Trigger Warnings: Censored f slur, talk of suicide/depression, sad :( 

Two weeks after leaving hospital, Sophie requests to see Palaye Royale in her office for a discussion. She asks for Remington to join them and Sebastian has a difficult and frankly hysterical time trying to explain to him why he's needed.

"You're telling me I can sing?" Remington asks, after ten minutes of Sebastian repeating the importance of him in the band.

The guitarist groans dramatically. "Yes, idiot. You can sing."

"Huh, cool."

"In fact, let's try it now. C'mon"

"C'mon where?"

Sebastian rolls his eyes. "The studio."

"The what?"

"It's literally in this building, just come." He turns and walks away, Remington following out of curiosity. Sebastian takes him into the large room where they record and produce all their songs. "See," he says, "you used to spend all your time in here. I think you slept on that couch most nights."

Remington looks around with intent. Sebastian hasn't seen him so interested in something since he woke. "So...what? I'm in a band?"

"We're in a band. Me, you, Emerson, our guitarist Andrew, and our bassist Johnny."

"Who and who?"

"You haven't met them yet."

"So it's not mopey Andy. Phew."

"Quit it with that nickname. It's not nice."

"He's the f**, not me."

Sebastian glares at him sternly. "No," he says with a fatherly tone. "You say that again and you're on the streets. Understand?"

"It's just a word, god."

"Remington, I know being a dick is, like, your thing at the moment, but that word isn't okay under any circumstance, don't fucking say it."

"It's not like you're one, so who cares?"

"Not like I'm 'one'? Jesus."

"Well, you're not, are you?"

"No, fucker, I'm not gay, but you still can't say it. Just focus, will you?"

Remington huffs. "Fine. Focusing. Continue."

"Just listen to this." Sebastian crosses to a computer, finding one of their songs and playing it through the speakers, and Remington sits down as he listens.

He's quiet. The quietest he's been for a while. His foot taps with the rhythm and then Sebastian notices a sincere smile gracing his features. Only when the song is over does Remington talk. "That's me?" He asks. He sounds strangely close to tears.

"That's you," Sebastian confirms.

"Holy fuck."

"See, told you that you can sing."

Remington nods. "Do you have any words written down? I wanna try."

It doesn't take long for Sebastian to find lyrics online to the song they just heard. He gets his brother to sit at the computer so he can see the screen, playing the song again and encouraging Remington to sing along with the recording. By the third play-through, it's as though he's been practicing for months. "Still got it," Sebastian says, smiling. "That was sick."

"I remember," Remington tells him. "Put another one on."

Sebastian does, and Remington finds the lyrics, the melodies, and everything else in his brain without much trouble. Soon, he's sung through all of their released songs practically perfectly, and things are looking up.

Emerson persuades Andy out of the house for a walk, resorting to practically dragging him through the door and towards the footpath. "This is ridiculous," Andy complains, walking with purposeful reluctance.

"Your band have been calling, you know?"

"I know. I'm ignoring them."

Emerson hums. "Why?"

"How should I know?"

"Andy-"

"Leave it. I'm not in the mood. Where are we going?"

"You have to talk about it, Andy. It's not healthy."

The man shakes his head. "I don't know if you've noticed but being 'healthy' isn't exactly what I'm going for here." He kicks at the ground.

Sympathetic but slightly fed up with how things are going, Emerson sighs. "Why won't you even try? Listen, I know it's hard and you miss him, but how is this helping?"

"I'm not having this conversation."

"Yes, you are. You need to. I won't let you hide away like you're not worth worrying about because you are worth worrying about. I'm worried about you. Sebastian's worried about you. Your friends are worried about you."

"Well then fucking stop, why don't you? I'm not asking you to 'worry', am I? I'm perfectly fine on my own, Emerson."

"Yeah, well that's the biggest fucking lie I ever heard."

Andy keeps his eyes on the path. "I don't care," he says, "not enough to 'worry' or whatever I'm meant to be doing. I mean...I do care, but I don't...I don't-what's the word? Look, it's not that I'm trying to dig myself into the ground, it's more that I'm not-I'm not..." The word doesn't come to him. He shakes his head instead of finishing the sentence.

"Not what?" Emerson asks, determined to get something out of him, since Andy's hardly spoken for weeks.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I am worrying about it. Not what, Andy? You're not what?"

With a sigh to accompany a slowed walking pace, the elder says, "I'm not worth it."

Emerson veers off towards a bench. He sits down and waits for Andy to do the same. "Not worth it?" He echoes. "In what way, not worth it?"

"As in...not worth the effort it takes to stop feeling like this."

"Andy, that's not true. You don't really think that, do you?" When he looks at the man now, he notices the extent of his pain. His hand is once against bandaged – he keeps punching the shower wall. The surroundings of his eyes are grey and the blue irises are greyer. It's a sorry sight. "You're always worth it. You're more than just worth it. You're rare, Andy. You're beautiful and rare and you're worth everything in the world, alright? Please don't think you aren't."

The grey eyes drop to the bandaged hand. "I'm just so tired."

"I know. I know you are. Andy, you don't have to not be tired. It doesn't make you any less worth it."

Andy looks towards the river. "I miss him," he says quietly. The first time he's admitted it. "It feels like he's gone even though he isn't."

"It's okay to miss him. I miss him, too."

"But why doesn't he miss me? Why is he fine with not being with me all of a sudden? What did I do for him to forget about me?"

"Hey, no. You did nothing."

Now, his eyes settle back on his hands. "I just think..." The sentence is broken with a plagued exhale. "I just think that it'd be – I don't know – easier?"

"What would be easier?"

"Like...I'd rather-I'd rather feel nothing than feel this."

"You think it'd be easier to die?" Emerson pieces together, keeping his voice down.

Andy swallows tears. "Just...just simpler," he says. "Simpler and less...less difficult." He swiftly wipes at his eyes. "And I'm so tired, Em. I just want to sleep. I can't keep doing this. It's too much. It's just...everything is just too much now." As soon as tears seep free, he wipes them away, as though hoping that somehow ridding himself of tears will rid him of what's causing them. "I want to sleep," he repeats.

Emerson puts an arm around Andy's shoulder and begins running fingers through his hair. "I know," he murmurs, "I know you do. And I know you don't wanna hear this, but I love you. Always. Okay?"

Muffled by his hand, Andy sobs, leant into his friend. "No one's-no one's said that to me for a while."

"I'm so sorry."

"I just wanna sleep."