Help Me (sequel to Save Me)

Chapter 61

Trigger warning. :0

Remington is on the way home from therapy with the radio on, and frowns when Bruises by Transviolet comes on. (It's about domestic abuse.)

It gets him thinking; why are all these songs about abuse aimed at men amusing women? Why has he never heard any awareness about women abusing men? What if it's because men can't be abused, and he's been making a big fucking fuss about something that no one cares about? Can men be abused? Can men be raped? If no one talks about it, then surely the answer is no, men can't be abused and raped.

Perhaps Remington is just weak, pathetic, and all this is just a big fuss about nothing.

Young man, you better leave that girl alone.
The bruises don't lie.

But what about all the women who are hurting men? What about them? What about Remington's bruises, Remington's scar? What about Remington?

No one cares about Remington.

His head hurts and he grips the steering wheel tightly, trying to focus on something other than being abused, but his mind always lands back in the same place. Men can't be abused.

The song isn't on anymore, but he can still hear the words 'young man, you better leave that girl alone,' and can't seem to think about anything other than being abused all of a sudden. It's like it defines his personality.

The boy who was abused.
The singer who was stabbed.
The fuck up who was the reason for a band breaking up.

The fuck up.

The car swerves and someone behind him beeps their horn, and Remington jumps in his seat. He makes himself take in a breath and turns off the radio to try and ease the aching in his head. It hardly works.

He pulls into a car park and stops the vehicle, gripping the steering wheel and trying to calm his breathing. He remembers what Abigail said, how it's important that he can calm himself down, and forces a deep breath, but it's too hard, and he sobs, digging his head back into the seat and screwing his eyes shut. He has to be able to calm himself down, and as much as he wants to call Andy for help, he knows he can't. Abigail said he needs to calm himself down, and he will. He will.

He does what she said to do. Breathe slowly, close his eyes, count to ten, remember that he's safe, that he isn't dying, even though it feels like he is. It really feels like he is. His knuckles are white with how tightly he's grasping the steering wheel, and his head is spinning like he's in a washing machine, or on an awful roller coaster.

Oxygen seems stale and it's like his throat is blocked with cotton wool or concrete, and he gasps sharply, strangled and pained, and is sure he's only getting worse. What if he really can't calm himself down?

Breathing hurts more than it ever should and he routes around for his phone, calling Andy, putting it on speaker, and praying that he answers. When he does, Remington can't make his voice work, and Andy is made alert. "Sweetheart, are you having a panic attack?" He asks, concerned, stepping outside.

The boy sobs. "I-" he cuts himself off with a gasp and grabs his head in his hands.

"Listen to me, Remington, you're okay. Take a deep breath for me." His voice is so comforting, and Remington does his best to do what he's told. "Alright, sweetheart, that's it, nice and slow, you're okay."

"Sorry," the younger stutters.

Andy frowns. "No. Shush. Deep breaths. Where are you?"

Remington drops his hands into his lap. "Some carpark," he mumbles, "there was a song about-about abuse," he explains, needing to get it off his chest. "All the songs are about women being-women being abused. What if-Andy-what if men can't be a-abused?"

"That's not even a question, precious, of course men can be abused. Don't you start thinking that your abuse isn't valid because you're a man. That's ridiculous. Now, you keep breathing, and get yourself home, okay? I'll be back pretty soon. We'll talk about this later, yeah?"

"Okay. I love you."

Remington stays in the carpark for ten more minutes, until his head isn't so painful, and he's able to drive without having another panic attack. He drives slowly and when he gets home, makes himself a cup of tea and curls up on the sofa, waiting for Andy. He ends up falling asleep, and when Andy gets back, the man carefully moves him so he doesn't hurt his back.

The boy wakes an hour or so later, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Andy is sitting with Remington's head in is lap, and smiles gently at his husband, ruffling his hair. "Good sleep?"

Nodding and sitting up, Remington wraps himself in Andy's arms and exhales. "Thank you for helping me," he whispers, "I just-I tried to calm down by myself and I-I couldn't. And Abi said that I need to be able to, but I-I can't." He sobs suddenly, face in Andy's shoulder.

"It's okay," Andy assures him, "sweetheart, it's okay. Abigail is there to help you. You're alright. No more tears." He runs his fingers soothingly through the younger's hair.

Remington sniffles. "But what if-what if I'll never be able to calm myself down?"

The man shifts, legs across the sofa with his lover in his lap, head on his shoulder. "Petal, 'what if' never helped anyone. It's okay that you had to call me. The important thing is that you did call me, and I'm proud of you." He knows how much those words mean to Remington, how much he needs to hear them. "And, princess, you got home safely on your own, even after having a panic attack. You should be proud of yourself." In his lap, the boy lifts his head up and smiles, wiping his eyes, and Andy ruffles his hair. He knows that Remington is comfortable with him because he likes it when the man ruffles his hair, and everyone knows he hates when people do that.

"I fucking love you," the younger says, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. "I didn't scratch my wrists," he announces.

"See, sweetheart, you're making such good progress, and I fucking love you, too."