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Trigger Warning: Emotional/physical abuse, depression, anxiety, injury/blood, vomit

* * * 

After work that evening, Remington had dinner with his brothers and their girlfriends. He tried to forget about Andy and the concerning situation he seemed to be in, but couldn't stop himself from thinking over the moments in the shop when Andy had forgotten his wallet. The way Holden had looked at his boyfriend was subtle but horrible, and he was confused with his own mind for how desperate he suddenly was to help a stranger. 

"Rem?" Came the soft voice of his elder brother, and he snapped his head up to meet his gaze. 

"Huh? What?" 

"Are you okay? You, like, zoned out. Again." 

"No, yeah, I'm...I'm fine." 

Emerson laughed, and Sebastian said, "What's on your mind? Spill." 

"It's just..." He sighed, shook his head. "I shouldn't say, it's not my business." 

"And that has never stopped you before." 

Remington hesitated, pictured the couple and the way Andy had paled when he asked if everything was okay. He looked at his brothers, at their girlfriends, and sighed for the second time. "This guy who I tattooed, I can't stop thinking about him." 

"Oh, Rem has a crush!" 

"No," he said, shutting his little brother's remark down immediately. "No, it's not that. I mean, he was gorgeous, but that's not the point." 

"What is the point?" 

After a second hesitation, Remington began to explain about the tattoo and the forgotten money and the trembling, anxious man, and when he finished, he was met with four versions of the same expression, the very expression he'd had as he had watched them leave his shop earlier. "I just, I don't know what to do about it," he continued. "It's nothing to do with me, and I hardly know them, but I can't just sit by with this potential knowledge and do nothing. Can I?" 

"No," Larisa answered. "If you think he's in trouble, you should help him." 

"It's not my place. I doubt he'd accept the help of some rando tattoo artist he met twice and hardly spoke three words to. I just-I don't know. I don't want to step somewhere I'm not supposed to be." He poked the table as he considered his options. There was nothing he could do that wouldn't cause some sort of chaos. 

* * * 

There was more purple than skin on Andy. 

Before the bathroom mirror, he examined the damage, brushed his fingers across dark bruises and leaking wounds. He was shaking and tripping over each breath, struggling to stay on the right side of tears, and he wished for something to kill him so that he wouldn't have to feel any of it. 

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away the memory of the disarmingly gentle kiss he'd been given, just seconds before his stomach had been struck. It was a pain he knew well, and one that had the power to bring up anything he had eaten and shake his head into splinters of sharpened metal. 

He wondered how long it would go on, the punishment for his mistake. After they had left the shop, Holden had demanded he not speak, didn't say for how long, and sent him straight up to their room, telling his parents he was feeling unwell so he could follow. His dedication to the violence impressed Andy, to an extent. He couldn't imagine putting such focus on a thing as terrible as hurting another person. 

Still, at least he'd never forget his wallet again.

 A voice through the door, quiet but threatening, caused him to flinch and step away from the mirror. "You've been in there long enough, boy," Holden was saying. It had been six minutes since he'd laid his hands on his boyfriend. 

Obediently, Andy left the bathroom, returned to the bed, lay still, waited for the next move. It was past midnight. 

Holden didn't touch him again that night, but he couldn't sleep, and he thought about the man in the tattoo shop, the sincerity in his voice when he'd asked if everything was okay. The thought was enough to bring forth the tears, and he had to bite down on his hand until they subsided as to avoid disturbing Holden.