Shame On You! (Remdy)

4

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

So, Oliver was ashamed of Remington's state. That much had quickly become obvious. There was nothing Remington could do to change that; he could ask for help until his vocal cords tore and would still be told the same thing.

That he was melodramatic and childish was also apparent, but how could he become anything else when this was how he was feeling? Was it melodramatic if he couldn't help it? 

Nine days went by this way: 

While Oliver was at work, Remington would use a disposable razor from the bottom of his makeup container that he had bought months ago for a photoshoot in which he wanted to shave his legs to add to the rapidly growing collection of slashes in his left arm. None went below his elbow so that he could, if he was required to, wear shirts without worrying they would fall down his arm and expose what he'd been doing. The most painful wounds were in the bend of his elbow. The skin there was tender and the raw wounds rubbed against eachother as he went about his disappointing days.

Each day proved to use up more of his limited effort than the day before, the simplest tasks becoming chores.

It wasn't that he'd never experienced it before, because he had, but previously, he'd had someone there to talk to and to make sure he was showering and eating and getting out of bed, even if only for an hour. His brothers knew his depression in and out, could anticipate an episode almost before he knew it was happening, would seem to abandon everything in their own lives to pull him out and hold him back from the fall. Even Andy had helped him in the past, though with both of them being touring musicians, it was rare that they were in town at the same time. 

But this time, his brothers weren't around, he had no idea how to admit to Andy that it was happening again after insisting he was 'better' following the last time, and the man he lived with wanted nothing to do with it and had no interest in trying to help. 

So in short, he was actually alone this time. Not like the other times, when it felt that way but when he in fact was surrounded by people who cared. This time, it was for real. There was no one else. 

Andy was still texting him daily, though he hadn't replied for at least three days. He wondered when the man would give in and stop trying, felt a small amount of comfort in the fact that he was so persistent about them doing something together while they were both home. But the comfort was smothered by guilt, because he'd left him on read so many times that it should have been a crime. 

On the tenth morning, he lay with his eyes closed, arm throbbing, and listened to Oliver get ready for work, waited pointlessly for something to be said. Are you okay? Or, I'm sorry. I do care. Or even just, Can I give you a hug? But Oliver left without saying anything, and Remington turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, and tears ran down the sides of his face. He didn't move until they dried. 

He reached for his laptop but found it was out of battery, eyes filling at the discovery so that he had to shake his head to make them go away. He turned onto his side and held Oscar's pillow to him, tried to make himself believe it was a person and that they had their arms around him. 

A hug from Oscar wasn't what he wanted anymore. After all that had been said, a hug wouldn't have changed anything.

He wanted to call his brothers and tell them what was going on, but he knew they would cut their holidays short to come to his side and he couldn't make them do that when they barely ever had the chance to go away.

He wanted to text Andy and agree to go to the art gallery but his phone had died, and besides, Andy was in the studio with his band every day and didn't need an interruption. Remington knew how hard Black Veil Brides worked and could never be the one to hinder their progress. 

Anyway, he had dealt with this all before. Why couldn't he do it again? 

He hadn't realised he'd spent the entire day in bed, save for using the bathroom, until he heard the front door open and close. Horrified with himself, he shot up and out of the room, descending the stairs before Oliver would realise he'd been upstairs.

In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and stood against the counter while it boiled.

Dumping a bag of shopping on the table, Oliver said, "Make me a coffee, would you? I'm exhausted." 

"Sure." Then, Remington asked, "Everything okay?" 

"What? Oh. No, yeah. Just a bunch of people are getting fired next week and I've been made responsible for telling them. Downside of the promotion, I guess." 

"That sucks." 

"Yeah. And one of them is Jane. The woman who used to drive me to and from work before I got my license. I feel so bad for her, I don't think she deserves it. And she's a single mother, so she's barely coping as it is." 

Remington turned towards the cupboard to retrieve mugs and to hide how close he was to tears. His boyfriend was more concerned about a woman he worked with than the man he lived with. "Maybe you could convince your boss to spare her?" He suggested, spooning coffee granules into the mugs. 

Sitting down, Oliver said, "Yeah, I don't know. Maybe." 

With the drinks, Remington joined him at the table. "How was your day?" He asked. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to Oliver talk about work, but it was better than to sit in silence with the knowledge of how something he couldn't control was controlling him.

"Oh, it was okay. My job is actually enjoyable now I've been promoted." He sipped his coffee and looked at Remington, who was wearing a long sleeved shirt. "Didn't you sleep in that?" He asked in a voice that reminded Remington of how teachers would speak to him whenever he made a mistake. Without giving him time to respond, Oliver went on, adding, "That's disgusting." 

Remington looked at his drink like he could drown in it. "I know," he said weakly. "I didn't feel well this morning so I didn't get up for a while." 

"Why, what's wrong?" So, there it was. Physical ailments were acceptable, easy to understand, but anything beyond it was melodramatic and childish. There it was. 

"You know what's wrong," muttered Remington rather coldly. Voice thick with bitterness, he then said, "I'm sorry you have to fire someone, that must be really hard for you." The sarcasm was unmissable, and made Oliver's face turn sour. 

Putting his mug down, he looked blanky at Remington for a few seconds before biting back with, "Why don't you go and make yourself bleed again if you've nothing nice to say?"  

At that, Remington couldn't stop his eyes from leaking. He swiped his hand over them, stood, shoved his chair violently under the table, mumbled, "Go to hell," and walked out.

He did make himself bleed, and he didn't know how he could ever face Oliver again after that argument.