Trigger warnings: mentions of alcohol abuse, self harm, suicide, depression, panic attacks

Plot twist?

Andy gets home at just past six and Remington is lying on the couch watching the television. "Hey love," Andy says brightly from the doorway. "What're you watching?"

Remington answers without moving. "Dunno. Wasn't paying attention." He sounds either tired or upset, Andy can't tell quite which. Maybe both.

"How was the meeting?"

"What?"

"Today, you were in a meeting."

"Oh," Remington mumbles. "Then I forgot."

Sitting on the other couch, Andy says, "that's okay."

Remington isn't convinced, and turns his attention back to the telly, though doesn't take in anything that's happening. He doesn't even know who anyone on there is, what the hell they're taking about.

Andy frowns, watches his distant face, like he's so detached a gunshot couldn't bring him back into the room. He watches Remington sigh, troubled, watches him pick at his fingers absently, pull at a bracelet without realising he's doing so.

Then Remington picks up the remote and turns the volume up so much that it reaches the limit. In his hands, he turns the plastic device over and over, looking at it, and then at the screen, not looking towards Andy when he talks, asks him to turn it down, if he's okay. Remington doesn't reply. He tries to understand what the people on the screen are arguing about. Money. Or a secret relationship. Maybe a baby someone didn't know existed.

But it gets more complicated, more confusing, the more he tries to understand, like there's something inside his stupid stupid brain that blocks it out. A barrier. A way of the world to make a mockery of him. The poor bastard who slipped in the shower. The dumb singer who can't even sing to an audience anymore.

He closes his eyes now, wants to block it all out. Blot it away. The accident, the confusion, the people shouting on the screen, booming from wall to wall.

Andy gets up. He takes the remote and switches the television off. "Love, what's going on?" He asks.

Remington's eyes remain closed, and he winces as though the loud noise is still there.

"Hey, look at me. What's wrong?"

In a flurry, the younger pushes Andy away and runs out of the room. He mumbles something but Andy doesn't catch the words. Remington hides himself in the podcast room, sitting under the desk and covering his face with his hands.

Once Andy finds Remington, which is an easy task since his favour of the podcast room has become obvious, he turns the lights out and sits on the other side of the room. He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, just sits quietly.

Remington finally lifts his head. He hadn't realised it was dark in here. He stares at the shadow that is Andy.

"I didn't want the light to give you a headache," Andy tells him softly. "What's wrong, love?"

"It won't go away."

"What won't go away?"

Remington shakes his head. "The past."

For a moment, Andy is surprised. Then he says, "which bit of the past?"

Again, he shakes his head.

"You can tell me."

The boy looks away. "I tried to die," he mumbles. His voice is weak. He rubs his eyes.

Andy doesn't recall telling him that part. He frowns. "When was this?"

"They...they didn't want me, so-so I tried to die."

"Who didn't want you."

"Them." Remington shrugs. "Uh...Noah, Charlie, uh, Jake...Richie...uh...Mark."

"Who are they?"

"From-from school."

Andy has to remind himself not to react. He knows it's not the time. "What do you remember about them?"

"They hated me. I hated me. Everyone hated me." He rubs his eyes again. "Got drunk. A lot drunk. So then I could go away from everything. It didn't work."

"Everyone didn't hate you."

"They did."

"Do you remember anything else about it?"

"When they heard what happened they laughed and...and called me a...that word you can't say."

"The f one?"

Remington nods.

"When did you remember all this?"

The boy shrugs again and yawns.

"Was it when you got upset with me?"

He nods. Andy can see he's tearing up. "Something happened."

"What is it?"

Remingon comes out from under the desk. He crawls towards Andy, sits beside him. "Don't be mad," he whispers, then lifts the bottom of his shirt up.

Though it's dark, Andy still knows what he's looking at, still understand just as soon as the shirt is touched. He gently takes the fabric from Remington's hand, pulls it back down. "Oh, love," he mumbles. "You're feeling that way again, aren't you?"

With slow escaping tears, Remington nods. "What's wrong with me?" He asks defeatedly.

Andy wiped under his eyes with his fingers. "Nothing we can't get through."

"So there is something wrong with me?"

"It's depression, baby. Lots of people deal with it." He wipes another year away. "I deal with it, too. You're so not alone with it."

"You do?"

Andy nods.

"Have you done it too?"

He nods again. "Love, I know what it feels like. Like your whole life is pointless. But it isn't. I promise you. It isn't."

"Thought you would be mad," Remington admits.

"Why would I be mad?"

"They were. My brothers. Mum. Mad at me. All of them. Shouting at me to stop, making me feel worse all the time. I didn't mean to make them mad."

"They weren't mad, baby, they were scared. They didn't know how to help you and they were scared they might lose you."

"Will it go away soon?"

Andy tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Remington hasn't spiked it since the accident. "I really hope so, but no matter how long it takes to go away, you're gonna be alright. You've got me. And now I know what's wrong, I can help you. Will you let me help you?"

Remingon nods, then sobs and leans into Andy, replays the night outside the bar so many times he can recall every single detail. The paved street. The smell of vomit and vodka and cigarettes. The yelling from a few blocks away. The sirens that kept coming and going. The haziness. The taste. The blissful moment of believing it might soon be all gone.

Because all he has to do to remember something is to feel it all over again.