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26th of July 2017 (1 day later)

With extensive knowledge of it being wrong, he glides a small blade across his forearm. Goosebumps prick his shoulder blades. Delirious from a mental morning haze, he barely feels anything, besides the sporadic stings, emerging like a light in the fog, to disappear again, before he glides the blade across skin again, surprised by the red that coats his thumb, thickly.

It isn't something he feels guilty for - not like with eating, where he feels guilty with whatever choice he makes. It is more just his, something he can delve into. And he knows it isn't right. He just needs it this morning. And he won't do it again unless he has to.

After fifteen minutes, the stings fade into indifference. Sticky red covers the blade. He cleans it with the hem of his black t-shirt. Often, he tries to wear light, stainable colours, so if he got an urge, he knows that the clean-up would be far riskier and visible if he wasn't careful. A sort of preventative measure. This morning he doesn't care enough to even try to prevent. It's sick. And he finds some sort of solace in dragging it across his skin again until there is so much pain that it feels like one big fuzzy blur.

He's recovering from an eating disorder, he can indulge in this one bad habit. It's not like he's being a total lost cause.

Exhausted, he makes himself as small as possible by the headrest of his bed. Enough. No more. He pulls on another looser jumper and leaves the blade concealed, wrapped in a wad of suspiciously reddened tissues.

He doesn't bring it up during therapy. Tom Hughes wouldn't tell him anything he didn't know. The elastic band trick doesn't work. Letting wet glue dry to pick off doesn't help and takes too long. Bottled up frustration, guilt, whatever, wouldn't disappear without the violent sweep that only he could control. It's a way of hurting himself to fix himself. And Ethan needs control of being able to fix himself.

A stethoscope, for an unknown reason, is looped delicately around Hughes' neck. It is an unintended cruel reminder. What he lost. What he can't get back unless he's all better. What he's afraid he's messed up beyond repair.

Awkward jabs of conversation are met with Ethan's non-committal silence. Eventually, he finds it in himself to ask a question, quietly and tentatively, ghosting his fingers over his dark sleeves, a secret underneath it that only he knows about. Powerful.

"Do eating disorders give you memory loss?"

It's the first time he's prompted any sort of discussion, and Hughes looks delighted about it.

"They can. Starvation can lead to memory loss, definitely. But you know that. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I wanted to check."

"You know what leads to what. Of course, you do."

"I... don't really trust my own medical knowledge, that much."

"Why's that?"

"Well, in case I've forgotten. Or gotten confused. Or just not as sharp, anymore. I used to be an all right doctor, and now I doubt it, what with everything."

"Is that a worry of yours?"

Obviously. One of them. "I suppose. I worry that I won't be able to practise again. As... a doctor. There's a lot to remember."

"You can see a neurologist if it concerns you. From what we've seen from you, Agnes thinks your cognitive ability is healthy and hasn't expressed any concerns. Retaining information, reading, you show no signs of memory loss."

"Right."

"It's a great thing to work towards. Practising again. You enjoyed your job?"

"I loved it. I can't wait to get back to it," he begins to feel lightness before it sours. Like a perfectly peaceful day until the rain starts to spit, turning into a shower that sticks clothes to your back.

"What did you love about it?" Ethan takes a little too long to respond, so Hughes fills in. "Well, I'll start. I love my job because I like being an expert at something. I had three sisters, and they all were older. It always seemed like they knew everything and I was ignorant. So I picked up a random book at the library at twenty-three years old and began to read, after years of working at a call centre. It happened to be about nutrition, health, medicine... I like to think of that as a moment of God. A little inappropriate, as I'm an atheist, but welcome all the same."

"That's lovely. To find something that's your own."

"It is. I hold it dear to me." Hughes quirks up an eyebrow, hairs as impermeable as steel. "How about your reason for wanting to become a doctor?"

"Uh, well. It's a bit selfish, I suppose."

"I'm intrigued. Medicine is hugely unselfish."

"Well, it's... more wanting to be independent. Of course, it was easy to fall into medicine, my mother was a hospice nurse and my father was a doctor. But I always liked being able to fix myself, fixing other people. It's gratifying. Like a superpower. Selfish. I guess. If that makes sense."

"I understand that. You're a bad patient, in that respect."

"Thank you," Ethan says, breaking into a small smile. "It's an old habit, I just like having control, I suppose." He itches the scabs under his sleeves.

"So what worries you about returning to work?"

"Making a mistake, I guess. I know I... made a mistake before."

