Heatwave is over! 

Trigger Warning: Suicide, depression, injury, emotional/physical abuse

Remington didn't finish tattooing his last customer of the day until after ten pm, and was the only one left in the shop. As he collected his things and turned off all the lights, he thought, as he had been frequently, about Andy. He'd kept to his word, hadn't gone to the police or spoken a word of it to anybody. 

He locked up the shop, pulled down the corrugated iron sheet that protected the building from drunks at night, locked it into place, and started his walk home. To get to his apartment, he had to cross town. 

Outside of the pubs were people smoking and laughing, students from the university heading for nightclubs and bars. The sky was a powdery gray, the sun clinging on to its last moments. Remington took his phone from his pocket, replied to a message from his brother, lifted his eyes from the screen when he thought he heard a sob. Not locating the person it came from, he kept walking, knew it wasn't uncommon for people who had had one too many drinks to cry about the colour of a car or the way their own name was spelt. He thought little of it. 

Scrolling Instagram as he walked, he slowed, the sound there again. Lowering his phone by his side and standing in place on the pavement, he waited. The third time he heard it, it was followed by a, "Get it together, boy," and he suddenly felt very sick. 

Remington pushed his phone into his pocket and took a step closer. The voice was coming from down an alley, and as he approached, he could make out only one person. They were stood against the pebble-dashed wall with one arm around their stomach and the other holding a stake knife clearly taken from a restaurant.

It was difficult to make out their features in the dark shadows that obscured them, but Remington knew how it was. He hadn't been noticed and was frightened of what the man was going to do, had to say something, and so he took a breath to steady himself, and said, "Please don't."

The voice he'd heard, he realised, wasn't that of Holden, but of Andy, demanding himself to get it together. 

The unexpected voice caused Andy to jump and yelp, spinning around to look at Remington. He was unable to swallow his sobs and was visibly shaking. 

"Are you gonna use that to hurt yourself?" Remington asked, nodding at the knife. 

Andy stared at him, then at the weapon. He gave no response, just held it tighter, flinching when Remington lifted his arm to push hair back from his eyes. 

"If you are, I get it. God knows I'd do the same if I was being treated the way you are. I don't blame you." Remington lowered himself to the ground, sat against the wall. "What ever it is that he does to you, whatever he says, it doesn't mean you deserve any of it. Horrible people do horrible things regardless of who they're doing it to." He shook his head. "He's unable to appreciate you the way you deserve. That's his fault, not yours." 

There was a cool wind whistling through the alley. Andy stayed still but continued to cry. 

"I listened to your band the other night. My favourite of the ones I heard is The Last One, I think. You're such a good singer, I could listen all day. I've been mad at myself since for not checking your recent stuff out sooner." Remington looked up at the man. It was taking all he had to stay where he was instead of wrapping his arms around him. He'd never seen anyone in such dire need of kindness before. "I tattooed the words 'that's what she said' onto somebody today, and as an avid Office fan, I think it was my proudest moment yet." 

Andy knew what Remington was doing - making random conversation to distract him - and appreciated it so much he could have vomited. 

"This guy messaged me online asking if I would tattoo their girlfriend's nudes onto his hip. I replied, 'what if you break up?' and he went 'what's that got to do with it?' I'm starting to doubt whether she's his girlfriend at all. I think he might have taken screenshots from porn hub. I'm so sorry, I can't believe I just told you that." 

Slowly, Andy sat down against the wall opposite, the knife close to his chest. Remington noticed he had a slight limp. He tipped his head forward. 

"You gave me that note the other day, and I should have done something about it. I'm sorry I've not done anything. I can't sleep thinking about what he might be doing to you. But I'm going to do something about it now. There's no way in hell I could get up and walk away. Because I know what that knife is for, and you deserve so much better than to kill yourself because of a guy who dedicates his time to hurting you. You deserve so much better." He shook his head again. "Will you let me help you?" 

Andy was breathing like a dying animal with a bullet wound in its side. Remington hadn't expected him to say anything, but he lifted his head and stuttered, "I'm in hell." Then he resumed his crying. 

Remington didn't know whether that was an acceptance or denial of the help he was offering. "That doesn't mean you're beyond saving. I can't even begin to try to imagine what you're feeling, and I'm not gonna pretend like I've been where you are, because I haven't, and I don't blame you at all for wanting it all to stop, but what I can say is that I care, and I want you to be okay. I want you be okay." 

"I can't," Andy cried. 

"Maybe not right now, maybe not for a long while, but that doesn't mean forever." 

"It's been nine years. Nine years. I can't take anymore." 

"I'm so sorry. You haven't deserved a second of it. But you do deserve to be more than what he's reduced you to. You do deserve to go to bed with excitement for the next day and to wake up smiling. You do." 

Andy wiped his hand across his eyes. It felt as though everything inside him was turning to smoke and suffocating him. He looked at the knife, glinting under the moon. 

"Please let me help you." 

"Nine years," he repeated in a mumble, held weapon before him, blade pointing straight at his heart. 

Remington got onto his knees. "Please," he said. "Don't. Come home with me, I have a sofa-bed. Please." 

Andy looked at him and all Remington saw was suffering. He gripped the handle of the knife with both hands.

It wouldn't have been a big enough blade to kill him with one strike, and the image of him plunging it repeatedly into his chest made Remington's head burn. "You don't deserve this," he tried. 

"I have to make it stop." 

"I'll help you. Just not like this. Please. Put it down. Put it down. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, just put the knife down." 

Andy was panting. "I can't." 

"You can. I know you can." 

"I can't." 

"You're gonna be okay, you just need to put it down." 

Andy stared at the blade, loosened his hands, and let it clatter onto the ground. He pulled his knees into his chest and his head fell onto them. He was crying heavily. 

"Come with me, okay? It's gonna be okay." Remington got off the floor.  

After a hesitation, Andy pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself on the wall. His face was sticky with tears, and he left the knife where it was, walked with a slight limp along side Remington.