Trigger Warning: Depression, anxiety, injury, vomit, physical/emotional abuse.

The ground was soft. This was the first thing that Andy thought as he began again to gain control of himself.

He could recall vividly what had happened after his phone conversation with Remington - he had lain down, hand pressed to his broken rib, and had closed his eyes, had kept taking difficult and unsatisfactory breaths. He had vomited again, turning his head wearily to avoid choking on it, hadn't bothered to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He was lying in such a position that his hands soon went numb.

Now, however, he could feel each limb clearly, though there was a dullness to the way his torso felt that brought him to the realisation of being in a hospital bed, drugged up and definitely not dead. He wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing, but there was a piece inside of his chest that was smiling. He moved his hand to weakly rest over his heart, thought about what must have happened after he inevitably fell unconscious.

The paramedics would have found him in a puddle of vomit and blood, lying on his side with his left arm under him and his right lying limp before him, fingers dipping into the drying blood. They must have wondered for a second whether he was dead.

Most likely, they felt for his heart beat before attempting to move him off the ground and onto a stretcher to take him out to the ambulance, and all the while, Holden was obliviously asleep upstairs.

Now, Andy didn't want to open his eyes.

There was something in his mouth. It reminded him of getting a wisdom tooth removed at the dentist. Still, it was good. The pain of the cut in the roof of his mouth was gone. That was good.

"Hey buddy."

Andy did open his eyes then, though he already recognised who the voice belonged to. He felt for his broken rib. It was covered in gauze and was completely numb to the touch. In acknowledgement of Remington, he groaned, then brought his hand to his eyes and dragged it across them. Tiredly, his eyes found the artist, and he watched Remington shift in his seat. 

Truth was, Remington was worried of what was going to happen. He didn't know entirely what to think about the injuries. Had Andy really broken his own rib and sliced the inside of his own mouth? If that was the case, Remington didn't know what they'd do to him, where they'd make him go.

But he did know that right there in that hospital ward, there were things more pressing to do than worry about what hadn't been done yet. He spoke again, quietly, said, "It's okay to not want to be alone, you know? I'm always happy to have you at mine, you know that, don't you? You don't need to be alone if you don't want to." 

The blue in his eyes disappearing behind heavy lids, Andy turned his head to the side, exhaled slowly, then inhaled. He almost couldn't believe he had made it out alive. In that house, he had expected to die, had been ready for it. The thought made his throat feel tight and useless. He opened his eyes again, wondered if he could talk with the cotton wool in his mouth. 

Remington's expression changed then, Andy noticed. From concerned friend to concerned lover. He asked, "Did you do it on purpose?" 

Andy didn't know how to tell him what had really gone on, that it was Holden and that he had been a fool enough to let Holden free. He closed his eyes but wasn't quick enough to halt the tears that came. He turned his head away. 

"Baby..." Remington mumbled, voice fading into the sterile atmosphere. After a long pause, he said, "Can I hold your hand?"

Andy promptly sobbed, brought his hands to his face. They were shaking. Slowly, he offered one to Remington, and as it was carefully taken and cradled, he could only cry. Just those few hours of abuse from Holden and it was like all the weeks of Remington's gentleness had vanished. He needed the touch so badly that he felt sick again. 

"You're gonna be okay, you know? You're gonna be okay." Even as he spoke the words, Remington wasn't sure they were true, but he knew he had to say it, knew if he didn't, no one would. And if Andy thought no one believed it, he never would, and if he didn't even try, there was no way he was ever going to find a way to heal himself. 

Shaking his head, Andy tightened his fingers around Remington's hand. He tried to talk, but he couldn't remember how, and he could taste blood again. A phantom taste, one that he had expected to die with. He tried again. "Sorry," is all he managed, and then he sobbed. 

"No, no, no, baby. You're okay. You're good. Nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not your fault, not your fault at all. Here." Remington picked up a box of tissues from the bedside, held it in his hand towards Andy, said, "Help yourself." 

Andy took one in the hand that wasn't in Remington's, the paper twitching as he shook. He pressed it to his eyes until it was transparent. He let it fall onto the bed and dropped his hand with it. He was going to be sick, could feel it working its way into his mouth like a snake, coiling around his organs, pulling them out of their places and flinging them around. He swallowed hard. 

The change in the colour of his face was noticed by Remington, and he stood, leaned over the bed, and slid his hand under Andy's shoulders, helped him to sit up so that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit, didn't have time to reach the bin. He watched Andy heave and wretch onto the bed sheets, waited for him to stop before moving his hand. "You're okay, you're okay," he said quickly. "They've definitely cleaned up worse in here. You're okay. I should find a nurse. I'll be right back." As he straightened, his arm was taken in a weak hold. He stopped. 

Andy was looking at him with wide, exhausted eyes, begging for even just a slither of affection. 

Remington could have burst into tears at the sight. He leaned closer, daring to sit on the edge of the bed. Andy continued holding his arm. "What is it?" He asked. "Hug? I'll give you the best hug you ever had, if you want? Just say the word." 

Though he didn't say a word, Andy nodded and blinked. Tears spilled down his cheeks. They were bruised and tender. He finally released Remington. He waited patiently, and the artist moved properly onto the bed.

Andy was taken in his arms like the wounded man that he was, the wounded man he was tried of trying not to be, leant his head safe on Remington's chest, focussed on the fingers that were smoothing his hair slowly, took in heavy breaths until they were a little lighter. "Thank you," he uttered. The cotton wool was gone form his mouth with the vomit. He didn't care to worry about it. He wanted to ask Remington to hold him tighter.