Trigger Warning: Depression, anxiety, physical/emotional abuse, PTSD, injury, suicide

Neither Andy nor Remington got much sleep. Andy was kept awake by his own fear and sadness, frightened of what would happen when Holden found him, and wishing he had gone through with his suicide plan when he had the chance. 

He felt unwelcome in the bed and in the apartment, by no doing of Remington, for he had been more hospitable and generous than Andy ever could have asked for. The problem was that he had been taught for the past nine years that he was not welcome anywhere, that even his own house was not his, but a place he was being allowed to stay in, until he did something worth being thrown out on. 

Remington was kept awake by the on-and-off crying that melted through the walls, wanted to comfort Andy, but couldn't think of a way how. The last thing he was going to do was to force a hug onto a man who'd had things forced onto him for most of his adult life. He felt like he was overstepping a boundary by being in the same room as him when he was crying, but at the same time, didn't want him to believe he didn't care. It was a tricky situation, and one that he knew he had no right complaining about. He wasn't the one covered in bruises. 

He rose early, saw little point in lying awake for any longer, and made himself tea in the kitchen, closing any cupboards silently as to avoid disturbing Andy on the off chance that he had fallen asleep again. It was barely five, and he didn't have to be in the tattoo shop until eight. 

At just gone six, after finishing his second cup, Remington ventured across the hall and knocked, after a hesitation, on the living room door. There was no response, so he pushed down the handle and opened it, stepped in. 

The room was dark, the pale morning sunlight creeping through the gaps in the curtains. In the bed, Andy was curled up like he was worried that if any part of him was exposed, he'd be in danger. His head was entirely under the blanket. 

Remington stood there for a few moments, considered what would happen now, how Andy would ever be okay again. He turned to leave and as he reached the doorway, a sharp gasp halted him. 

Andy had woken, and not calmly. The new environment was a surprise, and then he noticed, with a start, the person in the room with him. His first thought, his only thought, was that he was going to get hurt and he couldn't do anything to stop it. 

"It's okay," Remington said warily, backing away from the bed and putting his hands before him, so Andy could see them, could see he wasn't going to touch him. "I'm sorry. I woke you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'll go now." 

"I'm sorry," mumbled Andy. He was shaking as he had been the previous evening. "I'm sorry. I-I...sorry." 

The fear in the way he spoke could have made Remington cry. He shook his head. "You're okay, there's nothing to be sorry for." 

Andy stared up at him, unbelieving. 

"It's my fault, I woke you up, I didn't mean to. I'll go, so you can go back to sleep, if you want. Or I can make you some tea." 

Andy kept staring. It seemed as though he was about to scream, or faint. "I..." He dropped his gaze, said again in a voice barely above a whisper, "Sorry." 

"You're okay. It's okay. I'm gonna go make you some tea. Do you have it with milk and sugar?"

"Uh..." Flustered, he was struggling to hold onto his train of thought, kept distracting himself with the dread of future pain. It was worse, in a way, to be with a stranger. At least with Holden, he knew what to expect, what he would say when he was mad, or upset, or slightly irritated. But with Remington, someone he'd met only a few times before, he was yet to discover what would happen when he made his next mistake. A part of him wanted to provoke him just to get it over with. 

He realised he hadn't answered and started to panic trying to remember the question. 

"I'll bring them on the side," Remington said, picking up on his anxiety. He moved for the door and Andy was deathly still, awaiting his next move, was left with a strange emptiness when Remington left the room without laying even one finger on him. 

Just minutes later, Remington came back with a tray of two mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk, and a little bowl of sugar. Carefully, he put it down on the coffee table that had been pushed against the wall to make room for the sofa-bed, and began to pour the tea into the mugs. "I think one of the bags has burst," he said. "I keep buying the cheap own-brand ones, because I tell myself that if I save eleven pence or whatever it is on tea bags like once every six months then I'll become a millionaire and own a yacht, but all that happens is I have to drink bitty tea." He added milk to his, then pushed the jug to the other side of the tray, said, "Help yourself." 

Andy was slowly sitting up, one hand loose around his stomach, the painkillers from the previous night having worn off. He worried he was trembling too much to hold the milk jug without spilling it everywhere. 

"Oh, here." Remington tipped two ibuprofen tablets onto the tray, notice Andy's reluctance to touch anything, asked, "Milk?" 

He hesitated, then nodded, couldn't stop himself from mumbling, "I'm sorry." 

Picking up the jug, Remington said, "You're okay. I know you're scared, it's not your fault. I'm happy to help you. Sugar?" 

"Uh...no. Thank you. Sorry." 

"You're okay. Here you go. It might be a little bitty, stupid cheap tea bags." 

"Thank you." 

"That's okay. Do you want anything else? Toast?" 

Andy shook his head and blinked because he was going to cry at the overwhelming gentleness of everything. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been woken without some sort of violence. At the first tear, he quickly apologised and dropped his head down.