Trigger warnings: Self harm, depression, blood/injury, brief mention of death/suicide

Just another hurt/comfort for you hurt/comfort sluts. 

Comments and votes are greatly appreciated :) 

It had gotten bad again. He didn't know exactly when, just that it was before the music video shoot and after the interview. Somewhere in that two week interval, it had gotten bad. He had pushed through each day with one thing driving him - the harm he could inflict upon himself each evening. It kept him able to function, like his version of heroin. All he had to do was get through the day, and he could again relax. 

The music video shoot had been a nightmare. They disagreed on almost everything. The lighting, the camera angles, the places they took on the set. They argued until someone yelled for them to shut up, and then they sent angry glares to one another whenever the cameras weren't recording. But by the end of it, they had a music video, and so none of that really mattered. It was done. That was the important part. 

It was done, and now they had nothing scheduled for at least another month, and he no longer had the distractions he had been counting on. The journeys to keep him occupied, the phone calls back and forth, the shopping for video outfits and makeup and hair spray. It was done. All he had now was the house to himself and a mind that was so full, it felt hollow. 

He had been married for some time, though his husband was away working on his own series of music videos and interviews and arguments. He wouldn't be back for a few more weeks yet. 

With each passing day, it got worse. He didn't know how, or why, or at what point there could be no worse, but it kept progressing. From routine evening harm to routine morning and evening harm, then to whenever-you're-slightly-anxious-or-bored-or-sad-or-feel-anything harm. Even the physical pain was beginning to feel shallow and unsatisfactory. He needed something more, but he didn't know what. 

By the time his husband was due home, he had been steadily cutting himself for at least twelve hours, with breaks for food and short, empty sleeps that did nothing to suck the tiredness from within his bones. He had lost track of the days, and when he heard the door opening, he thought first that he was being burgled. Then his heart jumped into his throat and he nearly choked on it, because he realised it was not a masked man with a knife, but a leather-clad man with an easy smile that would fall from his face as he stepped in and saw what he was doing. 

And he did. It was too late to hide it, and even if he had tried to hide it, the evidence was everywhere. The bins littered with bloody tissue, the discarded clothes stained beyond repair, the tenderness of his arm that screamed even before contact was made. 

"Oh, Jesus," his husband said first, standing and staring at him on the ground in the living room. "Jesus Christ, tell me you've not been doing this since I left." 

He couldn't bear to look at him and he couldn't speak, no matter how much he tried to. 

"Sweetheart, why didn't you call? You know I'd have come back sooner if you needed me to. Oh, Jesus. How are you still alive?" Andy discarded his jacket on the back of the couch and knelt before him, took his arm with care, and said, "Is that what you're trying to do? Bleed yourself to death? Sweetheart, look at me. Look. I don't care what I'm doing, if it gets bad, you call. You promise me next time, you'll call." 

Remington nodded and blinked. "Andy, I'm...I'm sorry," he mumbled. He dropped his gaze. 

"Hey, no. Keep looking. You always say you love my eyes, now's the time to admire them. Come on. Look here. There you go." He smiled then, comfortingly. "Don't apologise to me. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm here now. Let's get up slowly, okay? Can you stand?" 

He nodded again, and got to his feet without stumbling. 

"Alright. You're doing great. Keep looking. Remember how much these eyes have seen, how much they have experienced with you. Don't let go of that. Can you walk with me? We're gonna go upstairs." He held Remington's face in his hands, waited for a nod, and guided him up the stairs and into the bathroom. "Alright, sweetheart. Clothes off. Let's have a nice warm bath, get you a little sleep while we're at it." 

Remington begun slowly undressing as Andy turned on the taps, put in the plug, and undressed himself. 

In the warm water, Andy had him lying with his head against his chest, ran his fingers up and down his ribs, whispered that he was here now until Remington drifted to sleep. He didn't wake him until the water was almost completely cold, and after helping him out and bandaging up his arm, he said, "I missed you." 

"Me too," Remington said. He was half-asleep and sinking fast into a puddle of regret. "Me too. So bad." 

Andy dressed him in a fluffy onesie and kissed his hooded head. "What're we fancying tonight? Rom-com? I feel like a rom-com." He put the telly on in their bedroom, lay with Remington half on top of him. "No preferences?" 

"Legally Blonde," Remington finally replied. Then he yawned and pushed his face into Andy's shoulder. Then he said, "My plan wasn't do bleed myself to death." 

"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry I said that. I know you were only trying to feel better. I understand." He put the film on. "I'll help you to feel better. I promise. Here we go. For the hundredth time. Legally Blonde. Would you like my ironic commentary?" 

"No," Remington said. "Then I might have to bleed myself to death just to escape it." 

Andy hummed. "If I didn't love you, I'd do it anyway." 

"I love you, too." 

"I just wish you'd love yourself." 

"It's your job to love me. That's why I married you. To love me because I don't know how. Thought you'd worked that out by now. Shh. It's starting." 

Andy pulled the covers up over them both. "One day, you will," he whispered, then kissed the top of his head. "You're the only one who doesn't."