Shame On You! (Remdy)

6

Trigger Warning: Depression, suicide, panic attack

Remington wanted to apologise to Oliver, needing their usual conversations to return, so he called while the man was at his staff party, and the phone was answered by a voice he didn't recognise, that said, "He's busy right now. Can I take a message?" 

"I need to talk to him. I'm his boyfriend." 

"He's busy," the voice repeated, and Remington thought he heard a voice in the back, a muffled sound, like someone speaking into a pillow. 

"Doing what?" Remington asked. "He told me he was at a party? It'll only take a minute. I just need to talk to him." 

"He's busy," came the same response, and this time, there was an unmistakable laugh from someone beyond the phone. 

"Busy doing what?" He snapped, and couldn't miss the sound of a hand being pressed over the microphone. 

Though it wasn't pressed firm enough, for through the blur, Remington made out the words, "Busy doing what, he asked. What do I say?" Followed by, "I don't care, anything. Work stuff." 

The hand removed, the voice said, "Work." 

Remington knew he should hang up, but he couldn't. "'I don't care, anything,'" he echoed. "Wow. Okay. Can't even come up with a decent lie." 

The line went dead. Remington stared at his phone in disbelief. 

It took a few moments for the realisation to hit him completely, for the knowledge of Oliver cheating on him to mean anything more than that something else had gone wrong and he couldn't do anything about it. 

It wasn't just something else, it was a relationship that he had uprooted his life for, a relationship that he had dedicated two years to, a relationship that he had trusted and nurtured and sacrificed for. And now, none of that mattered, because it wasn't his relationship anymore. He was the fool. The damned loyal fool. 

So, the man he lived with didn't want him. 

Or, he did, but he didn't know how to show it. 

No, the man he lived with didn't want him. What other reason would there be for this level of disrespect? Deliberate disrespect, no less. Oliver couldn't play this out as an accident or mistake. He was there, with this man Remington had never met, feeding him lines like an actor's prompt, giggling as his boyfriend was told lie after lie, giggling as though he had not a care in the world other than how to continue with this disrespect. 

For some time, Remington lay on the couch staring at his phone in his hand. 

What was he supposed to do now? Up and leave? To where? He'd sold his house to live with Oliver. He didn't have a driver's license because he wasn't in one place long enough to learn all he needed to learn before he could get one. 

He was, he realised, stuck. Oliver had pulled him in with false promises of forever love, had given him a sense of fleeting security, had destroyed his mental state, and was now rolling idly around with a man Remington didn't know, somewhere he'd never been, while he lay on Oliver's couch coming to the horrifying conclusion that everything had lead to a dead-end. 

There was nothing he could do to fix this as he had fixed things in the past. Arguing with his brothers had always felt like the end of the world, but now he saw how stupid he'd been then. Arguing with his brothers was nothing compared to this. This could never be solved. 

He was crying, but he didn't realise until he touched his face and felt the stickiness of tears, felt sick at the thought of giving so much of himself into something that turned out to be a huge joke played on him. All this time, he thought Oliver loved him, thought Oliver wanted him. But of course, why would he? Of course. 

Remington covered his face with his hands, felt as though all his blood had rushed from his head, had to sit up to rid himself of the dizziness. In his chest, his heart pounded to the unsteady rhythm of disaster. There was a fire igniting in his lungs that he couldn't put out, every breath fuelling it so that it spread to his heart and then his throat. 

He blindly felt for his phone with his hand, grasped it, read through Andy's latest texts, asking if he was okay, if he wanted to go out, if there was something going on. He read them over and over until finally he allowed himself to press on the phone icon in the top right corner. 

Pressing the device to his ear, he tried to steady his hands which were shaking and his breathing which was running away with his heart. He listened to it ring twice before the words came, "Remington? Hey. Sorry for spamming you. What's up?" 

Remington was quiet. He held his breath so Andy wouldn't hear how erratic it was. He let the man speak again. He needed to know he really cared, needed to hear it in the tone of his voice and the choice of words. 

"Are you there? Remington? Listen, I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you. I miss you. I haven't heard from you in at least two weeks. You know you can tell me if I've done something to upset you. I want to know if I have."

There was a sigh from Andy, and then Remington released his breath and took another deep one to steady himself.  He didn't know what he wanted to say, if he wanted to say anything at all. 

Andy added, "I'm really sorry if I've done something. Honestly, I can say things without thinking. If I said something that hurt you, please know I'm sorry." 

Remington pulled his lip between his teeth and drew a breath through his nose. His face was hot with tears. There was a stone in his throat that he couldn't swallow. "Andy?" He asked waveringly. 

"Yeah?" 

Pressing his knuckles to his mouth, Remington closed his eyes, could see his boyfriend and the image of the man he didn't know folded over one another in a hotel bed somewhere. He inhaled sharply. "Where...where are you?" 

"I'm at home. Why? Is everything okay? You sound a little shaky." He had the concerned tone that Remington had been searching for in Oliver's voice for weeks and the sound caused him to muffle a sob into his hand. "Remington?" Andy asked. "Are you okay? Are you crying? What's going on?" 

Remington held the phone away from himself while he attempted to push back the sobs that were trying to escape. He brought it closer to say, "I'm-I'm sorry. You're-you're prob-probably busy, I-" 

"No, it's okay. I'm not busy. What's wrong?" 

"Nothing." 

"It doesn't sound like nothing. Are you home? Can I come over?" 

Remington held the phone away again and clamped his hand over his mouth. His abdomen ached. Bringing the device closer, he said, "I'm sorry. I don't-I don't know why I called. You don't-there's no need for you to-to do anything." 

"Remington, it's okay. I want to help. Will you let me in if I come over?"

"I think I-I think I should go now." 

"Go where?" Andy asked gently, as though he knew what Remington really meant, as though he understood. 

Sucking in a breath through his fingers, Remington could hardly grip the phone in his trembling hand. "Just...go," he said weakly. "Away." 

"Away?" 

"Away," Remington repeated. "Just...away." 

"Okay. I'm gonna come over." 

"No. It's-you don't-you don't need to. It's fine. I'm...fine." 

"I know, but I want to see you. I miss you." 

Remington turned his hand over and bit on his knuckles. 

Andy was leaving the house, the sound of keys clanging and doors closing drifting over the phoneline before Remington hung up and let the device fall onto the couch beside him. 

Like his body had been overcome with an outside power, he started, without the means to stop, wailing into his hand, gripping his stomach as it continued to ache, bent over himself like a plastic toy which had been snapped down the middle. 

The only thing keeping him from finding a bottle of pills was the inability to get up off the couch.