Shame On You! (Remdy)

2

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

* * * 

It was late when Oliver arrived home, and Remington was still awake, yawning but unable to sleep. While Oliver hung up his shirt and unbuckled his belt, Remington remained quiet, uncertain of whether the man was aware he was being watched. 

Turning towards the bed, Oliver caught Remington's gaze, smiled, lifted the covers and lay beside him. "Hey," he said. "Good day?" 

Remington looked at the ceiling, held his eyes on the light fixture, replied simply, "No." It was easier than he expected it would be to say, and when Oliver proceeded to ask why, if something had happened with his band, he said monotonously, "My band's fine. The album is coming out next week. We're very proud of it." 

Leaning on his elbow and eyeing Remington, Oliver spoke again. "Good," he said. "Then what happened? Why was it not a good day?" 

For a few moments, Remington was silent and still. Then he surprised himself by managing to say, "I cut myself." 

There was a long pause. What Oliver's initial response was, Remington had no idea, hadn't dared to look at him. "You cut yourself," he repeated. "Like, while you were making lunch?" 

Remington sat up without letting his eyes wonder towards him. "No, Oliver," he began, then sighed. "No. Not while I was making lunch." 

"So then how? Is it bad? Do you need to get stitches?" The oblivious tone to his voice made Remington's insides ache. How was it that a grown man - the grown man he had been with for two years, nonetheless - could be so unaware? 

Fixing his gaze on the mirror at the end of the bed, Remington said, "No. Listen. I cut myself. I cut myself. With my own hand." 

"Yes, but how? What were you doing?" 

Remington sighed and blinked. "What was I doing?" He echoed in a tired mutter. "What was I doing? My God, do I really have to go through this with you in detail?" 

"I really don't know why you're getting pissy with me." 

"Here's what happened, alright? I asked you when I moved in to put your razors away rather than leaving them out in the bathroom. You said you would but you didn't. Which is fine. I mean, it's your house, so it's fine, you can do what you want. But I asked you to put them away because - and I though you already knew this - when I'm in a depressive episode I tend to cut myself. You know, by taking a razor and physically cutting myself with it. So I was trying to prevent that from happening by not being around visible razors. Because when the temptation is there, I do it. Not by accident. On purpose. Alright?" 

A long silence followed. Remington kept staring at the mirror without glancing towards Oliver, waited for him to speak. He thought about the lunch he could have had with Andy earlier, the one he turned down with a weak lie. 

"What are talking about?" Asked Oliver eventually, shifting, sitting up beside him. "Depressive - what are you talking about?" 

The question bit into Remington. "You know what a depressive episode is," he mumbled. 

"Sure, when it's said about a teenage girl who wants attention. What the hell are you talking about having depressive episodes? And cutting yourself? Who does that? I don't understand."

"Are you serious?" 

"What? Am I serious? Are you serious? So what, you're having a depressive episode? And that's my fault for leaving a razor by the sink? Is that what you're saying?" 

"No, I...I never said it was your fault. It's no one's fault. I just - I'm sinking, and it's happened before, and usually my brothers are here. Like, we used to live together, so they were always there, and I'm not saying I'm their responsibility, but I just..." He sighed, shook his head. "All I'm trying to say is that I'm not doing well and I'd appreciate some help." 

Again, a long pause. Oliver was looking at Remington's side profile with a confused frown, and when Remington finally turned his head in his direction, he said, "What sort of help? Don't take this the wrong way. This all sounds a little melodramatic. You're twenty-eight, Remington, not seventeen. I can't believe you'd actually cut yourself. What's the use of that? To show people that you're sad? To prove your 'depression'? I just don't get it." 

Remington couldn't look away now that their eyes had made contact, but everything was telling him he should. "Okay," he whispered, swallowed. In a stronger voice, he added, "Okay. I'm sorry. I'll-I'll deal with it." 

"You don't need to be sorry, I just don't get why you'd do something so childish. But it's all good, don't worry about it. Let's just pretend this conversation never happened. Okay?" 

"Okay," Remington agreed, working hard to keep the tears from invading his voice. 

They settled down to sleep, Oliver turned away from Remington, Remington turned away from Oliver. 

Under the covers, he strokes his fingers over the wounds. This all sounds a little melodramatic. He considered those words. If his own boyfriend, someone he had chosen to live with, someone who had chosen to live with him, thought it was 'melodramatic', then was it true? 

He closed his eyes and listened to Oliver's breathing, waited until it slowed into that of sleep, and then slid out of the bed and crept into the bathroom, where he sat on the ground and clamped his hand over his mouth to avoid making a sound that would disturb his boyfriend.