Trigger Warning: Emotional/physical abuse, depression, suicide, anxiety, death, injury

The bruises were worse in the morning, so tender that even the smallest of movements caused a flurry of pain that made his eyes water. Yet, nothing could beat the agony he felt when, inevitably, Holden instructed he not see his band mates until he had 'learnt your lesson'. Which meant, and Andy knew this, he'd never be allowed out the house alone again. 

That morning was the first time that he properly thought about killing himself. Without his band, there was nothing to keep him around. He had been able to get through the last nine years because he always had his music as a sort of refuge. How on earth was he supposed to get through even just one day without that? 

He knew what Holden was doing - tearing him away from everything that made him happy in order to have complete power over him. Already, he had little strength to stand his ground, and when he did, rarely, the battering that followed made his efforts seem useless.

Each morning, he had only a few moments in the bathroom before he was told to go down, this time to have breakfast with Holden's parents. In the kitchen-diner, he said he slept well, and promptly shut up upon a cold glare from his boyfriend. His appetite was long gone, but he ate anyway, doing all he could not to show his discomfort, to sit still. 

After breakfast, he had to call his band and make up an excuse about why he couldn't go into the studio, blinking desperate tears away so that he wouldn't get in any more trouble. The thought ran through his mind for the entirety of the phone conversation; he could kill himself. 

Of course, there was the question of how, and when, and where. The biggest difficulty with it would be to find himself alone long enough to complete the task. He would have to wait for the perfect time, only, in a house with Holden, that was a rare, rare thing. 

They went out with Holden's parents, acted like tourists in their own town, Andy on the edge of either dissolving into tears or exploding into an outbreak of anger. Holden was treating him nicely again, holding his hand, restraining from any sort of insult or put down. 

In a cafe bathroom, Andy cried for five minutes while observing himself in the mirror and imagining the fun they were having in the studio without him. He was scared of leaving the room, wanted to hide in there until the world caved in on itself. The sobs wracked his sore body, shaking him through, leaving his limbs weak and his breath shallow. He considered filling the sink and plunging his head into the water; he considered throwing himself at the wall until something broke ;he considered looping his belt through the light fixture and hanging himself. 

He considered a lot of things.

That evening, Holden knocked him out with a hardback book, and he lay crumpled on the bedroom floor with a taste for death. When he woke, in the same place he had fallen, everything dark around him, he wanted to asked Holden to do it again. 

* * * 

Andy returned to the shop to pay four days after his last visit, of course accompanied by Holden, and Remington greeted them cheerfully. He took notice of the man's pale face, his unsteady hands, the darkness under his eyes. There was a startling resemblance of the recently deceased in the way that Andy was holding himself. Remington imagined touching him, and the chill of his waxy skin, and almost shuddered. 

"How can I help you?" He asked, his eyes on Andy. 

The man said nothing, even after looking in Holden's direction. 

"He's got the money he owes," Holden said. 

"Ah, great. Thank you." Remington took the three twenty pound notes that were passed to him, catching a strange, pleading look in Andy's face. It was fleeting, and gone before he could be sure what he'd seen. He wished them a good day as they turned to leave, and through the glass, Andy caught his gaze. The same pleading expression was there again. This time, there was no doubting it. 

The notes were folded in half, and as Remington was opening them in order to put them in the till, a small, crumpled piece of paper fluttered out and landed on the computer keyboard. He picked it up, turned it over, and there, in shaky, heavy lettering, were the words; Everything is NOT okay. 

The 'NOT' was underlined so many times and with such vigour that the paper had torn.