^ me and my brother with bvb!! ^

Trigger Warning: Alcohol, depression, PTSD, anxiety

Remington was by now accustomed to Andy's drunken self, but that didn't make his heart hurt any less at the sight; usually, alcohol temporarily took away a person's sadness, but the pain was so deeply ingrained into Andy's mind that even sloshed full, he held the same despair, and Remington didn't quite know what to do about it.

They were sitting in his living room with the pizza boxes open on the coffee table, and since entering the flat, neither of them had said anything. Remington knew Andy well enough to understand that he would never talk first in such a situation as this, that he was too mortified by his actions to dare to speak in fear of saying something wrong.

They had eaten most of the food, save for a few potato wedges and one slice of pizza which was now cold, and closing the cardboard boxes, Remington finally said, "You can stay here as long as you like."

Andy had barely looked at him since leaving the takeaway, but his head snapped up now, and he stared at Remington as though he couldn't believe he was really there, and even before he opened his mouth, Remington knew what he was going to say. "I'm - I'm sorry."

"I know," he replied. "But you've nothing to be sorry for, really. It's okay to have bad days, we all have them. God knows I do. It's okay. I just want you to know you're not alone, that I'm here for you and will continue to be here for you." In the silence, Andy dropped his head and broke the eye contact they had made, and Remington went on. "It's not your fault that you're hurting, Andy. I really hope you know that. None of this is your fault."

Now, Remington expected one of two things - for Andy to burst into tears or for him to repeat his apology - and he did both, the tears coming part way through the word 'sorry'.

Bringing his hands to his face, Andy shook his head, turning away from Remington so that the younger could only see the back of his head.

"You're okay," he comforted. "How about a shower or something? I just got some new shower gel from my brothers, it's lush. I think they feel guilty for all the shit they keep pulling, but it's cool with me, cause I get all these things from them. Shower gel, chocolate, a whole fucking cake from Sebastian." He began stacking the food boxes, and Andy still wouldn't look at him. "You know," he said, "You're so fucking gorgeous. I feel like I don't tell you enough. Like, my god, you're fucking ethereal."

That only made Andy cry harder, and he struggled to get words out between his sniffles and sobs. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I - I don't - you don't need to - to always be the - the one who has to deal with me. It's not - it's not fair. I'm not your - I'm not your responsibility."

"I love you, and even if I didn't, I'd still want to help. Everybody deserves to have someone here for them when they need it, and right now, you need someone, and I want to be that person for you, okay? I want to."

Andy dragged his knuckles over his eyes, dropped his arms beside him, said nothing.

"Shower?" Remington asked.

After a moment, Andy nodded and wiped his eyes again, the tears yet to stop. He stood unsteadily, swaying slightly, and flinched when Remington leant over to put the last of the boxes on the stack, and though he noticed, Remington said nothing about it, knew it would only make him feel worse, wondered what had happened for him to become so frightened after all the progress he had been making.

In the bathroom, he turned on the shower so it could heat up, found a clean towel, all the while Andy was standing in the doorway, eyes wet and glassy. "Help yourself to anything," Remington told him. "Take as long as you like, it's no bother."

"Thank you," Andy mumbled.

"I'll be in the living room when you're done, and I'll get you some clothes to sleep in."

"Okay. Thank you. Sorry."

"It's okay. You're welcome. Give me a shout if you need anything."

Andy nodded, but he was still in the doorway. Remington couldn't leave the room, and he didn't know if he could step closer without scaring him again. But after a few seconds of both of them standing still, Andy started to properly sob, clasping his hands over his face and keeling into the doorframe. Soon he was sliding down, sitting clumsily on the ground, one leg bent beneath the other.

He tipped his head forward and pressed the hells of his hands into his eyes, and Remington turned the water off, took cautious steps towards him, and knelt on the floor. What to say, he didn't know. How many times could he tell Andy that he would be okay before it lost its comfort?

Something had happened to cause this, and Remington wished he knew what it was, but he couldn't ask now, and the longer he didn't say something, the more Andy would think he didn't care, so he whispered, "It's okay, you're okay. Let yourself cry. It's alright."

He couldn't tell whether or not Andy was listening, but that didn't really matter. He felt slightly sick. How many times would he have to witness the breakdown of the one person who deserved it the least? And when would he instead get to witness laughter and genuine smiles from him?

But what could he do about it? He wasn't magic, he couldn't spell away the cause of the pain by snapping his fingers or repeating a chant. He couldn't even offer a hug because he knew a hug would only make it worse.

"Remington?" It was a surprise to hear him speak, and the younger immediately said:

"Yeah?"

He was still crying heavily, but his hands were in his lap, no longer covering his face, and he was looking at the tattoo artist in a way that made Remington's eyes fill with tears: his cheeks were blotchy and flushed with the heat from the alcohol in his system, his eyebrows deeply furrowed so that his eyes were cast in shadow.

Remington wondered, after getting no reply, if he had somehow heard his name when it hadn't been spoken. He stayed where he was, kneeling on the floor a few feet from Andy, not speaking.

Andy didn't talk either, but moved slowly from the doorway and towards Remington, wrapping his arms around the younger's shoulders before Remington had registered what he was doing, that he wanted a hug and that he was daring to initiate it.

Returning the embrace, he let Andy settle into him, taking his weight. "You're okay," he whispered as Andy pressed his head into his shoulder. "I got you. It's okay." All he got as a reply was the tightening of arms around him, and he began to stroke his hair.