Shame On You! (Remdy)

1

Was going to write this as a one shot but it's probably gonna end up longer so here you go :) 

BVB JUST ANNOUNCED A UK TOUR!!! I've been waiting for 5 years to see them headline!!!! SO happy rn!!!! (So ofc I'm trying to write a sad story hah) 

Trigger Warning: Depression, self-harm, blood/injury

* * * 

Only recently had they moved in together, after having been dating for more than two years. It was Oliver's house that they moved into, Remington leaving the familiarities of his home for his boyfriend. 

The descent came shortly after the one month mark, though he had been anticipating it for some time, knew, dreading, that it would come. He knew to such an extent that he even asked Oliver not to leave razors out on the side in the bathroom, to which Oliver had replied, "Sure, whatever." 

Though, a month later, the razors were still out, decorating the bathroom surfaces like art installations, and Remington had to fight with himself each time he stepped into the room, had to shake his head to remind himself of the absurdity of his temptations. 

This morning, he stood before the sink turning a razor around between his fingers when Oliver came in, eyed him, and said, "What're you doing? You have nothing to shave." 

Remington tried to smile at that joke but all he could think was that he had told his boyfriend over and over again in subtle ways about his past of self-harming and was yet to be given a sign of being understood, a sign of being cared for when it came to his emotions. It was all physical with Oliver - he didn't seem to get that just because he had constant mental stability didn't mean that everyone else did, couldn't grasp the idea of Remington needing support beyond that of lifting heavy boxes and opening stiff jars. 

Placing the razor on the side, Remington shrugged and stepped back, kept his eyes on it. "You have work today?" He asked, quietly wishing the answer would be, 'no, I'm taking the day off to stay with you.' But the answer never was.  

Oliver hummed, turned on the tap, ran his toothbrush under it. "And you don't?" 

"My brothers are out of town," he said, for what felt like the hundredth time. Emerson and Sebastian had both unintentionally booked holidays for the same three weeks, leaving Remington alone without them to turn to. 

"Right. Course." Squeezing a blob of toothpaste onto the brush, Oliver said no more, and turning, Remington left the bathroom.

In the bedroom, he sat at the vanity unit and looked at himself in the mirror, wondered how it was that Oliver hadn't asked once if he was okay when nothing about his complexion looked okay. On the table, his phone lit up. He had a text from his best friend, asking if he was still up for the lunch they had planned days ago. He wrote a response; 'Sorry, busy.' 

Andy had been his friend for years before he even knew Oliver, though lately, Remington had been cancelling on him just hours before they were supposed to be meeting. It was a strange thing, moving in with someone. He of course loved Oliver, and in theory, living with him was a wonderful thing, but the reality was not so glamorous. It appeared that much of what he thought he knew about Oliver, he in fact did not know at all. 

'Oh,' Andy texted back. 'No worries. Everything ok? What're you busy with? Can I help?? I'll buy ice cream on the way over??' 

Remington blinked hard, then put his phone down and left Andy on read. 

He sat and watched Oliver dress in his work uniform - suit, tie, jacket - and smiled when Oliver said, "I'll be back late, probably. Don't wait up for me." 

"Okay," Remington said. In his head, he was sitting in the shower with the razor, blood dripping down the drain in place of water. "Have a good day." 

"You too." And with that, he was out the room and down the stairs, and Remington was alone in the house.

Returning his eyes to the mirror, he decided he should do something about the greyness of his skin, routed through his plastic container of makeup for a bottle of foundation and a sponge, patted the liquid onto his face with a sudden and overpowering need to cry. Closing his eyes tight, he took a breath, continued with the task which now seemed more like a chore, and thought again about the razor and the lack of warmth he received from his boyfriend. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and stared at himself, at the half-blended foundation and watery eyes, let the sponge fall from his hand onto the table.

Standing, he crossed the room and went into the bathroom, picked up the razor again, held it loose, then put it back down and lifted his shirt over his head. On the closed toilet seat, he left the shirt, sat in the shower against the cold tiles, bore his eyes into the blade until they couldn't see anything anymore, blurred with glistening metal demanding to be used. He blinked and tears dribbled down his cheeks. 

He allowed himself to savour the warmth of his tears, then allowed himself to savour the sharp heat of his blood rising from his skin and running down his arm, pooling beneath his upturned hand. He watched it collect in puddles and felt everything was a little less difficult, held his thoughts on the warmth and the sting to avoid the less tangible pain that he knew would only become stronger over the coming days. 

After rinsing off the blood and putting his shirt back on, he considered going out, even if just to circle the block, but realised doing so would mean having to finish his makeup, do his hair, tie up a pair of shoe laces, find his key, and go down the stairs. 

So he instead sat on the bed and watched Youtube on his laptop until it died. Then, he lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, drawing his fingers back and forth over his new wounds until they began again to bleed.