge of the jacuzzi. Ryan notices his thin, boney ankles. “Now that everything’s out in the open, it might be… easier? You know what’s up with me, it’ll be harder for your brain to twist it into something else.”

“True. But there’s still the fact…” Ryan tears his eyes away from the ankles he totally isn’t envious of. “...you can’t recover.”

“It’s nothing to really worry about.”

“You’re not going to gain fifteen pounds overnight eating just cereal. It’s practically a damn mono.”

“Mono? What’s that?”

“You ever heard about the time Gabe ate applesauce for three days straight?”

“Wait, just three days?”

Ryan splashes water at Jon. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Well… while you were in treatment, there might have been a week where all I ate was cereal. Actually, there was like one time I ate a granola bar after I ran out of cereal, so maybe it doesn’t count.”

“And you say it’s nothing to be concerned about.” Ryan narrows his eyes at him. “Of course I’m going to worry about you, man.”

“Because I’m not good for you,” Jon mutters.

“Not at all. Seriously, dude, I am worried about you because I care about you.”

“But I’m also not good for your recovery.”

“Don’t say that,” Ryan scoffs. “Like, look, it’s not fucking perfect; since when has recovering from an eating disorder ever been perfect? For you not being a trained professional, you’re doing a pretty good job. And if anything, I think you having ARFID helps. I mean, we’re both stuck in two completely different disorders, but you sorta get what it’s like to have a fucked relationship with food. I don’t know what I would have done without you there for me-- actually, scratch that, I do know: I would have relapsed as soon as I got out of the treatment center. Or fucking Brendon would have been forced to try to take care of me, and act like I’m a burden like always, and there’d be another attempt under my belt all over again.

“Jon, you’ve always been there for me.” Ryan sits up straighter, the soaked collar of his shirt drooping below his collarbones. “You’re there for me when I’m crying over a binge at 3 A.M. You’re there for me when a pair of my skinny jeans stops fitting. You’re there for me when all I want to do is eat a piece of cake without hating myself. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, so shut up, because you’ve helped me far more than you’ve ever hurt me. I wouldn’t be alive without you.”

“I mean, I…”

“It’s true,” Ryan insists. “We’ve made it this far. We can figure this out. Together.”

Jon smiles softly, eyes meeting Ryan’s. “We can figure it out.”

He watches as Ryan’s eyes lower, studying every feature, eyelashes to his nose and down to his lips. And there must be something in the water, because they both just know in that moment what they both want.

In anticipation of what Ryan’s about to ask when he draws a breath, Jon says, “Yeah.”

Ryan swims the few feet over, settling onto the seat beside Jon. He lifts his hand out of the water, cupping Jon’s cheek as he leans forward and presses their lips together.

It’s as slow and easy and rhythmic as the ocean’s waves lapping at the beach, as the sweep of the grass in the wind. Jon’s lips are a little chapped, and there’s a drop of water still on his bottom lip from when Ryan splashed him-- he tastes like chlorine. Their noses nudge together with Ryan pushing the kiss deeper, tongue exploring Jon’s mouth, and the faint, lingering sweetness of cake takes the chlorine’s place.

Finally, they break for breath.

“You taste like cake,” Ryan breathes against Jon’s mouth.

Jon giggles, tracing Ryan’s bottom lip and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, tugging him closer. “So do you.”