Trigger warning: Mentions of panic attack/anxiety, self-harm/depression

In the studio two days after having sex with Andy, Remington was cheerful and smiling. He had spent the previous two days at home with his Perfect to help him properly calm down and made sure he was feeling better before leaving him alone in the house.

By now, Andy was well versed on how to look after himself while he Remington was working, could cook and clean and keep himself entertained with books and drawing and, sometimes, flipping through the information manual about his entire existence out or curiosity, to see if there was anything he didn't know about himself. He had discovered with each page turn that there wasn't anything Remington had done wrong, that he was living with perhaps the best human he could possibly be living with.

The band still hadn't come to a decision regarding the lyrics, and that afternoon, Remington said, "How about we just write new ones as a group and then we'll all be happy with them?"

But Sebastian shook his head. "I like the ones we have now," he insisted. "I don't see what's wrong with them."

"That's because you're not a lyricist," Remington fired. "You're a guitarist. Learn the difference."

"Oh, and you are a lyricist, I suppose?"

"Seb, I sing everything, I write everything, what do you think?" 

"What do I think? I think you're full of shit, and I also think I'm bored of this argument so we're keeping they lyrics what they are." 

"Everyone thinks they're rubbish, Sebastian. Me, Em, Andrew. I'm sorry that you and Jennie are so old that you're going deaf already, but for fuck's sake, accept defeat. Three against two, fucker." 

"I am not going deaf!" 

"Just stupid, then," Remington mumbled. "Alright. Let's just record this and be done with it." 

In the recording booth, he didn't sing the lyrics they had currently, but instead words he had written by himself, that he had memorized, and when Sebastian demanded they stop the recording, he rolled his eyes, huffed, and said into the microphone, "Grandpa needs his afternoon nap." 

"Cut it out," Sebastian snapped. 

"You know, I was in a good mood until you opened your mouth." 

"And I wonder why you were in a good mood, huh?" 

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, come on. We all know it. Your robot is feeding you ego-boosting complements all day, no wonder you like it so much." 

"He's a he, not an it, and he's not a robot. Get it through your skull," Remington hissed. "And yes, I was in a good mood because of him, because he's fucking nice. You heard of that before? You know, being nice." 

"It's a hunk of plastic and metal and you're in love with it because it looks pretty, and we all know all you care about is looks. Mister I need a haircut, and I'm gonna be late today because I have to buy more eyeshadow, and fucking I had a mental breakdown last night because I realised that my nose isn't fucking perfect! Get a grip! You're the singer, not the whole fucking band. We all make decisions, not just you!" 

"That's not true, Sebastian! I'm not that fucking shallow! You're the one who's too ashamed to admit that the only reason you still have that fucking hairstyle is because you're afraid anything else might make you look fucking old! Well guess what! You're gonna be old one day! You're gonna be thirty, and then forty, and then you'll be fifty! Get over it and fucking shut your mouth before I ram this microphone down your throat until you can't breathe!" Yanking the headphones off, Remington opened the booth door and shouted, "Why don't you fucking sing if you like the lyrics so much? Go on, see how that turns out, you selfish, old cunt." 

"Don't use that word!" 

"What? Cunt? Why not, if it's what you're being? A fucking selfish fucking cunt! Now either let me sing the better lyrics, or I'm going home to rant about you to Andy, who actually gives a shit." 

"He doesn't care, he's a fucking robot!" 

Remington launched himself at his brother and Emerson grabbed him and pulled him away. "Just go," the drummer said into his ear. "Go home. Cool off. I'll deal with him. Tell Andy I can come round tomorrow if he wants. I'm sorry about the attacks." Then he wrapped his arms around Remington and whispered, "He gave you a hickie." 

"Oh, shut up," Remington complained, even though he was aware of the hickie and hadn't bothered to cover it up before he left. "Come round at one, I'll make lunch. Thanks, Em, Love you." 

"Love you too, idiot. Go on, before he tries to kill you." 

