Trigger Warning: Depression, anxiety, suicide, PTSD, physical/emotional abuse 

For days following the disastrous therapy session, Andy lay in his bed in the mental health ward refusing to open his eyes and saying nothing but, "Sorry," and, "Get it together, boy," to the nurses and doctors who attempted conversation with him.

After his outburst, he was still waiting for the punishment, was wildly unsettled because it hadn't happened and he knew it was supposed to. He kept mistaking Dr Alonso with Holden, recalled the session as though it were his ex he was being so rude to, couldn't believe he had done such a terrible thing.

That afternoon, he heard the door open and close quietly, expected a nurse to ask him how he was doing, but instead, the familiar voice of Remington said, "Hey, baby. Good to see you." 

Andy kept his eyes closed, mumbled, "Oh," in disbelief of the younger's presence. 

"They wouldn't let me in for a few days. I missed you." Remington pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. He didn't try and take Andy's hand. "You wouldn't believe how many naked women I've tattooed onto people lately." After speaking, he could see Andy was going to say something, had picked up on the way his expression subtly shifted when he wanted to talk, and waited, didn't want to put him off by cutting over his thoughts. 

There was a long hesitation from Andy before he opened his mouth. Then he hesitated again, closed it, and finally said, "Remington?" 

Remington couldn't recall ever hearing his name from the man before. "Yeah?" He replied, shifting in the chair and crossing his legs, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders so it sat midway down his biceps. 

Again, Andy didn't speak straight away, had to work up to it in fear of saying something wrong. "Is it...uh," hating his inability to form a coherent sentence, he quickly added, "Sorry." 

Trying not to look at him for long periods of time to avoid him feeling observed, Remington, said, "That's okay, take your time. I know it's hard to say what you're thinking sometimes, I'm the same. I get all in my head about something and I want to tell someone, but I can't, and then I get mad that I can't. I understand. It's not your fault." He sipped the cup of coffee that he bought on the way in and added, "I don't mean to make it about myself. It helps me to know other people deal with similar shit, that's all." 

Fingers finding the edges of the covers, Andy tried again. It was a comfort to know that Remington felt a similar way, though he didn't say that, but instead, "Is it-uh-is it okay to-to, uh..." Frustrated, he shook his head slightly, appreciated that Remington stayed quiet and patient. Even after knowing the artist for almost a month and spending so many nights in his apartment, he was still alarmed by the gentleness of him, by the way he always seemed to know when to talk and when it wasn't necessary to. "Is it okay to-uh-to ask you-uh, uh..." He tangled his fingers up in the sheets. "To ask you for a-uh-for a...a-a hug?" The asking of the question wasn't the worst of the process; it was the fear that he had stepped out of line and would be scolded for wanting such a thing as physical affection which gave him terrible anxiety. He pressed his eyes so tight that he wondered if he'd be able to open them again. 

Remington leant down and set his drink on the floor, pushed his jacket completely off his arms. "Sweetheart, of course," he soothed, saw the flood of desperate relief rush over Andy. "Can I sit on the bed with you, is that okay?" 

Finally, Andy allowed himself to open his eyes and look at Remington. He was momentarily paralysed by the familiarity of the man, had forgotten in the recent days of not being permitted visitors the way Remington constantly brought with him a calmness and softness that held no matter if he was wearing studded leather or pastel pink. He nodded, moved to the side of the bed to make room, had to make himself pull his gaze from the artist. 

Sitting on the mattress, Remington lowered himself until he was lying on his back, cautiously lifted his arm above Andy's shoulders without startling him. "I'm good at cuddles," he said, knew the prospect of asking for physical contact was a difficult one for Andy and so added, "Make yourself comfy," and patted his chest with his other hand. 

Andy didn't attempt to accept the embrace immediately, flitted his eyes over Remington's face and torso, weakly mumbled, "I did bad."

Remington frowned. "You wanna talk about it?" 

Eyes filling, Andy took his bottom lip between his teeth to hide its trembling. 

"It's okay, you can cry. I'll cry with you. My brothers have given me a lot to cry about. Fucking dicks." 

That took Andy by surprise. He had been taught that crying in front of people was a great weakness, didn't ever think someone would offer to cry with him. He blinked repeatedly, played with his fingers, wished he could have Remington hold his hand but didn't dare ask. 

"Come here, baby, it's okay." Remington patted his chest again. "This heart don't beat for just anyone." 

Andy swallowed and continued to blink, and after yet another hesitation, he moved his head and his body, making uncertain contact, laying the side of his face onto Remington's chest. After a moment of wating for a hit that didn't come, he closed his eyes and breathed out. 

Remington was quiet, rested one hand on Andy's shoulder, shutting his eyes and making small circles with his fingers into Andy's hoodie. He listened to the man's breathing, noticed it level out the longer that they were like that, realised after half an hour that he had fallen asleep.

That was the first time Andy had intentionally let himself sleep in Remington's presence, no less on him, in his arms, and Remington didn't move more than his hands to reach for his phone, couldn't retrieve his coffee from the ground but didn't mind.

His eyes were teary, not with thoughts of his brothers and their constant accidental bullying, but with the knowledge that a man who had been beaten and belittled into losing all sense of safety and trust had allowed himself to become the most vulnerable a person can be - asleep - in his arms.

He didn't think he could ever feel anything more precious than that.