Trigger Warnings: Mentions of depression, suicide, guns, death, self harm, eating disorder/weight

Was looking through some chapters from Help Me to see how my writing had changed since I wrote that and came across a comment from Cece_Di_Chiaro  which gave me this idea, so credits to them, ILY.

Kinda set in the Save Me universe  I suppose, but doesn't matter if you've never read it, it'll still make sense. (Hands up who still loves Save Me like I do). 

Remington had found a gun.

The tour had been dragging lately. They had been away from home for more than four months and, as it often did, the distance and lack of sleep was getting to them all, though some more than others. 

Mostly, they could handle it with coffee and with the joy of meeting fans each night, and for years, Remington had turned to exercise as a stress relief, and for years, it worked. At least, it worked enough for him to get through the months and return home partially sane. 

This time, that was not an option. His therapist, Abigail, told him more than once that he should not over-work or over-exercise his body because of his unhealthy weight. He trusted her and he knew she was right, but with the constant pressure of expectations thrown at him from fans and their record label and everybody else, he didn't know how he was supposed to deal with it. 

It wasn't a secret, his eating disorder. He had been diagnosed months before the tour and told social media because he figured that was better than them speculating about his dramatic loss of weight and muscle and consequently, his lack of mirror selfies. They'd have figured it out soon enough, it was easier to just tell them from the start. 

Most of their fans took the news as he'd expected. They expressed concern and wished him better. A few were skeptical of it being a publicity stunt, and some said simply to 'eat a sandwich'. Those were the fans that made him regret saying anything. 

They had been travelling for at least eighteen hours by the time they finally arrived at the venue. It was early afternoon and their first plan of action was to find food for lunch before soundcheck. Remington dreaded it, and was grateful for Andy, his husband, who offered to get him something so he didn't have to walk around a food shop. 

"Something small," the singer had insisted. 

Andy kisses his head and said, "Won't be long," as he left with the others. 

Now, Remington was alone in the bus and he had found a gun. 

It was in a public bathroom they had stopped at late last night after discovering their toilet was blocked and didn't want to risk it flooding. The weapon had been wrapped in a piece of fabric, an old tea towel, and Remington supposed someone had been trying to get rid of it. Either that, or they'd simply forgotten to pick it up. 

Either way, it was a gun and it was loaded and he had found it. 

He had hardly touched it, had promptly hidden it at the bottom of his bag, still in the towel. He didn't want anyone to find it. He needed it if things got worse, and things were getting worse. 

Almost as soon as everyone left the bus, he lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. It had been fine for a while. Fine, urging on not fine, but yesterday, shortly before finding the gun, he had made the mistake of wrapping a tape measure around his waist and checking how much he had gained. It was like a kick in the gut and it wasn't even a whole inch. Still, he had gained something, and that wasn't fine. He could deal with staying the same, but this wasn't fine anymore. He supposed it was the measurement that had tipped him over the edge. 

The bus was never quiet, even with everyone gone. The generator was loud and could get inside his head, make him crazy if he listened to it for too long. Eighteen hours was a long time. 

He was wearing one of Andy's hoodies. It was black with a red stripe down each sleeve and it was one he wore often. Today, he chose it because the sleeves were long and he needed something to cover the cuts he had given himself late the previous night. How he'd hide them for the show, he didn't  know. He'd think of something. He always did.

There was that horrible feeling in his stomach. The one he got when he hadn't managed to get away with skipping a meal. The one that told him he wasn't as hungry as he wanted to be, and the one that could reduce him to tears. It did that now, and he lay on the mattress with his eyes closed and helpless tears sliding down his skin. He wanted a hug but there was no one here, and when they got back, they'd have food, and he didn't want to look at or smell or touch any sort of food. 

Andy had been trying to help when he offered to get him something, but he had created such dread for Remington by leaving him alone to deal with the oncoming meal. 

Remington sat up robotically and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeved wrist. He shook his head as more tears came and gave up trying to get rid of them. He looked down at his stomach, pulled up the hoodie, and then dropped it because the sight was unbearable. He had become the one thing he had tried so desperately not to be; he was fat. 

