For more or less two days, Remington did little apart from sleeping, and when he was awake, Andy brought him hot tea and soup. On the third day, once he was finally beginning to come out of the exhaustion, he said to Andy in between sips of tea, "I might get sick more just so you can baby me." 

"You are a very cute person, Remi." Andy smiled. "I wonder often why you have so few friends, or indeed why you did not have a boyfriend, because you are so wonderful." 

"I'm a fat liar, remember," the singer said. 

"You are not a fat liar, you are an honest person who lies when you are afraid of what reaction the truth will get you. I understand you have many anxieties, Remington, and that you lie because you don't want anyone to know how you really feel." 

"So now you're a therapist, too?" 

"I am correct, though, yes?" 

Remington huffed. "Of course you're correct. You're always correct." He finished the last of his tea and Andy took the mug to put on the bedside table. "At least if shit ever gets bad, I won't have to pay for a therapist. Run a bath, will you?" 

"Of course." Standing, The Perfect added, "I hope you are feeling better than you were, Remi. You were very sick, you know. I have been worried. Even when you were asleep, you seemed to be uncomfortable." 

Picking up his book, Remington said, "I've just been hurting everywhere, but it's getting better now." 

"I am glad to hear that. I will run the bath now." 

In the warm water, Remington sunk down and continued reading for the best part of an hour, until his hands ached from holding the book up and he dropped it on the ground beside the tub, let his arms dip into the water. "Andy!" He called, then winced at the way it made his head throb, and when Andy appeared, he said much more softly, "You don't mind that I never call you Andrew, do you?" It was a sudden thought and he wasn't sure where it came from, but it seemed now to be very important, and he could tell by the expression that crossed Andy's face it was the last thing he had expected. 

"No," he answered. "I am happier with Andy." 

"Oh, that's good then."

"Why did you call?" 

"Oh. Right. Is there more soup?" 

"Yes, would you like me to heat it up?" 

"Please. I'll come down in a bit." 

"Okay. How is your book?" 

"Long." 

"Well, it is 756 pages." 

"How'd you know that?" 

Andy shrugged - it was the first time he had done that - and picked up the book to check the number of pages. "It was a guess," he said. "But there are 756 pages. That is strange." 

"I'm not even surprised at this point. A little impressed, though." 

"Yes, so am I. I did not realise I could do that. Alright, I will heat up some soup. You will be okay getting out without slipping? You were very unstable when you walked up to bed." 

"I think I'm fine now. Walking, I mean. Not fine fine. I still hurt like a bitch, and I still could sleep for eternity, and I'm craving soup so strongly I might implode, and also I'm crazy horny and your prettiness is torture." 

Andy laughed to himself and Remington was so surprised at the human gesture that he stared at Andy until The Perfect raised an eyebrow and said, "What?" 

"Why'd you laugh?" 

"It was funny." 

"What was?" 

"The way you speak sometimes, it is funny to me. I will heat up the soup now, and you will call if you cannot get out safely, because I fear if you slip, you may hit your head." 

"Alrighty," Remington said, winking for no reason. 

"You are very strange," Andy said, smiling to himself as he turned and left the room. 

Remington ate soup in the living room, wearing an extra-large hoodie that he could use as a blanket by curling his legs up beneath it. Next to him, Andy ate his own, and when they were done, Remington lay across his lap and went back to sleep. When he next woke up, he was alone on the couch and there was a glass of water on the coffee table, which he drank before getting up and stretching out his arms.

For a few minutes, he leant against the doorframe of Andy's room, which was now used for his art, since they slept together in his bed, and watched him paint. He wasn't sure whether Andy was aware he was there, but had a feeling that there was no way he wasn't aware, not with how insanely intelligent he was, and his suspicion was confirmed when Andy said without looking at him, "You are feeling okay, Remi?" 

"Yeah, I'm good. What's the time?" 

"Eleven nineteen pm. You slept for six hours. I didn't want to wake you, you have been so tired recently." 

"Thanks, Andy. Can I see what you're painting?" 

"Yes, of course." 

The canvas, which was slightly bigger than A3, was layered with carefully applied oranges and yellows and deep pinks and reds. A sunset, only it wasn't a sunset, but a great fire that was engulfing the same building he had drawn in his sketchbook, with the same incorporated poetry, which, when read from top to bottom, formed into a verse: 

They say there was progress

The holy among usI thought they would lead us through the nightBut fear has consumed usA feeling we can't trustI hope this will open up their eyes

Stand up before it gets too late
Love now when all is down to hate

Remington thought about what it could represent. He knew the building was something Andy had been proud of. It was his own creation, his own imagination, and he had spent days perfecting it, and now, he was spending days setting it on fire, spending days depicting the destruction of his pride. He wondered if he should be worried, if Andy was concealing some dark thoughts, some desire to destroy more than just an imaginary building.