Trigger Warning : physical/emotional abuse, depression, anxiety, suicide, alcohol

* * *

With Remington having to return to the tattoo shop, Andy decided to go home, though not before accepting, flustered, Remington's phone number, written on a piece of paper in his back pocket until he could go out and buy a new mobile.

He didn't know when that would be, when he would find it in himself to venture out into the town centre without the threatening protection of Holden, dragging him from street to street, demanding him to walk quicker, slower, talk quieter, louder. 

In the house, he felt unwelcome. Most of what was inside belonged to Holden, and he couldn't touch anything unless he was given permission. And it was silly, because Holden wasn't there, and yet breaking any of his rules felt worse to Andy than breaking the law.

He couldn't make himself do it; even if he were to hold a gun to his temple and count down from five, at zero, failing to reach his hand out and place it on one of Holden's many possessions, he'd pull the trigger, splattering the room with pieces of his mind that hadn't felt they belonged to him in years.

It would be a liberation, to separate his body from his thoughts like that. 

He stood in the kitchen, knew there was one thing that he could do, one thing that would detach his mind from his body without a gun. Sober was something he had been trying to be in his early twenties, but it seemed a small loss, and an insignificant one considering everything else. It wasn't like he had much left to lose, anyhow. All he did have - a boyfriend, someone telling him how to better himself - was gone, and he had the power to bring it all back. He could drop the court case, could let Holden walk out a free and innocent man, could return to him like an obedient dog to an owner that starves and kicks it. 

Either way, he was in no mood for thinking, and he was looking at a shelf of variously shaped alcohol bottles with a horrible need in his chest, pulling him towards them.

He lifted his hand, hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around a square vodka bottle, almost completely full, enticingly clear and glowing under the lights. He didn't bother with a glass. 

Andy hated to get drunk.

The irony of that fact was so painful it was almost laughable, his response to drink more, to make everything that was wrong, every little thought in his mind, disappear, be it a temporary and useless disappearance. 

As a teenager, he had been a bad drunk. An alcoholic. It was one of his main goals as an adult, to get sober and regain control of himself. And here he was, a thirty-one-year-old man, gulping straight vodka in the kitchen he shared with an American man who made him want to die. 

It wasn't even midday. By the early evening, he'd be blacking out, and hours later would wake with a headache that could murder him and a deep, deep regret. For the drinking, but also for thinking he had a right to turn Holden in, for convincing himself that their relationship was worthy of such an ugly title as 'abusive.' 

But mostly, for not killing himself when he had the chance. 

By two pm, the house was beginning to suffocate him, so, armed with his second bottle and nothing else, he stumbled out into the daylight, squinting as he made his way unsteadily down the street. 

* * * 

The shop was busy. Remington's absence had meant he'd had to reschedule clients and had ever minute of his day planned out. He wouldn't be going home until well after nine pm.

It was half past two and he was leaning over a middle aged woman's arm, touching up some of her older tattoos that had become messy as the years passed. He had full view of the street outside from his place by the upstairs window and liked to glance out each time he stopped to dip his needle into the pot of ink.

The woman was chatting away about the recent film she'd seen, Remington giving his input every few minutes, quietening when he got to a detailed part of the tattoo that needed his undivided attention.

Lifting his head and his hand, he dipped the needle in the ink, and the woman said, "Some drunk fella out there's about to get himself run down by a bus."

Remington's eyes shot towards the window, expecting to have his paranoia dissipate at the sight of stranger, but sure enough, pulling himself around as though already half dead, was Andy.

"Oh. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck," he muttered, putting the machine down and standing. "I'm so sorry. He's my friend, I need to help him. Fuck. Uh, let me clean and wrap this real quick. It's very nearly done, I'll be right back." As fast as he could, Remington wiped her arm, covered it in cellophane, said, "I'll be right back. I'm so sorry," and headed hurriedly for the stairs.

Outside, Andy was swaying and sobbing, so drunk that the sobs looked over dramatised. Remington knew they weren't.

"Hey, Andy," He said from the shop entrance, and the man jumped, surprised, turning to stare at him. "Why don't you come inside, where you're safe?"

All at once, Andy ran at Remington and begun mumbling incoherent, desperate apologies. He clung to the artist.

"It's okay, it's okay," Remington soothed, walking backwards into the building. "You're okay. I'm not mad. No one's mad. Come and sit down in here, if you want. I'll get you some water and a bucket, in case you're sick. I have to go and finish someone's tattoo by I'll be back soon, okay? Is it okay if you wait here?"

Andy just kept clinging to him, making it difficult to move. He was sure that if he let go, he'd crumble into the ground and become it.