At least, in his mind, he was, and that was enough. 

It was enough to convince him that he was not enough. 

He thought about the food he'd have to eat once Andy got back and hated himself for how it made him feel - like he would die if he ate anything. It wasn't true, he knew it wasn't true, but that didn't seem to matter today. 

He slid off the bunk and knelt down, pulled his suitcase from underneath. The gun was still there in the towel, loaded and waiting. He held it in both hands and turned it over, put his finger gently on the trigger. He wondered how loud it'd be if he were to press it, how powerful it was, and sat back in his bunk. 

The dread was awful by now. With every passing minute, he lost a chance to prepare himself for the meal, and he had given up on trying. Besides, preparing himself never worked anymore, it just made it worse. It seemed everything made it worse. Even things that had nothing to do with it made it worse. Like his mind was fixated on being thin and only on being thin, and nothing else would do. 

He looked down the barrel of the gun. There was only one other thing that would do, and he was staring right at it.

There was an excitement he felt at the idea of actually using the weapon. He had never shot a gun before. It was a rush just to hold it. It must have felt amazing to press the trigger, he thought, and rested his finger on it as he touched the barrel to his temple. For at least a minute, he didn't move, just sat with his eyes closed, tears leaking from them. A gun to his head. 

He supposed he was meant to afraid of what it would do to him, but he wasn't. He was just tired, and he wanted a hug. 

Taking the gun from his head and laying it in his lap, Remington looked down at it. It was beautiful and he hated that he saw it that way. He got off the bed again and, with the gun, found a pad of paper in the living area, wrote a short note, and returned to his bunk. He placed the note neatly on the pillow and lay beside it. 

He still wasn't scared. His heart was racing but he put that down to everything else. This was all that would do now, and he wasn't scared of it. 

The gun on his chest with a hand over it, he exhaled, looked up at the bottom of the bed above him, and screamed. He didn't know where it came from but the scream was more distressed than he had imagined it to be. He didn't sound like himself, and now he had started, stopping was not a possibility. 

Tears came in waves and he had to sit up to breathe, gripping the weapon until his hands ached, leaning forwards and sobbing. 

He screamed again and again because it was all he could do, and, through the noise of his head ringing, didn't notice the sound of everyone returning. They were chatting, but shut up and shared horrified, worried glances as Andy dropped what was in his hands and dashed for the bunks. "No, no, no," he said before he realised he was speaking, coming to a halt by his and Remington's bunk and catching sight of the gun and the note and his husband's rocking, sobbing body. 

Remington looked at him and thought he might be sick. Everything felt so wrong. 

"It's okay," Andy said, though it didn't seem okay. "It's okay, it's okay." 

Remington violently shook his head and held the gun closer, afraid it was going to be taken from him when he needed it most. 

Emerson and Sebastian were slowly approaching, wanting to know what was going on with their brother. Andy sent them frightened glances before leaning towards Remington and wrapping his hands around his waist, pulling him away from the window and into his chest. "It's okay," he said again, but Remington wouldn't let go of the gun to hold onto him and he didn't know how to take it without risking the trigger. 

He held the boy to him and whispered over and over that it was okay, but Remington didn't hug him in return and he wouldn't stop screaming.

Andy could read the note from where he was stood against the edge of the bed; I'm sorry. I need this. Please forgive me. He was tearing up, as were Remington's brothers, and he tried again, said, "It's gonna be okay. I love you." 

Sebastian thought it sounded like he was saying goodbye. 

Carefully, Andy lowered Remington to the ground, sitting on the floor and rocking him. He looked up at Emerson and Sebastian and then nodded down at the gun in the singer's hands, continued repeating that it was gonna be okay as they slowly and cautiously pried the weapon from his grip and took it from his reach.

Remington cried in protest, trying to get up and steal it back, but Andy help him down and watched Sebastian leave the vehicle with it. "It's okay," he soothed. He didn't know what else to say. 

Remington fought against him but realised it was pointless and that his only way out was gone, and in a mess of heavy tears and trembling breaths, he fell into Andy and accepted the embrace.

He wouldn't leave it for days.