Remdy one shots

Redeemer

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of depression, suicide, guns, death, self harm, eating disorder/weight

Was looking through some chapters from Help Me to see how my writing had changed since I wrote that and came across a comment from Cece_Di_Chiaro  which gave me this idea, so credits to them, ILY.

Kinda set in the Save Me universe  I suppose, but doesn't matter if you've never read it, it'll still make sense. (Hands up who still loves Save Me like I do). 

Remington had found a gun.

The tour had been dragging lately. They had been away from home for more than four months and, as it often did, the distance and lack of sleep was getting to them all, though some more than others. 

Mostly, they could handle it with coffee and with the joy of meeting fans each night, and for years, Remington had turned to exercise as a stress relief, and for years, it worked. At least, it worked enough for him to get through the months and return home partially sane. 

This time, that was not an option. His therapist, Abigail, told him more than once that he should not over-work or over-exercise his body because of his unhealthy weight. He trusted her and he knew she was right, but with the constant pressure of expectations thrown at him from fans and their record label and everybody else, he didn't know how he was supposed to deal with it. 

It wasn't a secret, his eating disorder. He had been diagnosed months before the tour and told social media because he figured that was better than them speculating about his dramatic loss of weight and muscle and consequently, his lack of mirror selfies. They'd have figured it out soon enough, it was easier to just tell them from the start. 

Most of their fans took the news as he'd expected. They expressed concern and wished him better. A few were skeptical of it being a publicity stunt, and some said simply to 'eat a sandwich'. Those were the fans that made him regret saying anything. 

They had been travelling for at least eighteen hours by the time they finally arrived at the venue. It was early afternoon and their first plan of action was to find food for lunch before soundcheck. Remington dreaded it, and was grateful for Andy, his husband, who offered to get him something so he didn't have to walk around a food shop. 

"Something small," the singer had insisted. 

Andy kisses his head and said, "Won't be long," as he left with the others. 

Now, Remington was alone in the bus and he had found a gun. 

It was in a public bathroom they had stopped at late last night after discovering their toilet was blocked and didn't want to risk it flooding. The weapon had been wrapped in a piece of fabric, an old tea towel, and Remington supposed someone had been trying to get rid of it. Either that, or they'd simply forgotten to pick it up. 

Either way, it was a gun and it was loaded and he had found it. 

He had hardly touched it, had promptly hidden it at the bottom of his bag, still in the towel. He didn't want anyone to find it. He needed it if things got worse, and things were getting worse. 

Almost as soon as everyone left the bus, he lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. It had been fine for a while. Fine, urging on not fine, but yesterday, shortly before finding the gun, he had made the mistake of wrapping a tape measure around his waist and checking how much he had gained. It was like a kick in the gut and it wasn't even a whole inch. Still, he had gained something, and that wasn't fine. He could deal with staying the same, but this wasn't fine anymore. He supposed it was the measurement that had tipped him over the edge.