Trigger Warning: Anxiety, depression, suicide, PTSD

THE CUTE SHIT I LIVE FOR THE CUTE SHIT

Though the hospital staff encouraged him to, Andy wouldn't call his parents to tell them anything of what had gone on; they were clueless to the entire nature of his and Holden's relationship, clueless to his attempted drowning. It wasn't that they didn't care, but that he didn't want to be the son who forced his parents to uproot and drive down to see him just because he'd been too stupid to get himself out of a bad situation. He figured he would never tell them. He would pretend like it never happened. 

For a week, he was under intensive suicide watch at the hospital. He had a therapist talk to him most days - Abigail (OFC OFC) - and spent his time reading magazines and waiting for Remington's next visit. He was never entirely sure of when the younger would show up because of the long hours he often worked in the tattoo studio, and whenever the door opened and the artist stepped in, everything felt a little easier. He realised he was like a teenager with a crush, but he didn't mind it. It had been a long time since he'd felt free enough to allow himself those mushy thoughts. 

It had happened quickly, his attachment to Remington. Only two and half weeks ago had they met, had he stepped into that tattoo shop. 

It was a Saturday, just gone midday, and he was waiting for his nurse to tell him he could go home like she had promised. Whether he wanted to leave the security of the hospital, he wasn't sure. He was excited for the reclaiming of his time, couldn't wait to get back to his band, but he didn't know if he was ready emotionally to take care of himself without their professional help. There was something in him that was suggesting a few weeks at home would lead him to another suicide attempt, but he shook it away. 

This was the freedom he had longed for for the best part of nine years. His life was finally his again. 

When finally he could leave, he thanked them far too many times, and began his walk home. For the first time, he'd be walking into an empty house, and everything inside would be his to use. Something about that was rather scary. 

To get home, he had to pass Remington's tattoo parlour, and as he did, he slowed, looked in through the window, and stopped when Remington, who was at the reception desk talking to a middle aged woman, smiled and gestured for him to go in. He did, and waited by the door. The woman was taken up the stairs and when he came back down, Remington said, "It's good to see you." 

Andy pushed his hands into his pockets. "Thank you," he said.

"I was just about to come see you. I didn't realise you were being discharged today." 

"I'm sorry, I should have told you." 

"What? Oh, no, not at all. I didn't mean it that way, sorry. That was my bad. I mean that it's really good to see you out and about. You look good."

Looking at his feet, Andy said, "Oh. Sorry. Thank you." 

"It's my lunch break, do you maybe want to come with me? I was just gonna go across the road for a toasted sandwich and a coffee." 

Andy nodded. "Thank you." 

"Great. Let me just tell Emma, and I'll be right with you." He turned and disappeared up the stairs, returned with a smile and his wallet in hand. 

In the cafe over the road, Remington chose a table and passed the menu to Andy. He had eaten there so many times that he knew it by heart. "So," he begun. "I bet you're glad to be out of that room." 

Andy kept his eyes on the menu to avoid accidentally blushing. "Yeah," he replied. "Mostly, I think. I don't know. I'm sorry." 

"It must be a lot to get your head around. So much is changing for you, so much is so different now." 

"Yeah." 

"But good different, though?"

Now, Andy looked at him, though said nothing. He started to forget what Remington had said, gave his attention instead to the gentle, feminine curve of his cheekbones, the heart-shape of his lips, the sleeked back black hair, pieces of it falling over his face, creating shadows in the afternoon sun. It was the sort of beauty that made him lose track of everything around him. 

Remington was smiling. He could have felt the stare from a mile off with his back turned, but he didn't mind, and had done the same to Andy many times, mostly through the computer screen. 

A waiter stopped at their table to take their order and, at the unfamiliar presence so close, he noticed Andy flinch and drop his gaze to his lap. "The chicken toastie, please," he said, and then, "Andy? Do you know what you want?" 

Andy's eyes snapped up. He suddenly looked terrified again as he pointed to an item on the menu. The waiter noted it down and left. He sunk into his chair, mumbled, "I'm sorry." 

"You're okay, baby." 

Again, his eyes shot up. This time because of the pet name. He stuttered over, "I," for a few seconds before giving up on saying anything.

"My God, you're cute," Remington said under his breath. Andy nearly choked. "Oh, fuck. I forgot about drinks. One second." Then he got up and headed for the counter. 

Andy had always thought that falling in love happened over months, sometimes years, but right then, watching the tattoo artist talk to the barista, laughing and gesturing at where he was in place of the table number he hadn't checked, he couldn't have been more sure of anything. 

Right then, he was a little bit in love.