Trigger warning.
It's been a week since Remington's breakdown, and every night since he's woken up, shiny with sweat, heart banging in his chest, images flashing in his head.

He hasn't talked to or seen Andy since the incident and he's honestly terrified. Remington knows Andy won't hurt him, yet every thing inside is screaming at him, telling him that the man is just like Holly. And he's listening. He doesn't know what else to do.

The boy has hardly left the house, so scared that she'll be there, waiting. Every time he's alone it's like she's there with him. Like he's still stuck in that relationship and that house and her deadly clutches. Maybe he still is.

Early this morning, way before anyone else had woken, he had snook into the bathroom and brought a razor down on his soft, vulnerable skin. The blood, his blood, trickled onto the counter and soaked into the tissue.

Poor Remington is so lost. He finally had someone beside his brothers who cared for him and wanted him, and he's blown it just by being himself. If he hadn't been so stupid about not getting a reply that day then he wouldn't have gone into town and bumped into that fan and then Holly wouldn't have found him and everything would be fine.

But it's not.

He misses Andy so much it aches in his chest but the mere thought of letting the man near him aches more.

This particular day, Remington is scrolling Instagram, bored, tired and hurting. A message pops up at the top of his screen.

Hollyday: I see you've taken the cowards route? Hiding. Ha! I will find you, Remington, and I will never let you go.

Remington's eyes widen in fear and he shakily blocks the account, knowing damn well that won't stop her from getting what she wants. She always gets what she wants.

He switches his phone off and decides that there really is no point in hiding any longer. Whatever he does she is going to find him. Why not give himself in?

And so, with a thumping heart, the boy leaves the house. He walks quickly, head down, and bumps into someone in his daze.

"Remington?" The familiar, low voice makes him look up. "Remington, are you alright?" Nodding, he steps back, shaking. "Obviously you're not," Andy says, "you're trembling."

The boy doesn't know what to say. "I-she-I'm fine," he stutters out, not sure what's going on. He's completely forgotten why he left the house.

"No, you're not fine, are you?"

He shakes his head. "I-I'm so scared, Andy, I'm so fucking scared." Tears brim in his eyes as he speaks. Andy frowns. He takes the boy's hand in his own but is shoved away hastily. Remington crosses his arms to protect himself. "I'm scared of you," he whispers, ashamed. He shouldn't feel like this. Andy has done nothing to make him scared.

The man doesn't know what to say. He wasn't expecting that. "What?"

Remington exhales, sniffling. "I'm sorry-I-I just-I'm scared that you're going to hurt me and-and I know you won't but-fuck-I'm so fucking scared! Every time I look at you I see her, Andy, every fucking time! It's torture. I can't do it anymore. I-fuck-I'm so sorry-I just-I can't take it anymore." By the times he's stopped talking tears are sliding down his cheeks. It breaks his heart to do this, but what else can he do?

Andy is hurt and confused. "I love you," he tries, wanting so desperately for the boy to feel safe with him.

With a sad, slow, nod, the younger wipes his eyes. "Good bye," he mutters, and walks away.

He doesn't even look back to see the blue eyes of his ex-lover glossy with tears. He doesn't look back and notice how the man loses a chunk of his soul right there in the street.

He doesn't look back to realise how much they need each other.

And when he does it's too late.

Andy has gone.