Trigger Warning: Suicide, depression 

Under his hands, her body was rigid. Not in a way such as that she was uncomfortable or tense, but that he didn't like it. He didn't enjoy the way that her chest wasn't flat, which was strange, for usually, during these drunken one night stands, Remington loved nothing more than a pair of boobs. But now, he was almost - not quite, but almost - repulsed by it. 

What her name was exactly, he couldn't remember, wasn't sure he'd even cared to ask. But he had picked her up in a sticky club where everything was covered in a sheen of spilt alcohol and sweat. As he was standing in there, less than an hour ago, he had considered turning and walking out. The only reason he stayed was because she started talking to him. 

They were in her apartment. She lived at the other end of town, near to the hospital, and her place was pretty. She had told him, some time during their drunken blabbering, that she was an 'influencer' and that he looked 'scrumptious.' He had gagged so hard at that that she had laughed at his reaction, thinking it a joke. 

Now, in her pretty and dull and all-for-the-camera apartment, she was in just underwear, as was he, and he was trying to find some pleasure in the way she looked, the way she felt, like he had once, with other women. She was perfectly nice to look at. She had pale green eyes and a pretty, ski-slope nose, but when Remington kissed her, when he grazed his fingers over her bare torso and thighs, he could have been stroking a concrete block. 

"Nope. Nope," he said now, somewhat abruptly, pulling his face from hers and his hands into himself, like a child who had just been found with his fingers in the cookie jar. 

She looked up at him with a questioning but hazy expression. "Nope?" She asked.  

Remington sat back on his ankles. He felt suddenly very exposed. "I shouldn't...this isn't right," he said. He pressed his hands into his eyes. "It's not you. It's not you. It's just - fuck - I'm so drunk. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's not fair on you to do this. You seem like such a nice girl, I just - I've been dealing with some shit, yknow, and I wanted to, like, to forget about it, or whatever, but this just...I'm sorry. I hate being drunk. Fuck. I'm getting a glass of water. Where's the kitchen?" He stood, steadied himself, waited for her to reply, not actually expecting her to give him directions to another room in her apartment. 

"Down the hall on your right," she answered. 

"Right. Thanks. Sorry again." 

While Remington was drinking a pint of cold water in the kitchen, she came through the door, now wearing a long shirt and socks. She handed him his shirt and pulled out a chair. "I'm a good listener," she said. "If you wanted to get anything off your chest." 

Remington stared at her. "What? You wanna listen to me complain about my life after turning you down in bed and drinking your water?" 

She laughed. "I'm not a bitch, you know." 

"Right. Sorry." 

"So...what's up?" 

Rinsing out the glass and leaving it on the draining board, Remington sat down at the breakfast bar and sighed. "You really wanna hear it?" He asked. 

"Sure." 

"Okay. Well. Get ready for this." 

"Oh, I'm ready." 

"Okay. Where to begin?" 

"At the start. I have all night." 

Remington shook his head and laughed. "Well, I'm in love with a guy, so..." 

"Then what are you doing picking up girls?" 

"I told you. Trying to forget about all the shit." 

"The shit such as..." 

"Okay. If you insist. This guy, the one who I'm in love with, he's in hospital. He's not dying or shit, but just...shit's happened to him, he's in a bad state, like, mentally, and I'm trying to help, I want to help so bad, but I just, like, can't. I don't know. I keep thinking that I'm getting somewhere, and then something happens and it's all for nothing. And I hardly even know him, like, everything is so weird with him. I don't mean that he's weird. I mean the circumstances are. And I just - I guess I feel guilty for not being able to do more, and I keep promising him it'll get better and whatever, but now I don't know. I honestly think he's gonna kill himself. Like..." Shaking his head, Remington closed his eyes. "Anyway. My response to being sad is to do this." 

"Well, which hospital is he in?" 

"The one round here. I haven't been able to see him for a few days. But I think they're allowing visitors now. I wanna see him, I do, but what if I say the wrong thing, or - or he's still in the same state as he was when I decided this would be a good idea? God, I'm sorry. I hate getting drunk, I always just say everything and fuck my life up."

"It sounds like you need a friend, man." 

Remington laughed a sad little laugh, shook his head again. "Yeah, probably." 

"You've got one in me, if you want." 

"Not to be a dick, but what's your name? God, I'm so sorry." 

"Oh boy. It's Natasha. Nat." 

Remington rubbed his eyes. "Right. Got it." 

"You want a hug, hon?" 

"Yes. Very much so. Thank you. You're being way too nice to me." 

Getting up, Natasha gestured for him to stand, wrapped her arms around him, and said, "Go visit him tomorrow. He'll be glad to see you. And stop holding back tears. Let it out, you clearly need to. C'mon. It's okay." 

Remington did cry, and it was a relief to have somebody to cry into who wasn't one of his brothers. He decided he would go and see Andy the following day.