"Medicine is so precise, Ethan. With the distraction that you had... it wasn't safe for you to practise, and your boss should've removed you from the premise."

"It's not her fault. Nobody died, I just... had excruciatingly bad judgement."

"You do know that everything you say to me is in confidence."

Ethan doubts that, but he swallows back his hesitance nevertheless. Sin leaks into his sleeves. "It was a patient. I treated her badly. I suppose it hit home."

Hughes spins his pencil in his hold. "All right. What happened?"

"Well, she was a young woman, called... Lucinda. She was in minors. It seemed fairly standard. It was said that she fainted at work. She seemed fine in herself, but was showing signs of unhealthiness... her nails looked purple. Again, nothing life-threatening. It could've just been from cold. And I was talking to her, and I lost my rag with her a bit," he feels shame creeping onto his expression, like blush. "She claimed to be Anorexic. Something like, 'I haven't eaten in weeks, so I must be Anorexic by now'. I got frustrated."

"Did she ever receive medical attention?"

"A nurse referred her to mental health services. She survived, definitely." He remembers her bounding through the hallway out of the clinic, bag jumping against her. Content.

"No lasting harm was done, Ethan. You were false to be so blunt with her, of course, and that could've been damaging to her mental health - but by the details you've mentioned, I believe you were unwell by that point?"

"Correct," he says, and continues abruptly with, "it's no excuse."

"Of course not! But it's a reason. Never confuse excuses with reasons. They're different. Her claim to have an eating disorder likely triggered something in you. Perhaps you wanting to reach out. And seeing her there, happy as larry, reaching out for help, like it was nothing, there was perhaps jealousy there. Do you think that could be possible?"

"I don't know. I have no idea what I was thinking. It's so foggy."

"It's possible you knew, unconsciously, exactly what living with an eating disorder was like. and you were indignant at her definition of it. Eating disorders aren't characterised by skipping a few meals, are they? Anorexia is a condition where weight loss is a symptom. It's the thoughts. Those matter."

"They do."

"I think you were in a bad place. And when you leave here, you won't be," Hughes gives him a rare but honest smile. His hair is greyed, under his splayed palm. "I'll make sure of it. All will be well."

"You don't think... I'll make another mistake like that?"

"You've learnt from it. That's the most notable thing about mistakes. I hope you remember that."

"What should I do?"

"Well, ensure it doesn't happen again."

"Should I apologise to her?"

"It might be best left in the past," Hughes says softly, with a sort of empathy only a fellow medic can manage. "Now. I understand you felt unwell yesterday. Do those symptoms still exist? Should I write you a note for the nurse?"

"No, no," he says, mind elsewhere.

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Cal rebuttons his navy jacket for the third time. It looks incorrect on him. Blazers always did. Something about tailored clothing just didn't match his personality; more unplanned, reckless, spontaneous, not... always so consistent.

He swaps it for his leather jacket. It is a fond item of his. Always relying on loans, dipping into overdraft and his brother's pockets, he never saved up for anything in life. All he ever saved up for, in his thirty-odd years of living, was an airgun (and that really did bring chaos with it...) and this leather jacket. It is the most expensive item of clothing ever. And he feels at home in it. Blazers never suited. He swallows and hopes it's suitable.

Mollie drives. Perhaps she can sense his nerves. It could be that she is just making the most of driving, perhaps believing her stomach will swell so much that she'll be unable to reach the steering wheel. Cal watches her deft movements, her caution. They pull into a drive of a pleasant home.

"Mum loves lavender," she says, as they get out. The odour of it hovers in the air. Not stale. Fresh. "Always reminds me of home."

"It's lovely."

"Smile, you," she says, and demonstrates, re-adjusting her skinny jeans simultaneously. "Better."

Fingers jammed with her extensive selection of rings, she reaches out to knock at the door. It flings itself open. A woman, Deidre, as Cal knows, pulls Mollie into her arms, almost squealing.

"I've missed you, gorgeous. Look at you. Ooh, the hair looks better in person." Deidre says, still beaming, "Oh, your dad's going to kill you."

She fluffs it up. "He won't. He'll love it too."

Deidre smiles, with just the side of her face. Her eyes flicker up and down him, like she's reading a book. "Come in."

"Hi, I'm... Cal...eb. But you can call me-"

"Cal," Deidre says. "So where'd the nickname come from?"

Cal shrugs, shuffling his feet on the doorstep. "Guess it's just a convenience thing." He didn't feel like telling her that it stuck after his little brother, ridden with a pesky stutter, used to shorten his name, indeed for convenience, so much that 'Caleb' just sounded incorrect.

