Someone walked in on me in the Primark fitting room, it's hot as shit for no reason, and I made iced coffee that tastes like dishwater but I'm drinking it anyway, how's your day? (I can tell u now it's probably about to get worse sorry) 

Trigger Warning: Physical/emotional abuse, depression, anxiety, PTSD

* * * 

There was a court case scheduled in two and a half weeks, and receiving the call confirming that fact made Andy want to vomit again. He was sitting in the ice cream parlour with Remington when they rang, and after, he put the phone on the table and quickly apologised to Remington for using the phone and for everything else he didn't need to apologise for, and proceeded to stare into the tall ice cream glass until Remington asked if he was okay. 

Then, he said, "Sorry. I'm fine. Sorry," and took the spoon in his hand. 

"You've nothing to be sorry for." 

"Oh. I...sorry." 

"What is it? Who was on the phone?" 

Andy let go of the spoon. "I, uh, I have to go to, uh, to court. See...see Holden again." He mumbled as though saying it was a sin in itself, as though he was the one being prosecuted. 

Remington straightened in his seat. "Oh. Wow. That's a big step. Do you wanna talk about it? I mean, you don't have to. If you want to." 

The truth was, he didn't want to do it, didn't want to sit in a courtroom with everybody waiting expectantly for him to tell the story of the past nine years, to detail each individual outbreak of violence and to listen to Holden making excuse after excuse. He felt as though he were the guilty one, even though he knew that he was innocent, felt like every little mistake he ever made, everything he was punished for, made him deserving of the beatings and the bruises and the spiral down to his suicide attempts.

He worried that, in the courtroom, he'd prove to be the one worthy of jail time. 

Realising he owed Remington a response, he hurried to mutter, "Sorry," it being his default when he didn't know what he was supposed to say. The look that crossed Remington's face - that of mild pain - gave him a feeling of unease; he couldn't determine whether he'd done something out of line or not. 

"You're okay," Remington said. "You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. It's up to you. I just thought, going to court is a big deal, I'd be freaking the fuck out if it were me, so if you do want someone to talk to about it, I'm your guy." 

"Thank you." 

"Anything for you, babe. I was meaning to ask, how'd you sleep last night? Did you start feeling better after you showered?" 

Andy nodded. He had slept better than he had in a long time, though wasn't sure whether that was down to the bed, the hug prior to the bed, the long shower, Remington's ever calming presence, or all of it combined. "A lot better," he answered. "Thank you." 

Offering a smile, Remington picked up his phone from its place on the table, scowled at it, said, "Fucking brothers." 

Daringly, Andy asked, "It was your brothers last night?" 

"Oh. Yeah. I'm sorry about that. Like I said, they do shit like that, then expect me to apologise for kicking them out as though I'm the one getting wasted and disturbing everybody." He sighed, shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if they're making such a big deal out of this no sex for a year thing because they really are mocking me, you know? Like, who actually does that, who throws an entire fucking party and invites load of people who I don't even like and announces my sexual life as though it's fucking public domain? Like, not cool. Anyway, you don't wanna hear all this." 

Andy did in fact want to hear it, found great comfort in knowing that he wasn't the only one who didn't always feel on top of the world. Holden used to tell him, 'you've got nothing to be upset about, boy, grow up', and hearing that every other day for nine years, it was hard not to think that way. "No, I do," he said quickly. It was a challenge in itself for him to speak against Remington's words, to actively deny what had just been spoken. 

At that, Remington smiled again, turned is phone over so it was face down. Just then, it started buzzing. He groaned. "Bet it's one of them," he muttered, turning the mobile back over. "Yep. Emerson. Not today, motherfucker." He hung up the call, let out a breath, smiled for the third time. "Right," he said decisively, looking at the empty bowl before him. "I'm getting a pancake stack because apparently I'm greedy, you want anything else? Uh, I'll get coffee too. We can just share if I get a stack of pancakes, if that's okay with you. Are you okay with Nutella and strawberries on top?" 

Andy nodded. 

"Okay. Great. Be right back. Uh, if that rings again, just end it. I want them to know I'm ignoring them because I'm petty and childish." He flashed a grin that made Andy want to grin back and left the table for the counter to order. 

Finishing his ice cream, Andy picked up his phone. It felt heavier than usual, as though the weight of the upcoming court case was cradled inside. He put it back down and rubbed his hands on his thighs, trying to wipe away his anxieties.

Since the call confirming the court date, he was considering dropping the case. Maybe he was making this all out to be a bigger deal than it was; it wasn't like Holden had tried to kill him, or threatened him with death, or even raped him. 

Besides, who's to say his need for suicide had anything to do with Holden? Who's to say it wasn't just a coincidence that he blamed on Holden because that was easier that blaming himself, when he did, in fact, deserve the blame?

The beatings were for a reason, and he was always given the reason, and though often he hated it and wanted to believe that they were merely excuses that had nothing to do with the violence, the logical part of him knew otherwise. 

The logical part of him knew that perhaps it wasn't abuse at all.