Remington left angrily, but not quite as angry as he had been prior to Emerson's hug, and drove home with a tight grip on the steering wheel. Once he had taken his shoes and jacket off, he found Andy in the living room reading a book he had ordered online, since they were being cautious about not going out to anywhere too public. 

"You're early," Andy said, closing the book with a bookmark inside. "Are you alright?" 

Flopping down beside him, Remington exhaled heavily, the anger having turned to sadness. "Fine." 

"I do not believe you. You are very tense. Something has made you upset while you were with your band." 

"As per fucking bloody usual," Remington muttered. "Oh, Remington, how dare you want to write lyrics that don't suck, how fucking dare you try and make a song sound good." 

"Sebastian is still disagreeing with you." 

"Sebastian is a huge pile of dog shit." 

"Would you like some chocolate cake?"

Remington turned his head towards Andy. "You made cake?" 

"I enjoyed it. Would you like some?" 

He nodded, and Andy got up to get him a slice. "Thanks," Remington said once he had returned. "Did we have enough ingredients?" 

"The flour has run out now, but there was enough for this." The Perfect sat beside him. "You want to talk about why you are upset?" 

"There's nothing really to talk about. Sebastian thinks he's right, as usual, and he's still not got over the fact you exist, and he keeps insulting you because he knows it gets under my skin, and we keep fighting, and I just want to finish the fucking song." He bit into the cake. "Oh, shit, that's yum." 

"Thank you." A pause, then, "Perhaps you would benefit from a conversation with Sebastian, away from the studio and your band, to work all your differences out." 

"I don't know. I'd much rather he just fucking got over himself." 

"I think 'fucking' is your favourite word." 

"I think you might be right." 

"You would like a hug?" 

"Yes. Hug." 

"I'm sorry I am causing problems for you two," Andy said while wrapping his arms around Remington, who put the plate of cake down to sit in Andy's lap and push his face into Andy's shoulder. 

"Not your fault, babe," he mumbled, then, "Hold me tighter. Your arms are so nice and strong." 

Andy put a hand to the back of his head. "You are very cute," he said quietly. 

Remington hummed. He had closed his eyes and was pressing his body to Andy's. "I want to cut." He hadn't done it for months, but had gone through an awful phase of doing it everyday, shortly after returning home from a tour. The transition from living with ten plus people to living on his own was difficult to handle, and after not harming himself since he was a teenager, he did it again. It was one of the reasons why he decided to get a Perfect, why it was so important that his Perfect was gentle and calm and protective of him, which Andy was. 

His brothers didn't know, never had known, that he did it. Even as a teenager, he kept it a secret, did it late at night when they were asleep. Not even their mother knew, and he was sure if she ever did, she'd be so disappointed he couldn't bear to look at her again. 

"You want to cut yourself?" Andy asked in his calm, warm voice. 

Remington just hummed. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"No, just hold me. I'll be okay." He sighed. "You won't let me, will you? Don't let me do it." 

"Of course not, Remi. I'll keep you safe. That is my purpose." 

"You have lots of purposes." 

"Then that is my main purpose." 

"Thanks, Andy. I really needed this today." 

"I am glad to help you. Are you going back to the studio with your band tomorrow?" 

"Day after." 

Andy stroked his hair. "And you will talk to Sebastian?" 

"Shout, more likely." 

"Sebastian did not give me a good first impression," Andy said. 

"I know. Sorry he's so rude to you. It's because he's old." 

"He's old?"

"No. Not really. He just hates being called old, so I call him old." 

"That is very petty, Remington." 

"I know, I know. I shouldn't do it. It's not really helping anything." He lifted his head to look at Andy. "Maybe I'll stop." 

"I think it would be best. You didn't finish the cake." 

"I will in a sec." 

"I made dinner, also." 

"You did? You didn't have to." 

Andy smiled at him. "I enjoyed it and I have made a list of food we have run out of." 

"Oh. Thanks. I'll go shopping later. How's your art coming along? Em's coming round tomorrow, by the way. He wants to see you." 

"It's coming along well, thank you. I look forward to seeing Emerson. You are feeling a little better now?" 

"A little. Pass me the cake."