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

For some time, Andy stayed on the floor with his hands over his face, loud cries breaking out of him. He had a sudden need for Holden to be there, to kick him down and tell him how dramatic and pathetic he was being, that of course he loved him, that of course he cared. 

Remington felt guilty; he'd been the one to bring Andy to this realisation, when perhaps it would have been better for the man to continue believing Holden's lies. He wasn't sure what to do, and his heart rose into his throat and made him struggle to breathe when Andy started to ask, beg, for the container of ibuprofen. "You're gonna be okay," was his response, but it wasn't enough. 

Andy tried saying that his head hurt, that he'd only take one to ease the aching, but when Remington tipped one onto the tray, he begun asking for more. He insisted they were for his head, and his stomach, and his bruised thighs, words getting trapped in his mouth and tumbling out over eachother. 

"I'm sorry," Remington said. "I'm so sorry. But you don't have to be with him anymore. It's gonna be okay." 

Still, it wasn't enough. Andy kept begging, but Remington noticed how he made no attempt to reach the pills for himself. Somehow, that was worse than everything else; he had reached the point at which the only thing his existence was giving him was the need to end it, and yet, even in his desperation for it to be over, he didn't dare lift his hand to retrieve the container. His fear was crippling, and it was saving his life. 

He started to apologise now, over and over, pressing himself against the bed as though trying to become it. Then, after a series of final sobs, he was quiet. Staring at Remington, face shiny and raw, he waited. 

It was an acceptance and a surrender - he'd done all he had the power to do, he'd asked and begged and cried, and now he was all out . He expected a punishment for what he'd done, and he wasn't going to fight against it. Remington got the idea that he never fought against it, that the beatings were as every day to him as eating dinner and brushing his teeth. 

As the seconds passed and Remington made no advance, made no sign of aggression, confusion grew. He had wronged, why was he still untouched? Why was he still untouched? 

"It's okay," Remington said tearfully. "You're okay. You don't need to be sorry. You're human, pain and sadness is normal and it's okay. You're okay." 

Andy's eyes were wide and spilling, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. He bit down so hard that Remington saw blood. He didn't move. 

"I know you think you need to be hurt now, and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, that you've been made to believe you deserve it. I promise you, you don't. You don't. Everybody gets sad and scared and overwhelmed sometimes, it's not a crime, you've done nothing wrong. I'm not going to hurt you." 

"I'm-I'm sorry," Andy mumbled. It was like he couldn't comprehend anything other than the anger he was used to, like he wasn't listening at all, like he was still with Holden, like Remington wasn't there. 

"I know, baby, I know you are, but you've done nothing wrong." Remington realised only after he'd spoken that he'd used a pet name, and the ever living fear in Andy's face gave way to a flicker of something warm and hopeful. It lasted barely a second. "I'm not gonna hurt you, or touch you, or anything, okay? You're okay, you're safe." 

Staring, blinking, shaking, Andy said again that he was sorry, and Remington wondered when the last time was that he'd not been scolded for his emotions. He thought about the man's friends, if he even had any, about the band he'd been prohibited from being in, the twenty-four-seven shadow that pulled him about like a sick ghost breaking through into the living world. He thought about his face when he asked for the first time in the tattoo shop if everything was okay, thought about the note Andy had passed over with the money, the horror in the way he'd written the words, the hopefulness in his expression the next time he was in the shop. 

He thought about the few words Andy had said about being in hell, thought about the way he'd paved over it with apologies, not allowing himself to break out, not stepping out of the box that Holden had thrown him into. 

He thought about it all, and he said, "I'm going to help you, okay? I'm going to help you to leave him, and I'm going to help you to be the person you want to be. I'm going to help you to get through your suicidal thoughts, and I'm not going to abandon you, or hurt you, okay? Will you let me do that?" 

Andy finally dropped his gaze as more tears fell. There was a burning inside of him that told him to accept the help, but he didn't know how. All he could see was what Holden would do, what he would say when he found out. "I'm sorry," he repeated. 

"He doesn't own you. If you want out, Andy, if you know that what he's doing to you is wrong and awful and that you don't deserve any of it, you can leave. You can leave, and you can do what makes you happy, and you can get through this. But you can't do that if you go back to him, if you accept his way of treating you for longer. I want to help you, I want to know you're okay, but you need to let me. You need to make the first step." 

"I can't." 

"You're going to die if you stay with him. You're so close already, how will you cope going back, when he tells you how much you've messed up by getting away, when he hits you and kicks you and tells you that you deserve it when you don't? How will you cope, Andy?" 

"I...I always-I always cope," he mumbled, head down. 

"For nine years, you have, and you're so strong, you're so strong for that. But nine years is a long time, and I know I couldn't last much longer. Maybe you'll be fine for a while, maybe you'll make it through a couple more months, or years. But Andy, you have a life of your own. You have things you want to do, music you want to make, places you want to go. How will you live the rest of your life without any of that? He's made you a prisoner to him, and I want to help you break out. Please, please don't let him lock you up forever. I'm scared for you. I'm scared of how long you'll manage. I'm scared to turn on my phone and see that you've died. You're allowed to have your own life, you're allowed to never see him again." 

Andy shook his head, brought his hands to his face, said weakly, "Okay. Sorry. Thank you. I...Thank you."