Trigger Warning: Physical/emotional abuse, depression, anxiety

Remington was pacing his living room with the crumpled piece of paper between his fingers. He had read it over so many times that it was all he could see. 

He had no idea what he was supposed to do now, hadn't really expected Andy to admit to anything being wrong. Now, he felt responsible, felt he had to do something; he had been trusted by someone he had met only twice with something personal and terrible. 

It was late, but he couldn't sleep, and for the two days that followed, he felt sick with the knowledge of the situation and with his own inability to do anything. He had been asked for help, and there he was, doing nothing. 

On the third day, to his utmost joy and fear, the two men walked into the tattoo shop. He was taking his previous client's payment and glanced up at them, said, "One moment, guys." 

When he asked what he could do for them, Andy was again still and quiet, though his eyes kept flitting up to meet Remington's, as if silently asking whether or not he had found the note. 

Holden nudged him and he flinched. "Do you do, uh, couple tattoos?" He asked. 

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. What were you thinking or getting?" 

"Just, uh, names." 

"Sure. Okay. I think I can fit you in now." 

Andy was the first to have the stencil applied. He couldn't stop himself shaking, kept unwillingly jumping away from Remington's hands as he smoothed the stencil paper onto his skin. 

"How long will this take?" Holden asked impatiently from his chair by the wall.

"Ten minutes per person, round about." 

"For one name?" 

Remington resisted rolling his eyes, said instead, "My colleague is available if you'd both like to get tattooed at the same time." 

Begrudgingly, Holden agreed, so Remington introduced him to Emma, explained to her what he wanted, and left them to it. 

It was a large shop, which meant there were two studios. One upstairs, one down. Remington worked mostly downstairs, which meant he and Andy were alone, save for the apprentice artist who was working at reception while Remington was busy. 

Turning on some music, Remington wheeled his chair closer to Andy, said in a hushed voice, "What's going on?" 

Andy was still pale and trembling, stared at his lap. 

"I'm not gonna tattoo his name on you. I'm gonna change the E to an O, so it says Hold On. Is that okay?"

After a hesitation, Andy slowly nodded. 

"I'll make it out like a mistake, refund you for it."

Andy nodded again. 

Pulling open a drawer, Remington collected the equipment he needed. "You don't have to answer," he said. "But does he hurt you? Like, physically?" 

Tears welled in Andy's eyes and he gave no response. 

"I don't want to overstep a boundary," Remington continued, keeping his voice down as he set up the tattoo machine. "But if I can, I want to help you. I know you barely know me, and I know nothing about what's going on, but I do know that whatever it is he's doing to you, you deserve so much better." He snapped on the surgical gloves. "But at the end of the day, it's up to you, and I won't take this any further if you don't want me to." 

Andy watched the artist's hands move, found it hard to speak. "Yes," he said. "He...he does." 

"I'm so sorry. Are you okay for me to start?" 

He nodded. 

For a couple of minutes, Remington was quiet as he focussed on the tattoo, lifting his head and the needle when Andy asked him how long he'd been tattooing. He was surprised to hear him say more than one or two words, listened intently, and replied with, "Since I was nineteen, so...eight years. What do you do? You look like a model." 

That made Andy choke up. He wasn't used to receiving complements. "I'm in a band," he said quietly. 

"Oh, awesome! I feel like in another life, I'd be in a band. What do you do, like, rock? If it's pop, I'll tattoo a cock and balls onto the back of my hand right now." 

Andy supressed a soft laugh. "Yes, rock." 

"What's your band called? I'll check you out later. And let me guess, you're the frontman, right?" 

The man nodded. 

"You look the part, man. I've been, like, obsessed with your entire aesthetic since I first saw you." 

"Oh, uh, thank you." 

"What's your hit song? You know, the one that got you, like, your first fans?" 

"Knives and Pens." 

Remington had his eyes on the tattoo, keeping steady as he talked. "Wait, is that the one that goes, like, 'One final fight for this tonight, which knives and pens we made our plight' And then, like, a ton of screaming?" 

"That's the one." 

"No shit! I used to listen to that all the time. That's so cool. Wow, I'll definitely listen to your new stuff tonight. Man, I'm tattooing a rock star. Wow. You've changed a lot then, haven't you? I mean, in that video, you're all war paint and a black mane of hair. How old were you in that? You must have been young." 

"Uh, 19." 

"Skilled motherfucker." 

"Thank you." 

"Alright, this is done. It says Hold On. I'm going to act like it was a mistake, offer you a free cover up and a full refund." Remington stood to retrieve the cleaning gel and wipes. "Before you go, is there anything at all I can do? If you want me to call the police for you, I can do. But it's up to you." 

"No, thank you," Andy replied politely. 

"Okay. Well, if there's anything you need, you know where I am. Let me just wrap this, and then we'll be good to go." 

"Thank you." 

Remington hummed, smiled. "Anytime."