Trigger Warning: Suicide, depression, physical/emotional abuse, PTSD, anxiety, injury

The fluffy Remdy shit is starting you're welcome 

Remington was part way through tattooing somebody when a police officer turned up at the shop asking to speak with him. He apologised profusely to his client, promised he'd get in contact with them to schedule a session where they could finish the tattoo at a discounted price, and sat in the back of the shop with the officer, who said, "I'm sorry to interrupt your day, I can see you're busy. I'm under the impression that you know of a mister Andrew Biersack, is this correct?" 

"Who?" 

"You might know him as Andy. I believe he has received multiple tattoos from you over the past few weeks." 

"Oh, Andy," Remington said, mildly alarmed at why the police were asking about him, couldn't decipher from the man's expression whether it was good or bad, whether Holden had been caught or Andy had been found dead. "Yeah, I know Andy. He stayed with me two nights ago." 

"Yes, he mentioned that you are aware of the situation going on with him and his partner, Holden McGovern. Is this true?" 

"That Holden hurts him?" 

"How long have you been aware of this?" 

"A week tops. I know I should have told someone, but he didn't want me to, and I couldn't bear to upset him after everything that's happened to him. I'm sorry, I wish I'd told someone." 

"It's okay, Remington, I'm not here to lecture you. I understand it's a stressful and difficult situation to be in, and that you did the best that could could at the time. No, I'm here because Andy has mentioned you multiple times and you seem to be the only person aware of the situation, and I'd like you to come down to the station whenever you finish work to provide a statement." 

"Oh, sure. Is he okay?" 

"He's safe in hospital, yes." 

"Hospital?" 

"Andy tried to drown himself. He has been placed under suicide watch for the time being." 

Remington had expected to hear it, and yet still, he couldn't help the tears that sprung to his eyes. 

* * * 

After he had locked up the shop at gone eight, Remington sat in the police station for more than an hour answering questions and giving the story of how he met Andy, the note he was given in the folded money. Everything he said was recorded.

It was too late in the evening to go to the hospital afterwards, so he waited anxiously until morning, sleeping in small, unsatisfactory intervals. 

At the hospital, he had to fill in forms and go through security checks, and then followed the nurse into the lift and down the hall to the room. Andy was sitting on a bed against the far wall, wearing a blue gown. A magazine was open in his lap. He lifted his head and watched Remington step in. 

"Hey," the artist greeted quietly. He sat on the blue sofa that was at the end of the bed. "I heard what happened." 

"I'm sorry," Andy mumbled. 

"You're okay, it's not your fault. I'm just glad to see you." 

Andy looked down at the magazine. 

"Somebody came into the shop wanting their own name in a heart on their neck yesterday." 

Hesitation, then Andy asked, "Did you do it?"

"Of course. Power move if you ask me. Oh, I brought you a packet of sweets. The receptionist tried to take it from me but I was like, 'No Ma'am.'  Here." He took the packet from his pocket, leant forwards to put it on the bed. 

"Thank you," Andy said. 

"Sure. Anytime. Uh, help yourself." 

Slowly, trembling, Andy reached for the sweets, took them uncertainly. "I-I think it's over now," he said. "I think they-I think they took Holden."

"I'm so glad." 

A sliver of a smile almost broke through his features, though only for a moment. "His parents, they-they overheard. He, uh, he found me...trying to-to drown myself, and-and he was so mad. He was so mad." 

"I'm so sorry." 

"It was my fault anyway." 

"No, it wasn't. None of this has been your fault." 

"For-for doing it. For wanting to...for wanting to die." 

"Being so sad you want to die doesn't make you the one to blame. You should be given support, not yelled at and hurt." 

Andy looked at Remington like he was talking complete nonsense. "I don't-I don't understand," he admitted. 

"That's okay. You've been with him for so long, I'm not surprised he's re-wired your brain into believing things that aren't true. But it doesn't mean it'll be like this forever. He's gone now." 

"If it's not my fault, if-if it doesn't make me the one to-to blame, then what does it make me?" 

"Human." 

Tears brimmed in his eyes so he dropped his gaze back to the magazine. 

"The only one to blame is him." 

Andy bit his lip. 

"I'm sorry, I should have asked when I came in. It's okay with you that I'm here, isn't it? I don't want you to feel I'm forcing myself onto you if you'd rather be left alone." 

"No, it's good. I like seeing you." 

"Oh, good. Me too. I like seeing you as well." He smiled. 

Andy glanced towards him briefly. "Thank you." 

"What for?" 

"Liking me." 

In that moment, Remington felt like his heart had been cut out. The words and the way they were spoken, so soft and shy, carved into him like a sculptor carving into marble. "How could I not," was his response. Then he added, "I listened to more of your band yesterday. Watched all your music videos. And excuse me for being so blunt, but I've never found someone so attractive in a priest collar before I watched Scarlet Cross. Also, that part in Wake Up at the end when you stare into the camera. Your eyes, man. Your eyes. Oh, and that one where you're singing about not stealing your coffin, I've forgotten what it's called, but I'm obsessed with everything about it. God, what's that song called? I feel like it's really obvious." 

"Coffin," Andy said. 

Remington laughed. "Of course. Duh." 

"Thank you." 

"Dude, don't thank me, thank yourself for being a genius at writing lyrics and singing and looking the way you do. I would give anything to have your eyes." 

Andy couldn't not blush at that. He felt like a teenager. "Thank you," he mumbled, and tore open the packet of sweets. Moving to the end of the bed, so Remington was in touching distance, he offered the younger the open bag. 

Remington was cautious as he leant closer and took a small handful, moved slowly as to avoid startling him. "How're your new tattoos?" He asked, leaning back on the couch. "Do any of them need touching up?" 

"Oh. Uh, I don't know. Sorry." 

"That's okay. I can do it for free if you want any changes or anything. If you want me to cover up the Hold On tattoo, I'd be happy to. I know it wasn't really what you wanted." 

"No," Andy said quickly. "I like it." 

"Oh. Good. I'm glad." 

Andy realised then how wrong he'd been; kindness was exactly what he needed.