Trigger Warning: Mentions of depression, abuse, PTSD, alcohol, INJURY DESCIRPTION, SELF-HARM, SUICIDE, BLOOD

Remington was shaking and Andy was drunk.  

It was late. Andy had gone out after their argument, despite everything in his brain telling him it wasn't a good idea. Just a few, he had told himself. 

He had returned home at some time past one am, and stumbled into the bathroom to Remington with a blade in his arm. 

Now, Remington was shaking, Andy was drunk, and neither of them moved. 

Andy wasn't as drunk as he had been in the past. He'd had enough that his speech was beginning to slur, but not so much that he couldn't think. He knew what was going on. This wasn't like the other times. This wasn't punishment before bed. Remington wasn't holding a small razor like the times before. 

His bony fingers were wrapped tightly around a large kitchen knife. This was his way out. 

"Okay," Andy said slowly, forcing himself to speak clearly. "Put that down, okay?" 

Remington stared at him. He was already bleeding, but hadn't yet lost enough to feel the effects. In order to be successful, he'd have to lose a lot more. 

"It's okay, just put it down." Andy was leaning against the sink to keep himself stable. He felt sick with regret and fear.

Looking at the knife, the tip pressed to his skin, Remington blinked. He didn't know what he was doing or why he was doing it, just knew that she told him to. All those nights ago, when he claimed she was telling him whether or not to kill himself; he'll get tired of you, and you'll be alone again, and then you'll do it.

"It's okay," Andy said again. It wasn't. He was drunk, Remington was two deep cuts away from dying, none of it was okay. "I'm sorry. I did you wrong. I'm sorry." 

Slowly, Remington spoke. His voice was trembling. "You're drunk." 

"Yes. Regret. I'll drink water. Get sober. Help you. Okay? I help you. Okay?" 

Remington pressed harder on the knife and broke skin. He hissed at the pain. It didn't matter how much Andy wanted to help, it wasn't enough, not when she wanted him to do this. She always won. 

"No, stop," Andy begged, already starting to cry. He didn't want to be drunk anymore. He couldn't help Remington when he was drunk. "Put it down. Stop." 

In a swift motion, Remington dragged the blade down his arm. He cried out.

Andy lunged for him in a drunken panic, grabbed the knife from him. His coordination suffered from the alcohol and he missed the handle and instead sliced the palm of his hand. He, too, cried out, but was successful in freeing it from Remington, and he dropped it on the floor with blood dripping from his hand. 

"Oh my God," Remington whispered. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I hurt you! I'm sorry!" 

"Not your fault. Not your fault. We go to hospital now." With his unharmed hand, Andy pulled his phone from his pocket, dialled for an ambulance.

"I hurt you," Remington kept crying. "I hurt you, I hurt you. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I hurt you!" 

 "Ambulance", Andy said into the phone. "I fucked up, we're hurt. Blood. Me and my friend. He had a knife. For suicide."

"She made me!" Sobbed Remington now, like he had just realised what he was doing, like he didn't want it at all and his body was doing it against his will. Like he didn't have control anymore. "Don't be mad, don't be mad. Please, don't be mad. She made me. Please..." 

"Not your fault," Andy repeated, then to the operator, "My hand is cut. And his arm. His arm cut bad. Yes. Okay. Okay."

Remington sank into the corner of the bathtub and begun hyperventilating and sobbing into his hands, covering his face with blood. The pain was awful. He wanted it to stop so he could go to sleep.

 Lowering himself onto the toilet seat, Andy watched Remington as he spoke. "A towel? Yes. I'll try. But I'm drunk. Not that much. Will be sober soon. Yes, water. I know. Water."

Quickly, Remington tired himself out. He went silent and Andy was convinced he was dead until he turned his head and rested it against the wall. His breaths were shallow.

"He's very white now. Gone very white. Breathing fast. Like, not enough oxygen. Bleeding a lot. His arm's all red. Everywhere. Yes. Okay. You be here soon? I give you the address now? Okay. Six, uh...Six, Kings Street. Uh...oh, you found it? Okay. Good. Yes. Tesco is near. Yes. Okay. Soon? Three minutes. Okay. Thank you, I go now. Bye."