Trigger Warning: Physical/emotional abuse, blood

Nobody besides Holden had ever shared the bed in Andy's house with him before. Though even he had been banished to the couch by the end. At the time, he had been almost giddy about it - sleeping on his own was a privilege, he felt, after so many consecutive nights of bruising - but now, he wished he had protested, perhaps, or at least shown Holden that he loved him enough to want to sleep with him.  

Remington was beside him but they weren't close enough that their bodies could make any sort of contact, and he was both relieved and upset at this. He loved Remington - how could he not? - it wasn't fair on either of them that physical contact was a rare occurrence. If nothing else, Remington deserved better, was worth more than the company and affection that Andy provided him. 

The tattoo artist said in the dark, which felt almost heavy against Andy's head, "Thanks for letting me stay. I appreciate it." 

It was strange to hear such a soft voice while he was lying in the bed, and Andy had to open his eyes and remind himself of where he was, which house he was in, who he wasn't with. "You're welcome," he said in return, worried it wasn't enough but didn't know what else to say. He had stopped crying a little over an hour ago but hadn't explained why he was upset, and Remington hadn't pressed the issue, which he was grateful and surprised by. He asked, "Is everything okay? You said you didn't wanna be alone?" 

"What? Oh. Yeah, I'm good. It's just my brothers saying shit because they're mad with me for something. I don't even know what, to be honest. They always find something, I swear. It's like I'm never fucking good enough for them, you know, always doing something to annoy them or piss them off or whatever. I'm just - I don't know. I get a little erratic sometimes, when the right buttons are pressed. Or wrong buttons, I suppose. Kinda lose sight of things, go a little crazy, when I don't have anyone to hold me down to reality. Like, I get caught up in my emotions too much, or something. I don't really know. Does that make sense? I feel like it makes no sense." 

"It does," Andy was quick to say, and he meant it; he had experienced the feeling Remington was describing more times than he could begin to count. He understood it more than he wanted to admit. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that." He rested his arm across his chest and stared up at the dark ceiling. "If I can do anything, uh, you know, to make you feel better...I don't know. You probably don't want my help." 

"Letting me stay is more than enough. And don't doubt yourself, you have no idea how much you've helped already, just by giving me company and being you." 

"Oh," Andy whispered. Suddenly he wanted to cry again. "Thank you." Then, after a moment, "I was wondering, uh, about a couple of my older tattoos, uh..." 

"I'll touch them up, of course," Remington answered, a smile in his voice. "I love tattooing you. Don't tell my regulars 'cause they'll stop giving me their money, but you're my favourite person to tattoo." 

That there were no lights on was a relief to Andy, who knew immediately that he was blushing, and he had an unshifting desire to move closer to Remington until he could wrap his arms around his torso and whisper something about loving him and that he was perfect. "Oh. Thank you," he said instead.  

Remington yawned. "We should sleep," he mumbled, and quietly, Andy agreed.

But he couldn't sleep, and he didn't know why, and it was infuriating. He began to cry almost silently into his hand, then into the cover which he pressed over his face, unsure of what the problem was. Or, at least, unable to decipher which problem was the cause of tears this time. If it was his band and the blood-spitting music video they were going to film, or the memory of Holden, or the fact that Holden was gone, or that he wanted to tell Remington so much and yet couldn't say any of it, or that Remington was with him at all, that he wasn't with somebody more worthy of his time and attention and kindness.

At a movement beside him, he took a heavy, long breath in, and hoped he hadn't woken Remington, who slept in such a way that reminded Andy of a marble angel.

But Remington was awake, and he whispered, "You okay?" and Andy didn't have an answer, because whatever he might say, he wouldn't have an explanation for: no, he wasn't okay, but he couldn't explain the problem. Or, yes, he was okay, but then why was he crying, why was he so upset? 

He began to wonder if he had imagined Remington's voice because there was a long silence until the younger spoke again, said only, "Andy? 

Soaking tears into the cover, he mumbled, "Sorry, I woke you." 

"Don't be," Remington said, and he didn't sound angry or sarcastic or anything like Holden would have sounded in that situation. "Do you wanna talk about it?" He asked now, despite not know what 'it' was. 

Andy fought against fresh tears. "I don't know," he said truthfully. Then he opened his mouth to ask something along the lines of if it was okay to have a hug, but didn't know how to word the question, and so shut his mouth. 

"How's your new album coming along?" 

That made Andy cry again. He shook his head, started to apologise. 

"It's okay, you're allowed to cry," Remington cut in with a warm, comforting voice. "Your album's not going so well?" He wondered. 

"No, it's - it's fine, it's really good," Andy said, wiping at his eyes, trying to calm down. "It's really good. I just - I don't know. I don't know. Sorry. I feel like all I do is - is cry." 

"You're allowed to cry as much as you want and need." 

Andy took a deep breath. "They just have this idea for a music video," he began quietly. "It's a good idea, and it fits the song and everything, but..." 

"But you don't want to do it?" 

"It's not fair on them. You know, to change everything." 

"It's not fair on you to do something you're not happy with. It's your band too, Andy." He hesitated, then asked, "What's the idea for the video?" 

"Vomiting blood," Andy replied, almost monotonously. 

"Ah. I can see why that's making you upset." 

"I really have no right to be." 

"No, of course you do. Of course you do. And Andy, honey, whatever you're feeling, it's valid, you know? But I think you need to tell them this. They're your friends, they'll want to know if you're not happy about something." 

"I know. I know. But - but how...how do I do that? They're so excited by the idea, it's all planned out, I can't just trample all over it for the sake of - of my own issues." 

Remington sat up beside him. He thought for a moment before saying, "Can I give you a hug?" 

Andy nodded, also sitting up, moving towards the younger, leaning against him, sinking back down so that he was lying in Remington's lap. "Sorry I woke you," he said again. 

"It's okay. It's always better to talk when you need to. Even in the middle of the night. Besides, I don't think it was you that woke me. I was restless anyway, kept waking and going back to sleep. So don't worry about it, okay?" 

"Okay," Andy whispered. "Thank you." 

Remington began to aimlessly braid strands of hair that fell over Andy's forehead, whispering, "I like the blonde streak. Did I ever tell you that?" 

Eyes closing, Andy couldn't help but to smile. "Thank you." Then, "I'm glad you stayed." 

"Me too. And you know, your house is a lot nicer than my flat." 

"I like your flat," Andy told him, and he meant it. "I prefer being there to being here." But then, after a moment's consideration, he said, "Maybe it's you being there that makes me prefer it." 

"You're the best person I've ever met, you know that? No one ever likes my flat." 

Andy hummed. He couldn't quite believe how quickly his mood had lifted but knew without a doubt it had a lot to do with the way Remington was playing with his hair, the way he was talking to him without any hint of irritation or mockery. "You're the best person I've ever met," he returned, and Remington hummed in response, and for a while, a few minutes, they were comfortably quiet, until the younger said that he was lying down, lifting Andy's head while he moved when he realised the man was asleep. 

Usually, he couldn't sleep on his back, but with Andy's head against his chest, it was strangely easy.