I would apologise if you weren't so desperate for more updates so this is your fault bitches see what you've done

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

Remington was planning to go into work until Andy started to sob that he was in hell and had to make it stop, like he had the night before, when he'd had the knife. Remington didn't doubt for a second the authenticity of his words, and thought it best to call in an emergency day from work and stay with him, if only to be sure he wasn't killing himself. 

He made toast and more tea, took it into the living room on the tray, and said to Andy, who seemed forever to be battling tears away, "I put Nutella on it, I hope that's okay." 

Andy nodded but made no move to pick up a piece. The shakiness of his hands made him feel useless. At least, more useless. He realised he hadn't spoken, stuttered, "Thank you. I'm sorry. I...I'm-I shouldn't-I shouldn't be here, I..." 

"You're okay, you're not anywhere you shouldn't be. You're very welcome here." With his drink and plate of toast, Remington sat on the coffee table, the tray on the bed. 

"Thank you," Andy replied. "Really, I...you have no reason to-to be so...so kind to me. Thank you. I'm sorry." 

It struck Remington that it was the fact he had spoken that Andy kept apologising for. He felt a little piece inside him go cold. "Everybody deserves kindness. I'm sorry it's been kept from you, that's not fair at all." 

Andy wiped his eyes, kept his hands close to his body, didn't reach for anything on the tray. 

Remington realised he needed permission, and the cold piece inside of him disintegrated and left a hollow. "Help yourself," he said. 

"Why-why are you helping me?" 

"Because I can't stand to know that anybody is being treated so terribly, and I can't stand to know that you're in such pain all on your own. And you have no reason to trust me, you don't know me, but I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for letting you suffer alone." 

Hesitantly taking a piece of chocolate covered toast, Andy averted his eyes to the tray. They were constantly wet. "I don't-I don't know how to trust you. Or anyone. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay, I get it. I wouldn't expect you to. But I promise on everything I have that I would never, ever hurt you." 

"I don't think I can...I don't think I can be alive anymore. I...Sorry." 

"I know. That's okay. Will you let me help you, so you can get through these thoughts?" 

Andy felt dizzy with the unfamiliarity of the prospect of being offered help. "I shouldn't-I-I don't want to - you're not responsible for me, I...I'm sorry." 

"You're okay. I want to help." 

"I don't...I don't understand. I'm sorry." He put the toast back down, brought his hands to his face. "I'm not like this all-all the time, I-I just, Holden doesn't want me seeing my band any-anymore, and-and I'm being-I'm being stupid. I'm sorry." 

"It's not stupid, it's okay. Anyone would be effected by what he's done. None of it's your fault." 

Andy shook his head, trying to shake the sadness away. His voice was shaky. "He wouldn't want me to-to do something if-if it was for nothing. He cares, I-I know he does. He has to." 

"Nobody who cares about you would take away everything that makes you happy." 

"He cares," Andy insisted. "He cares. He has to. He has to care. It's been nine years, how-how would he stay for so long if he-if he didn't?" He shook his his head again. "I'm-I'm sorry." 

"He hurts you, and makes you want to die. Nobody who cares for you would do that. Not purposefully, and for that long." 

"You're wrong. You're just-you're wrong. He cares. I know it. He has to, he-he promised. He promised." 

Remington couldn't eat anymore. "When was the last time he did something nice for you without expecting something in return?" He asked. 

Andy was beginning to hyperventilate. "That's not...He cares, he does. I know it. And he hurts me cause-cause I don't-I don't deserve him, and-and-and it's so I-so I can be better. When I'm better he'll stop. That's what-that's what he said." 

"That's not because he cares. That's because he'll never stop." He put his plate beside him on the table. "He's never gonna stop. He's always going to find something else to hurt you for. He's not going to stop." 

"He will. He will. When-when I'm fixed and better and when I-when I deserve him." 

"He's never going to stop," Remington said. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but he just-he isn't. It's been nine years, isn't that long enough? You don't need to put yourself through it anymore, let me help you." 

"You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong," Andy chanted, louder than Remington had ever heard from him. "He cares, he has to. Because if-because if he doesn't, if he hasn't for all this time, then-then I've wasted nine years of my life, and-and if that's-and if that's true, then-then I really, really have to die now." He was crying as he spoke, the realisation ploughing through him, leaving a gaping hole. He pressed his hands to the sides of his face as though attempting to break into his skull and pull out his brain. His shoulders were rising and dropping sharply. 

Not being able to hug him physically pained Remington. "I'm so sorry." 

"I don't understand, I don't understand." Dragging his fingers down his face and dropping his hands into his lap, he went on. "Why would-why would he do that. Why would he make me-why would he make me love and-and care about him if-if he never-if he never even...Oh God! I can't-I can't-I can't-he promised, he always promised. He always...why would he do that? Why would he-why would he tell me he did if he didn't? Why doesn't he love me? Why doesn't he love me, I need him-I need him to love me, why doesn't he...why doesn't he just-why can't he love me?" As he finished, he sobbed, slid off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, dug his fingertips into his head, and made a sound that was somewhere between a yell of pain and a child's wail. 

He leaned forwards, bent over himself, and Remington could do little but sit by and wipe at his own tears.