Trigger warning: Mentions of self-harm/depression

Remington no longer bothered learning the names of whoever was calling themselves friends that week, and tried to back out of conversations by claiming he needed a cigarette (he didn't smoke), and would retreat out the back door for two minutes to make it look convincing. He knew how it went with these people; he was the famous one. His brothers were of course famous too, but he was the frontman, the face of the band, the voice of the band. Anyone who was chasing popularity swarmed around him, even if they said they were Emerson's friend, or Larisa's client, or Sebastian's friend's cousin. It was him they were all after.

He didn't know why he was even here this time. They all went the same. Smile, pretend to be interested in whatever crap they were talking about, explain his phone was broken when they inevitably ask for his number, and then excuse himself to smoke. With the amount of times he said, 'I need a cigarette', he might as well have started smoking. It seemed, too, that most of them - these 'friends' - preferred him when they found out he smoked, like it made him automatically better at his job.

What he wanted was to go home and cut himself, and the only reason he hadn't gone home was because he wanted to cut himself. As long as he was here, surrounded, he couldn't do anything, and he was determined not to do anything. He was better than that. He knew he was.

Andy wasn't here this time. With the attacks, they both agreed it was better for him to stay at home. Besides, Andy was content with painting for most of the day, so there was no reason to drag him to a pointless party that he had no need to go to. He didn't like many of the people there, and Remington didn't blame him. Most of them were massive gold-digging cocks.

Now, a young woman was talking about how 'cool' and 'interesting' she thought he was, that his band was 'gonna make it big' - her polite way of saying 'you're gonna get rich and I want to cling onto you so that I get rich, too'. She was smiling a sickly amount, sipping at a glass of champagne that was way too expensive to be wasted on the likes of her, and started with the complements, the endless words of him being 'hot' and 'having women at his feet'. Weeding for sex so that she'd get special treatment from the singer, who, to her, was just a rich, famous, hot guy.

Remington finished his drink and said tiredly, "Why don't you go talk to someone who cares?" Then he smiled sharply and turned away.

The next time he was approached, he shook his head and walked away while they were mid-sentence, not caring about coming across as rude because he'd rather that than listen to anymore of their crap.

By the time he was pulling up outside his house in the early evening, he was ready to either cry, throw up, or slice his hand off, and clattered through the front door, the sickness he had just gotten over returning rapidly. He realised then how right Andy had been, that he was overworked and needed a break, and also that Andy had been right that morning, when he said, "I think perhaps you should not stay long at the party. You are still a little unwell."

In the house, he kicked off his shoes and flung his jacket in the vague direction of the hooks, and when the coat landed on the floor, he was so frustrated and tired and annoyed with his own inability to look after himself that he begun to cry.

"Remington?" Andy asked from the top of the stairs. He descended them. "It did not go well?"

He wiped his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing goes well anymore," he mumbled, then felt pathetic, so added, "It's fine. It's normal."

"Remington, you are upset. It's not fine."

"It's normal," he said again.

Andy picked up his jacket to hang up. "You are wanting to harm yourself," he said, and Remington didn't have a clue how he could tell so easily, but had never been so thankful for anyone in his life.

Remington didn't nod because Andy knew it was true already, like he could somehow see into his head. A superpower that comes with having a metal brain, or something. Whatever it was, Remington was grateful that it existed, and was further grateful for the hug that Andy gave him, which he melted into.

"I am worried about you," Andy said. "You are not taking care of yourself, Remi."

"You don't understand," Remington mumbled, though he knew Andy did understand. "I don't have the time."

"You should not prioritise your band over your health."

"I have responsibilities."

"Remington, you will make yourself very unwell if you don't look after yourself."

"I know."

Andy stroked his hair. It was something he'd picked up from Remington doing it to him the times he needed comforting, figured that if it soothed him, it'd sooth Remington. "I think you should tell your brothers," he said.

Remington lifted his head and looked at him, frowned. "Tell them what?" He asked.

"That you are unhappy."

"Everyone's unhappy, Andy."

"Remington, you have come home from a party crying and wanting to harm yourself."

"Yeah, and?"

"And that is worrying. But I will not lecture you about it now, I can see you are going to get more upset if I do. I've made dinner, would you like some?"

Nodding, Remington wiped his eyes again. "You've been different," he said. "Since the thing with Deon. I thought you'd want to talk about it."

Andy's expression stiffened. He couldn't not talk about it now it had been brought up. It was one of the things he couldn't control. "It is to do with my programming. I am possessive, you understand. I cannot help it as it is a part of my mind. I did not want to discuss it while you were unwell."

"Are you unhappy with me?"

"No, Remi. I am unhappy that I feel this way, because I understand that you were helping Deon, and I am happy that you are such a kind Human, but I cannot control my possessiveness. It is part of me, to feel wounded when my Human interacts with another Perfect, and I am sorry. I do not enjoy being this way and I am trying to detach myself from this feeling."

Remington frowned at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You did a good thing, you should not apologise. This is because of the way I was created."

"Will you feel like this forever?"

Andy hesitated - another hint of humanness. "I do not know yet," he answered. "I am working on it. But I do not wish to discuss this while you are so upset. You would like some dinner now?"

"That sounds nice, thanks. And Andy? Next time I make you feel this way, or any other way that isn't good, please tell me. I want to be the best I can for you. You do so much for me, I don't want you to feel unhappy."

"Okay, Remi. Thank you. You are most kind. I will heat up the food now. You will not harm yourself while I am busy?"

"No. I'll put the telly on."

"You are lying," Andy decided. "Your voice, it is not as soft when you lie. I have noticed it when you speak to your brothers sometimes, and your friends. You are good at lying, Remi, but I was created to be honest and therefore to detect dishonesty in others." His hands on Remington's shoulders, he said, "You will sit in the kitchen so you are not alone."

Remington didn't have the strength to argue, and didn't see much point in trying. It was becoming clear just how perceptive and intelligent Andy was, especially when it came to him, so he shrugged, then nodded, and followed him into the kitchen.