Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide, depression, loneliness, alcohol + drug abuse. (A little like Lonely Boy I guess)

Andy didn't think much of it, the first time he saw the skinny boy passing him in the street. He thought he looked a little sad but what could he know?

The second time he saw the boy was in a club. He was unsteady and Andy wondered whether he was drunk, high, or both. The chance to talk to him never came that night, because he left with a girl and Andy assumed what anyone else would.

The third time, Andy was in the petrol station, paying after filling his car. He thought the boy looked unwell, and he watched him pick up a packet of crisps without caring to check what type they were. Andy left the shop before he could say anything. Besides, it would be weird, asking a stranger if he's okay.

The fourth time they crossed paths was once again in the club. The same one as last time. The boy was unsteady again. His hands were shaky. Andy could see how the drink in his hand was at a risk of being dropped. He once again wondered whether he was high or not. Whatever it was, something wasn't right.

Today he sees him for the fifth time, wandering the park with the same unsteadiness, looking at the ground and dragging his feet. Andy watches him from across the grass, frowning and deciding this time, he'll say something. He crosses the park and joins the path behind the boy, close enough to hear his heavy footsteps.

Andy isn't sure what to say, so he walks behind him for a few minutes, unnoticed, until the boy stops and puts a hand in his pocket. He retrieves a flask of what Andy can only imagine is strong alcohol, flinching when he catches Andy in the edge of his vision. He turns around sharply, and his eyes are wide, but he looks out of it. He stares.

Andy smiles. "Hey," he says. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just noticed you and thought you seemed a little unwell. I wanted to check you're okay."

The boy continues staring, gripping the flask like his life depends on it. He says nothing.

Andy wonders if he's an alcoholic. "What's in there?" He asks innocently, gesturing to the flask.

Remington brings it into his chest like he thinks it might be stolen. His eyes are wide but there's nothing there. "Nothing," he says quickly. His voice is shakier than Andy had expected, and smaller, too. Like he could crumble to the floor at any second.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

A quick nod. Then he turns and walks away. Andy knows he takes a large mouthful of whatever is in the flask. Part of him wants to chase after the boy and make him talk, but he knows he can't, so he walks in the opposite direction.

The evening of the same day, he sees Remington again. It's late and dark and no one's about. The street is quiet.

Andy sees him from his living room window when he's closing the curtains. This time, the boy is sitting by the wall on the other side of the road, head tipped back against the stone, hands limp in his lap.

Andy thinks he's dead.

When he approaches, he realises he's still alive, because he can hear breaths, and he crouches in front of him and quietly says, "is everything okay?"

Remington's eyes shoot open. He stares at Andy like he had done in the park, though his eyes are unfocused, and his head is heavy.

He's drunk. Andy works that out easily. Whether drugs are involved remains a mystery. "I'm gonna help you," he decides. "You can't sit out here in this state, it'll get you killed."

Remington continues with his hollow stare.

Andy gets his hands under the boy's arms and pulls him off the ground, discovering that the boy is too exhausted and too drunk to stand on his own. So he helps him across the street with arms around him, catching him when he stumbles and holding him up while he opens the front door. "What've you had?" Andy then asks, not expecting much of an answer. He sits Remington on the couch and the boy is weak. "Vodka? Heroin?"

Remington closes his eyes and his head falls back.

"Stay awake," Andy says. "You need to stay awake in case you've taken too much. C'mon, open your eyes. Look at me."

His eyes open but he could be dead anyway.

Andy scans the room for his phone, locating it on the coffee table and picking it up. He calls for an ambulance while filling a glass with water, returning to Remington as the operator is telling him someone will be there soon. Remington has closed his eyes again. Andy kneels on the floor beside him. "You need to drink this," he says. "C'mon, look here." When the boy slowly opens his eyes, drowsy and heavy, Andy puts two fingers to his chin and the rim of the glass to his mouth, making him take sips and not stopping until the glass is empty, by which time, there are sirens outside.

Andy opens the door to the paramedics, showing them to Remington and explaining as best as he can what he knows, that he's sure Remington is drunk and possibly high, that he found him outside and thought he was dead.

He's asked if he wants to go with them to the hospital and decides he will, in case Remington has no one else. Andy can't imagine there being many things more depressing than waking alone in hospital after nearly dying.

Remington has his stomach pumped and track marks are found on his arm, confirming Andy's suspicions, and when he wakes, he's sober and his head would be banging, if not for the medication they gave him.

Sitting by the bed, Andy watches him wake. He can't help feeling sad because no one showed up when they said they'd call Remington's emergency numbers. "Hey," he says softly, and instead of the stare, he gets a weary look. "Feeling a bit better now?" He asks. "They said you had alcohol poisoning."

Remington rubs his eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm Andy. It's nice to meet you."

"Why're you here?"

"I didn't want you to wake up alone. I hope it's okay."

Remington rubs his eyes again. "Thanks," he mumbles. "That's nice of you."

Andy crosses his legs and frowns. "You were trying to overdose, weren't you?"

The boy looks at his hands and shrugs.

"I'm sorry you felt you had to do that." Now, he leans forwards.

"Death sounds easy."

Andy can hear how sad he is. "Thing's won't be bad forever," he says. "And you're young, it's not your time to go."

"I wanted a therapist," Remington mumbles, "but they're so expensive and I don't have that sort of money."

"I'll help you afford one," the elder suggests. "Everyone deserves help, regardless of how much money they have. I'll pay for a therapist for you."

Now, Remington stares at him. "What, seriously? For real? You know how expensive they are, right?"

"I know, and I want to pay for you."

Remington rubs his eyes for the third time. "Thank you," he says. "That means a lot."

Andy smiles. "Happy to help."

A doctor later tells Remington he's okay to leave, recommending he gets some help for his addiction, and Remington tells him that he'll find a therapist. He's told that's a good idea. Andy gets a taxi home with him, paying the driver and inviting Remington into his place for the rest of the night. He makes Remington tea and they sit on the couch until Remington falls asleep. Andy carries him up to the spare bedroom and tucks the covers around him carefully, wondering when he was last taken care of.

Not for a long time, he imagines.