"All right. Hey, you look a lot better than your picture."

He eyes Mollie suspiciously, she just grins with notable nonchalance. "I'll take that as a compliment."

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It takes up the entirety of his afternoon to write himself a make-shift apology script. It sticks vaguely in his mind and he's too nervous to cement it in there. It reminds him of when he was cast in the Nativity at school. It still remained in his nightmares. Occasionally, when he can't sleep, he'll recall being on stage, lights gleaming against his glasses, with unquestionably no memory of his lines that he should've mastered.

By coincidence, he happens to pass her by in the hall. He tends to wear oversized jumpers over unflattering scrub trousers and his untrimmed hair makes him look unkempt. Nowhere near as impeccably neat as he used to be; always trying to be perfect, in every aspect of possibility. It's possible she doesn't recognise her. Maybe. Maybe...

His voice is uncertain when he calls her back.

"Uh, apologies, hi. It's Lucinda, isn't it?"

Bouncily, she turns, head dipped. Red earrings hang loosely by her lank hair. "Yeah. And-" she pauses, like a vinyl record scratching to a halt.

"Yeah, I, uh-"

"The A&E. Holby City. I remember you," she says. "You told me to leave," her head is high, chin stuck out, earrings wobbling. A dimple is stuck in it, large enough to put a finger in. He never noticed it before.

At that moment, he is his younger self again, but the lights are replaced by artificial bulbs with a haunting hue, only eyes staring being hers. Those are the same as they always were. Greeny. Guilt swallows him whole and he feels so full of it, too, like he's swimming in it (swimming at best).

It all comes tumbling out of him without any restraint. "Lucinda, I am so, so sorry. I was unprofessional and rude. I shouldn't have told you to leave. Not at all. A patient, who came for help, shouted out of the hospital, I mean, that's awful. It was a horrible judgement, nothing to do with you, and... it was selfish! And unfair."

"It's all right," she says.

"It isn't, though. I messed up. You were well within your rights to make a complaint."

"In all honesty, I forgot about it until I saw your face today," she says. "I think you look different, now, though."

He shrugs, appalled at himself. "Yeah. Thinner, probably."

"I'd say the opposite."

Surprise tugs at his stomach sharply. "Oh," he watches her smile, mossy eyes gleaming. "I, uh. Came to apologise. I think you're doing a lovely thing, volunteering here. Hospitality jobs are hard enough but you're doing it without pay, and that's... lovely."

"I always wanted to do something like this. Something close to heart. I did have an eating disorder."

"I know. And I am so sorry. You didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. It was unjustified."

"It wasn't Anorexia. They don't have a name for it. Otherwise specified." She laughs. "Guess I'm special like that."

Ethan manages a grimace of a smile. "I hope you're doing a lot better."

"You, too. Though I suppose not."

"If you don't mind me asking, how come you're here, and not in Holby?"

"I move about a lot. I came up here to live with my parents. Quit my job to get better. This place is healing."

"That's good. Really good to... have support."

"Yeah," she says, eyebrow cocked. "It is. Anyway. I'll see you at lunch, I suppose." She says, walks past him. "Take care."

Her words are kind enough, but they sound sour. Ethan truly wonders how forgiven he is. Could he argue with that? Would he forgive someone who treated him that way, if he were in her position?

No. Definitely not. Bitterness is justified. He would be a fool to take offence.

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From across the table, Mollie nudges him lightly with her toe. 'Smile' she mouths.

He does. Breezy, she chats to her mother in the way Cal never could to his own mother. "So, mum. Tell Cal all about you. He's too shy to ask."

"I'm not shy," he denies.

Deidre looks content, leaning back, arms folded. "Well. I had Mol pretty young, about 19, or turning 19. Before then, I wanted to be a nail technician. Desperately. All I ever thought of doing with myself. I worked off jobs all whilst she was in school... seamstress, bakeries, retail, you name it. Spoilt my little girl rotten and kept some money saved up. I opened my own business this year, finally."

"That's brilliant," Cal says, craning forward on the table. "D'you get a lot of customers?"

"Oh, yeah, she does," Mollie says, cheeks gathered, full of pride. "Does my nails every week. Free of charge, obviously."

"Only because you forget your purse."

Mollie rolls her eyes. "Baby brain."

"That was before you were pregnant," Deidre answers and looks at Cal with the same grey-ish eyes that he recognises, rimmed with kohl. "I know all about what you do. Doctoring. Your mum must've been over the moon when she found out two of her sons were going to be doctors."

