Trigger Warning : Depression, anxiety, emotional/physical abuse

With the court case fast approaching, Andy only grew further agitated and unstable, the same string of events playing out every three or four days - insisting he'd imposed too much, he would leave Remington's flat, and hours later, in the evening, would find himself stumbling past the tattoo shop and would inevitably end up back on Remington's sofa bed.

The fourth time that this happened and once Andy was sober, Remington said while pouring tea into two cups, "You know I love you, don't you?"

Andy's head shot up, his sleepy eyes suddenly wide open and bright. He stared, blinked. He couldn't for the life of him make sense of what he'd just heard. Not so much that Remington had said it, but that he meant it. Anyone could say it, could make their mouth form the words, could sound as convincing as if it were the full and complete truth. But he had listened to those words, listened to the convincing tone of them as Holden promised over and over in that sweet, strange voice, had believed him despite all that he had done. 

So many times, he had made a fool of himself by allowing himself to believe that the words weren't fiction created to calm him down, to subdue him so that the next round of beatings would pass by without so much as a soft yelp. He had to remind himself to blink, his eyes drying and beginning to sting, had to force his gaze away from Remington, had to stay quiet. 

Remington went on. The discomfort from Andy was obvious, but he had decided that it was something he had to say regardless of the man's immediate reaction. "I wasn't going to tell you so soon, because we hardly really know each other, but seeing you having such a hard time has made me think that perhaps it's something you need to hear. I don't know if it changes anything, but I want you to know."

Andy blinked hard, like there was something stabbing at his eyes he was trying to get rid of. Inside of his throat was a thick tangle of thistles, and when he swallowed, the spikes clawed at his flesh. He was sure he could taste blood; it was a familiar taste, and all those years with Holden had taught him to enjoy it. He swallowed again and stayed quiet. 

Remington put the teapot down on the tray. It was shiny and black, chips patterning the spout and handle. "Oh, I forgot the milk," he said, mostly to himself, and stood from the coffee table he was sitting on. For the first time, he noticed that his movement didn't cause Andy to flinch. 

Keeping his eyes in his lap, Andy thought about the impending court case, as he had been almost constantly for those past few weeks. It was strange, like he was there at that very moment, like he could hear the judges voice, the questions, the jury's quiet gasps as he told his side of the story, the shuffle of paper and glare of his ex, demanding he quit this behaviour. 

Startlingly loud, he listened to the banging of the gavel against oak, flinched, brought his hands into his stomach as though he had just been struck there.

* * *

Holden was in Andy's dreams that night.

At least, he looked like Holden, but his personality was so starkly different that it could have been an entirely different person.

There was a gentleness to the way he moved that gave Andy a feeling of loss. It was as though he knew it was a dream and that this version of his boyfriend -  his ex - was false, that he yearned for so many years for Holden to be this way that it was painful to experience it in a place that was only temporary.

Still, this Holden was gentle and warm and he had a smile that was without malice and ulterior motives, and he said in his soft voice, "Don't do this to me, baby. I know I've done you wrong, but don't do this do me."

And Andy watched his mouth move, couldn't make his own open.

"I love you so much," Holden went on, his hair fluttering in a breeze that was too idyllic, too romance-film-like to be real. "We all do bad things, baby, we're all just humans. Don't punish me for being a human like you. You know that's not fair, don't you? I'm just a human."

Andy swallowed hard. The thistles were in his throat again. Or maybe they never left. "I'm sorry," he managed to say, and he meant it. "I... I'm sorry, Holden. I know."

"It's okay. Thank you. Will you stop trying to punish me for making an honest mistake? For being a human like you?"

Andy nodded. He blinked stiffly. He wanted to wake up and be in Remington's flat. He wanted to go back to when Holden loved him. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Sorry."

Holden breathed out. "Good. Thank you. Thank you. Good boy. Good boy." His voice shifted then, his hair stopped blowing in a gentle breeze, and he said, "Wasn't so difficult, now, was it?"

Shaking his head, Andy muttered another apology. His feet were cold. He looked down. He couldn't see them. There was a dark mud swallowing him up. He tried to pull a leg free, sunk further, looked, startled, towards Holden.

The man was stood on a raised stone smiling down at Andy. He didn't move as the mud rose - or Andy sunk (he couldn't tell which it was)  -  and kept grinning as the singer struggled.