Trigger warnings: Brief mention of suicide. Sad shit sorry

"Take a seat," Doctor Sanchez tells the men who have been called in for an update. She sees the greyness of Andy's eyes as he perches on a chair anxiously. "Thank you for coming. I have news."

They looks at her silently, anticipating the worst.

"Remington woke up early this morning. But before you celebrate," she says, cutting off their premature excitement. "He isn't himself."

Andy is staring at her. "In what way?" He asks rather loudly, considering the small room they're in.

She sighs to procrastinate saying it. "While he was in the coma, he must've created a way to comfort himself. A dream land, if you will. So he felt that he wasn't alone and that he was doing more than lying in a bed."

"And?"

His desperation to know more makes Doctor Sanchez cringe. "He's woken remembering that version of things." She says it quickly and can't bring herself to look at the group after.

Sebastian's eyes flick from Andy to Emerson and then back at Andy. Then he looks at the woman. "So he remembers a life he hasn't lived?"

"Essentially, yes. He has no memories of anything prior to the coma. He told me he remembers kissing a girl in-"

"A girl?" Andy cuts in, overly agitated because of being so exhausted.

"He said he remembers being at a party and kissing a girl. He said he's an only child. Everybody he thinks he knows are fictional people he's created to comfort himself. I'm so sorry."

Sebastian exhales heavily. "Fuck," he mumbles, "is he awake now? Can we see him?"

The woman hesitates. "You can, but-"

"Let us fucking see him!" Yells Andy.

"Hey, it's okay," Emerson says to him quietly.

"Whatever you smoke seriously warps your fucking brain! How the fuck is it okay? Huh? I don't know about you, but the idea of Remington not knowing me isn't okay!"

"If you'd like to see him, please understand he's not to blame and it can't be taken out on him. This isn't his choice."

"Just let me see him," Andy demands, softer now, in a breathy voice.

She steps towards the door and they follow her down the corridor and to the bedroom. "Not his fault," she reminds them, and pushes the door open.

Remington looks up from the magazine he's flipping through. He scowls. "Oh look, it's some grumpy men," he mumbles carelessly, channelling his boredom into being excessively rude.

"Remington, cut it out," Doctor Sanchez says firmly, "they've been worried about you. Show some respect."

"Yeah yeah, whatever." He folds his arms. "So, who are you? The pretend brothers or the pretend husband?"

"Both," Sebastian says flatly. "I forgot how much of a dick you were before you met Andy."

"So you're my brother and my husband? Man, that's fucked."

Sebastian closes his eyes for a second. "No, smartass. We're your brothers." He motions to Emerson. "Andy's your husband."

"He ain't my type," Remington retorts, "I don't tend to go for people with cocks. Personal preference, I guess."

"Wow, you're cold," Emerson says.

"I think you'll find I'm actually quite hot. That girl I kissed certainly thought so." He smiles sarcastically.

Andy keeps his head down in an attempt to avoid letting anybody see how close he is to tears.

"There was no girl."

The singer - not that he would know he's such a thing - scoffs. "You don't know shit. For all I know, you're just three psychos who wandered in off the street. You-" He points a finger at Emerson "-totally fit the part."

"Oi, fucker, tone it down. We're trying to be nice."

Remington rolls his eyes. "There's literally no reason why you need to be here. I was perfectly happy on my own reading about types of sofas."

"Yeah? Were you 'perfectly fine' on your own in the shower when you smashed your head?"

"Does it look like that did me any damage? No, so shut up. I'm alive and shit, for god's sake."

"You have no idea," mutters Sebastian.

"Yeah, no idea who the fuck you lot think you are. And what the hell is mopey over here doing? Is he gonna say shit or am I supposed to mind read?" He jabs a finger at his husband who apparently is no such thing.

Andy lifts his head. The tears are dangerously close. He can't speak.

"Great," Remington spits. "Just what I need. A sensitive little flower."

"Cut the shit, idiot. Have some sympathy. He's been worried off his ass."

"Not my fault."

"Well he ain't the one who cracked your head open, is he? He's probably the reason you ain't dead right now, so cut it out."

"It looks like he wants to be dead," Remington mumbles.

"Cut it out."

Andy stands and leaves. Emerson gets up and follows him out the room. "Andy, I'm so sorry," he says quietly, "I know it's hard."

The man slides down the wall and sits against it in defeat. "Hard? Emerson, I can't do this shit. D'you know how much I was hanging onto the hope that he'd wake up? And now he has, I..." He shakes his head and laughs dryly. "I'd rather he'd stayed in the fucking coma."

Emerson sits beside him. "We'll keep trying, Andy. He's remembering what he's being told this time. That's good, no?"

"Emerson, my Remington doesn't remember being mine. You try looking for a goddamn silver lining in that."

"He's not dead. Andy, you have to remember that he could be dead."

Andy wipes his eyes that are beginning to leak. "How are you so calm?"

"I don't know, honestly. Me and Seb, we're just like that."

"Remington's isn't."

Emerson laughs for a moment. "God, I know. Drama central whenever he's around."

"It's like a theatre at our house," Andy says, and then his expression sinks. "Well, it was."

"Look, Andy, please don't give up on him now. I know he's being a complete cock in there but you know he's not like that. He's confused, Andy. He's being told everything he knows isn't real."

"But he could be a little nicer about it."

"I know. Just give him a chance, okay? He still loves you, even if he's too stubborn to admit it yet. I know he does."

Andy puts his head in his hands and Emerson pulls him gently into him. They stay there until Sebastian returns from the room, when the three of them share hugs and sympathetic smiles, mostly aimed at Andy. Then they go home.