"She made it clear she wasn't going to pay for the university costs, not even close. But she was happy with it. Found it... significant. Like. Important."

"It is important, I could always see Mollie going into hospital work. Or acting. One of the two."

"I put my acting to good use," Mollie says, chewing at the bread on the table spread. "Like, a patient comes in, with a horrific injury, and you've got to pretend it isn't the worst thing you've ever seen. Even if it is."

"I couldn't do it," Deidre says. "I'm very proud of you, Mollie."

Mollie bats the pride away, beaming a cute side smirk, with a, "I know, mum, I love you."

It is docile sight and Cal feels his stomach tug at it. How used to the pride she is, it makes him happy for her. It gives way to support, admiration, always with her parents by her side.

Her only faults, truly, are her patience, or lack thereof, and how deeply she cares for everything. It frightens Cal, on occasion, how much she holds everything on her shoulders to burden. And how he often has no idea the weight of it. Then he watches mother and daughter together, a strange concoction of jealous and unbearingly happy for her. That's his girl, and he loves that she has a mother that is her other sparkly half.

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Paul and Cal share a cigarette outside as evening settles into a musty night, exhaust smoke alongside kicked-up mud. He doesn't actively smoke anymore. It's more of a social thing, and he accepts another drag, half-hearted, enjoying the way the nerves in his shoulder blades disappear, like loosened knots.

Paul is tall, taller still than Cal, large on the top half, hair greyed like soot. He has startlingly blue eyes, contrasting against tan leathery skin, a few moles splattered like paint. And he doesn't say much, unless he has to, but has a strong voice, that you can't interrupt unless you're brave.

"I'm not going to give you the... protective father talk."

"Good," Cal says, passes the cigarette back. "You'll know she can handle herself. Better than I can handle myself."

"Course. Everytime she ever got moody with me, I had to take a few steps back. Brute force doesn't protect me against her. You know, when she's made her mind up-"

Cal is brave. "-it can't be changed. I know. It's why I didn't put up a fight about the colour of the walls, or... whatever. Not even my brother did, shy as he is, and as particular he is about the flat looking a certain way."

Paul thoughtfully hmms. "I think she's found a brother in your brother. He doing all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, better."

The unspoken hangs between them and remains a mysterious card they don't flip over. "I'm glad. It must've been hard on you."

"Well, harder on him," Cal says, and Paul understands the defensiveness, and doesn't question it, instead offers the cigarette back, to which Cal accepts, taking a long drag.

Eventually, Paul lowers his voice, a joking, "I'm going to be honest, I don't like Mollie's new hair as much as I did the long hair."

"I do. It makes her happy."

Paul looks at Cal, and Cal can't register the emotion behind it. But the satisfaction in his voice explains it.

"Then you're one of the good ones, Cal."

"Thank you."

"You'll take care of her. And the baby. Yeah?"

"Obviously."

Paul smiles. "You better. I went well spare when I heard. You're lucky she's a daddy girl, or I'd have never settled."

They finish the cigarette, squashed under a boot sole. Mollie's face softens when she sees Cal re-enter, and he feels content enough to loop an arm around her, comfortable on the four-seater, hoping he can find a permanent story in these loving in-laws.

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Tentatively, Ethan drags a finger across his battered arm, skin uneven and inflamed. A few splotches of dried red remains. Wetting his thumb, he cleans it, unhygienically and roughly. Tastes metallic. He hates it. It tastes as awful as guilt feels. As suffocating as frustration is, like a hand round a throat.

It is all he thinks about as he lays into bed. He grazes a hand across his stomach. It is scarred, as well, to a lesser extent. Even in darkness, he can feel the ridges in his skin by his hipbones.

He waits it out for the time it takes for his neighbour to begin talking in their sleep. Then, the voices through the wall are louder than the ones in his head, more powerful still, until staff come in to shush them.

It is thoughtless as he screws his eyes closed and digs a short blunt nail into his wrist. It stings pleasurably without the after a consequence of scars. Those don't bother him. Ironically, he doesn't worry about that. He needs the pain like he needs a hole in the damn head.

All doors in the place rumble as one slams violently - walls feel like they're moving. He hears loud shouting, covers his ears with his trembling hands. His head is spinning and all he wants to do is sleep. He imagines his brother's comforting arms around him, like a lonely child would long for. Feels a guilt like a sickness in the pit of his stomach. He feels unwell and wonders if he's actually sick, or just sick in the head.

Upon his wonderings, he falls asleep, nails covered in red, curled protectively around himself, like an animal in the pouring rain.