Fix Me (Alternative ending)

Chapter 62

Three chapters in one day?? Y'all are lucky

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, self harm, depression.

If u can read this without at least wanting to cry then wtf are u ok

The front door is locked. Remington bangs on it, shouting that it's him, panicked. He runs around the house and tries the back door, rushing in when he discovers that it's open. "Andy!" He yells, clattering into each room. "Andy! It's me!"

Andy is in the bedroom when Remington finds him, knelt with his forehead against the wall, hands on either side of his head, sobbing so heavily that every fibre of his being rattles. He doesn't move to look at Remington because the migraine is so bad that moving feels like dying.

Remington puts his hands to his husband's shoulders, pulls him away from the wall and into his arms, where Andy crumples into him. "I got you," he soothes, and repeats it while stroking the man's hair and rocking him back and forth.

It's impossible to calm down. Andy doesn't even know where he is anymore. He just cries and cries because he finally hit breaking point and didn't even think Remington would open his message, no matter rush here and hug him as though the fights never happened.

After fifteen minutes, Remington's legs begin going numb but he doesn't care. He could be dying and he'd still care more about Andy, who's clearly in desperate need of physical affection and someone to make him a hot cup of tea and a bowl of soup. The boy can't not be teary. He's never seen anyone in this state before. He's sure he's never felt this bad himself, even. Forty five, Andy said in the song. Remington doesn't think he's ever been above forty.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "I shouldn't have left, I'm so sorry. I knew you were hurting and I still left."

Andy can't respond, can't face doing anything other than gripping his husband and focusing on the feeling of his arms around him, the hand in his hair. His skin is uncomfortably hot and wet with distressed tears and the only think making it feel better is Remington's gentle voice, the words 'you're not on your own' making it feel, finally, as though breathing is possible.

At some point, Remington's phone starts ringing. He ignores it, knowing it'll be Abigail, who said, when he told her what was going on before quickly leaving, that she'd call later to make sure they're both okay. He makes a mental note to call her back and wipes tears from Andy's face when he lifts his head. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, the expression the man holds making it hard for Remington to speak without breaking.

Andy looks like he could start crying again at any moment. The fragility of his state is as delicate as a thin sheet of ice covering a deep lake. Just a tiny crack and it all breaks.

"I love you so much," Remington is saying, a hand on Andy's cheek, the contact so needed that it makes the man cry again. "It's okay now. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm so sorry."

Andy closes his eyes, wiping new tears away messily with the back of his hand, too tired to do anything properly. He presses his face into Remington, where shoulder meets neck, and blindly grabs at the younger's hand, pulling it to his chest and holding it there because he needs to know Remington isn't going anywhere.

The younger is choked up now, wondering what sort of unbearable thoughts must have been plaguing Andy's lonely mind these past few weeks. He should have stayed. He knows that now. He should have got over himself and stayed, just to be here so that this wouldn't be happening. Andy's more important that some stupid argument. Remington carefully moves so he can stretch his legs out, his husband gripping his hand tighter, scared that he's gonna be left alone again. He couldn't deal with that.

"Your song was beautiful," says Remington, "and heart breaking. I got so caught up in myself, I didn't think about how it was hurting you. I've been so selfish and I don't know how you'll ever forgive me. You did nothing to deserve this. I never wanted to make you feel like you couldn't go on. I'm so fucking sorry." He lies on his back slowly, so Andy can have his head on his chest and hear his heart, reaching for a pillow and slipping it beneath his head.

One hand gripping Remington's and the other half-covering his face, Andy drinks in the words, the same way one would gulp down water after having had none for days. The sensation of being close to his husband again is overwhelming and relieving and Andy wonders how the hell he ever managed to wake up each day without it. He hadn't really understood the meaning of soulmate until recently, when the only person he's wanted to look at and talk to and hear and feel and be close to and touch was the very same person who was not on such terms with him.

Remington's hand is sweaty in Andy's but he doesn't notice. "I should've called you last night," he says, "I nearly did. I know I should've." He takes the man's hand from his face, presses six kisses to his bruised knuckles, wondering what he did to hurt himself like that.

The truth is, Andy was so angry with himself for the excessive crying and the terrible head ache that he began punching the wall and screaming, which, of course, only made it all worse. Last night he almost let himself drown in the bathtub. He really did consider it. Sat there, at some unholy hour, tears in the water, eyes so heavy it felt like the biggest struggle just keeping them open. He had dipped his head under, closed his eyes, and didn't break out of the water until he thought he might pass out.

"I know I've done you wrong," Remington goes on, "you're not the one to blame for any of this. Please don't blame yourself." He presses another kiss to Andy's hand. "I can't bear to think of you lying in bed and thinking I didn't care. I do care. You know that, don't you? Please know that. I never stopped caring and I never stopped loving you. I just...I made a mistake and I'm so sorry that I didn't realise sooner. You didn't deserve any of this."

Andy doesn't bother trying to wipe tears anymore. He's too tired.

"I'm gonna take care of you, okay? I promise. I'm gonna stay right here with you because that's what I should've done from the start." He can feel Andy shaking. "I'm your husband and I think I forgot what that meant for a moment. You're my husband. You're my everything."

The voice of his lover feels like the voice of an angel to Andy, who is sure he wouldn't have lasted another ten minutes on his own. When Remington moves again, to avoid getting a sore neck, he whimpers, pulling both his hands closer.

"It's okay, baby, it's alright. I'm not going anywhere," the younger assures quickly, "you just listen to my heart, it's okay. We'll stay right here as long as you need to."

Andy drifts to sleep after nearly two hours on the floor holding Remington's hand. His sleep is deep enough that Remington can get him into bed without waking him. He tucks the covers around him, fills a glass with water for when he wakes, and slips out of the room to call Abigail, who answers straight away. Remington tells her that Andy's safe, that they're gonna be okay, making soup while the man sleeps and going up to sit on the bed beside him until he wakes.

When he does wake, he groans quietly, looking up at Remington, who sends him a sympathetic, warm smile. He rubs his eyes the way he's seen the boy do so often, noticing how bad his head hurts and pressing a hand to it.

"You're dehydrated," Remington tells him, "been crying so much and not drinking enough. Here, water." He picks up the glass, waiting for Andy to sit up before giving it to him.

The older drinks it gratefully, just relieved that he didn't wake to find that he dreamt about Remington coming home and that he's really still alone. He daren't say anything, scared that his voice won't work or the words won't make sense or that he'll start crying again.

Remington takes the empty glass back, goes to get off the bed. He's pulled back and Andy goes straight back to sleep with his body curled into the boy's side.