Trigger Warning: Mentions of depression, abuse, PTSD, eating disorder/weight, suicide, self-harm, death

Andy was afraid to leave Remington on his own, even just to go to bed. Years ago, when they were together, Remington would occasionally bring up the topic of death, would express a fascination at what happens after. It never particularly concerned Andy, because he didn't show any signs of being in a mindset of causing himself any harm, didn't seem likely to be experiencing any sort of suicidal thoughts. It was just a young man sharing his curiosity with his boyfriend. 

Now, it was different. This wasn't curiosity. It was desperation. To find a way out of everything she had done to him, to get away from it all. Andy didn't know what he was supposed to do. He'd been thrown into this without a warning, the day that Remington stepped into his studio. The plan was to record a song, and now he had the singer living under his roof, relying on him. He was responsible for his life. Literally. He had saved it by talking to the police, by taking him to hospital, had saved it by taking him seriously, had given him a chance of a proper life, and yet from where he was standing, it seemed Remington didn't want it. 

He was poisoned to the bone with Holly's rules and punishments and routines and was rotting from the inside out. It was like he was transforming into a corpse but was addicted to the feeling, addicted to the way his skin burned, his bones brittle. He liked knowing he was teetering on a high ledge. 

Andy sat in bed at gone midnight and couldn't sleep, couldn't even think of trying to sleep. Remington could have been doing anything while they were in separate rooms. He could have sneaked off into the bathroom to punish himself again, could already have bled himself into the grave. It didn't seem impossible, not after everything he had said about death, how it was easy and that it wouldn't hurt. It was the biggest lie Andy had ever heard, but that didn't matter. Whether it was true or not, Remington believed it. 

He stood up, not able to sit there anymore with the knowledge of what could have been happening just metres from him. Picking up his phone in case he needed it, in case Remington was in the process of something horrible, Andy left the bedroom and made his way across the hall. The bathroom was dark and empty. A small relief was felt. He continued to the spare bedroom, pushed open the door slowly so it didn't make a sound. It was dark, too, and soundless. He stepped in, his eyes adjusting to the poor light, and found Remington in the bed, still. 

His first thought wasn't that he was asleep, but that he was dead. 

By the edge of the bed, he was able to hear breathing, could see his chest moving. He turned to leave, confident that for tonight at least, nothing would happen, but Remington had woken at his presence. "Andy?" He murmured, half-asleep. 

Andy turned back around. "It's okay, go back to sleep," he said softly. 

"What're you doing?" 

"Just checking you're okay." 

Remington rubbed his eyes. "Because of what I said?" 

"Yeah." 

He nodded. 

"Sorry I woke you." 

"You think I'm gonna kill myself?" 

"I don't know," Andy said truthfully. "You just got me worried, that's all." 

Remington sat up. "Oh. Sorry." 

"No, it's okay." 

"You don't need to worry about me." 

There it was again. That strange tone in his voice; death is easy. "Go back to sleep, okay? I'm sorry for disturbing you." Again, he turned to leave, but Remington told him to wait. 

"You think I'm gonna kill myself," he said again, only this time, it wasn't a question, and there was a disturbing sense of pride in the way he said it.

"Are you?" Andy asked. 

Remington yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. "She hasn't told me yet." 

Andy couldn't help the expression that made its way onto his face. 

"She will." 

"She will what?" 

"Tell me." 

"Tell you what?" 

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, like it was normal. "If I'm gonna kill myself or not. She'll tell me." Death is easy. Death is kind. 

"She's gone," was all Andy managed to say. He feared if he said anymore, he'd never be able to stop. There was so much he could say about her. 

"Yes," Remington said. "She's gone." 

"You don't need to live by her rules anymore." 

"Yes," Remington said again. "She's gone." Some people aren't suppose to experience life. 

"Exactly. She's gone." 

"She's going to tell me." 

Andy shook his head. 

Remington nodded. "She always tells me." 

"Not anymore, because she's gone." 

"Not anymore," echoed the younger, testing the words. "Yes." 

He was talking to someone who wasn't there, that's what Andy thought. He wasn't making any sense. "Go to sleep." 

"No. I'm waiting." 

"What for?" 

"She's going to tell me." 

In his hand, Andy's phone was gripped tight. "No, she's not. She's gone." 

"She is. She's going to tell me." 

"Go to sleep," he tried again. 

Remington shook his head. "She has to tell me." 

Andy glanced down at his phone, made sure it was still there even though he could feel it, sweaty against his palm. "You're tired. I woke you. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep." 

"I'm not tired anymore." Death is easy. 

"You must be. You hardly sleep." 

"I'm not. I don't need sleep anymore." Death is kind.

Oh shit, oh fuck. I hope you remember your fucking postcode, you're gonna need it. "You definitely do. You keep yawning." 

"Yes," Remington said calmly. He hadn't sounded this calm since they had reunited. "But I don't need sleep anymore." 

Seriously, dial the fucking number. "Okay," Andy replied. "That's fine. Why don't you come and watch a movie with me, then?" 

But Remington just shook his head. 

"Or we can find a series to start." 

"No, I'm waiting." 

999, Andy. 999. "What're you waiting for?" 

"I told you. She's going to tell me." 

"She's not telling you anything. She's gone." 

"You're wrong." 

Andy lifted his hand so the phone was closer to his face. "Okay," he said. "That's okay, but let's talk about this tomorrow, after we've got some sleep." 

"No. I don't need sleep. I don't need it anymore." 

Are you out of your mind? You should be on the phone already. "Well, what would you like to do instead?" 

Remington didn't look fragile like he had done, but rather, he looked irritated, annoyed at Andy's nagging questions. "I told you. I'm waiting." 

"Wouldn't time pass quicker if you did something while you waited?" 

"Yes," Remington said. "But I don't need it to pass quicker." 

"Okay. Why's that?" 

"I like it." 

"You like it?" 

He nodded. "Yes. I like it." 

Because you're savoring the moments until you die? "And what is it exactly that you like about it?" 

An unimpressed look from Remington. "It's nice." He yawned. "Peaceful." 

"Peaceful," Andy repeated. "Okay. You know sleep is peaceful, too." 

"No. Sleep is loud." Death is kind. 

"Loud?" 

"Yes. Loud." 

"Nightmares?" 

The word made Remington wince. "Shh," he hissed. "She's about to tell me." 

Andy raised his phone further, opened the keypad, kept his eyes on Remington, who hadn't noticed the light from the screen. The room was quiet, the breath caught in Andy's throat. He refused to release it until he knew what she had told him. Patient but panicking, he waited, looked for an answer in Remington's face, but he wasn't giving anything away. 

It was a secret, what she had said.