Trigger warning.

The tent is pitched in a forest half an hour from home, sheltered by tall trees and green leaves. The men are lying on a picnic mat under the trees, looking up at the sky, hands holding.

"This is nice," Remington says, watching the wind make the branches dance. He brings Andy's hand onto his chest, over his heart, and yawns. "I like it here."

Andy hums. "It's beautiful," he agrees, ignoring the slight sting that's pulsing in his hip. "How're you feeling? What's your number?"

The boy smiles. He missed being asked for his number. "Twenty three. What's yours?"

"Four," Andy answers, and it's a lie. He hardly ever lies. Never to Remington. This is all wrong. "You're shivering, hon."

"Oh." It's funny how he only notices when it's pointed out. Probably because he's become so used to being cold.

Sitting up, Andy turns and crawls towards the tent. He pulls out a blanket. "Oh, I made some hot chocolate if you want some," he tells Remington, handing him the fluffy blanket.

"Mm, yes please." The boy takes the blanket, sitting up and wrapping it around his shoulders.

Andy finds the flask before returning to the picnic mat. "Let's play a game."

"What game?"

He pours the drink into the mug and gives it to Remington. "Who can be quiet for the longest."

"How is that a fun game?"

"Because I'll win."

Remington sips the hot chocolate. "Oh yeah? We'll see about that. What're the rules?"

Andy smiles. "Rules? Um...no tickling. Coughing is allowed but it has to be a genuine cough."

"That it?"

The older hums.

"Okay, cool. You're going down."

"Go."

Remington sips the drink again, looking at Andy for a moment. He hands the mug to his husband and lies back on the mat.

Andy watches Remington lie back down and he knows he couldn't live without the young singer. He knows Remington feels the same. Maybe if he wasn't so cowardly then he'd tell the boy about what he's done. Too bad he'll probably never do that.

It's going dark. Remington's eyes look black when it's dark, in a beautiful, almost evil way. Like all his humanity has been torn away with him as the sun disappeared. The mug is handed back to him and he finishes off what's in it, putting it down beside him and closing his eyes.

Andy touches his hip and winces. He can almost picture the lines on his skin. Red, deep, painful. He didn't understand why Remington kept doing it, why he hurt himself so badly sometimes. He didn't get why he'd do that to himself.

He understands, now. How it's relieving, in a sick way. How the pain reminds him that he's alive and breathing. Sometimes physical pain is easier to handle than emotional pain. The problem is, though, that physical pain makes the emotional pain worse. It's mental suicide.

Remington puts a hand on Andy's chest, doesn't notice the man's sadness. Sooner or later, he will. He'll catch on. He'll see the cuts or he'll find the blade. But until that happens, he is blissfully unaware.

Andy puts a hand over Remington's. He can feel the boy's knuckles, the delicate bones under his skin, wonders if Remington knows how thin he really is. Or is his mind tricking him so much that he really can't see it at all?

The sun is just a memory now. There is no light anymore, none except for the stars and the crescent moon above. What would happen if the sun never came up again? A life in darkness.  Beautiful? Or maybe scary? Both?

Remington turns onto his side, settles with his head on Andy. He's sleepy, calm, and listens to the night. It's really quite sureal. Like he's dreaming. But he isn't. He's awake and he's alive.

"You win," Andy says.

"You gave in easily."

The man hums. "I know. But you're falling asleep and I wanna say I love you before you go to sleep."

Remington smiles. "Well aren't you the romantic one."

"You know it. Sweet dreams."

The next morning, once they're both awake, Andy opens a box of cereal bars, giving one to Remington before taking one for himself. Remington tears the packet and pulls pieces off with his fingers, eating it in small pieces, and, when Andy isn't looking, dropping pieces on the ground. He probably only eats about half of the bar.

They go for a walk in the forest before packing up everything and going home, and with every passing minute, Andy wishes he could just tell Remington. Just say those words. It shouldn't be this hard. He wonders how long he'll be able to keep it from his husband, how long it'll take until he finally breaks. It's been a long time coming, really. He nearly broke when he turned up to Remington bleeding out on his doorstep all those years ago. But he held it together for everyone. He nearly broke when Remington dumped him that time. But he kept it togethr. And again, when Remington tried to kill himself. Everytime that happens Andy gets closer to breaking. He wonders how no one can see just how close he is.

It's scary to think about. How he has no control over it, over when it'll happen. But it will. Andy knows it will. And it'll be brutal. How could it not be?

In the afternoon Remington goes to see Abigial, leaving Andy on his own for an hour. The man sits on the toilet seat and, with the blade he hid in the back of his phone, draws blood from his hip, over the recent cuts that are already there. He can't cry. It hurts and he hates himself for letting it get this bad, but he can't cry.

This is the fourth day in a row now. The wounds don't have time to heal because he opens them everyday, cutting back into them, going deeper each time. Surely just one more thing happening will send him right over the edge. And it's a long way down.

Andy watches the red dripping down onto the floor, catching it in a tissue with a hand that's shaking. The blue in his eyes seems dull, almost gray, and he looks at the blade between his fingers. He said he was a four when Remington asked. He lied. If he was being honest, he would've said at least a fifteen. But that's not that bad, right? Remington's above twenty, so fifteen-that's nothing. It's fine.

He's fine.