Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide, depression.

Andy is sitting on the bed when Emerson and Sebastian come in. He looks up at them and then back down at his hands. "I miss my house," he says, unsubtly hinting at his anger towards being sent here.

The brothers sit down. "We had no choice," Sebastian responds, somewhat guiltily.

"Sure you did. I was and still am very happy to die."

"Andy, you need to stop saying that."

"Oh, so you want me to lie? That's what it's come to?" He sighs. "And Remington didn't even have the audacity to show his face. Charming."

"This isn't Remington's decision."

"So now you're making decisions for him? He's not a kid."

Emerson shakes his head. "Andy, you know he isn't capable of making decisions at the moment."

The man rolls his eyes. "He's not a fucking vegetable, you know! He was perfectly capable of consenting to sex so he's perfectly capable of deciding for himself whether he wants to come or not."

"We just didn't think it'd be a good idea."

"And why's that, I wonder?"

"Andy, please, this isn't easy for us either."

"Are you the ones locked in a cell?" He folds his arms. "So what's the real reason you sent me here, huh? How long were you scheming behind my back while I was trying real hard not to die?"

"This isn't a cell, Andy, don't be like that. And we 'sent' you here because we didn't know what else to do. Look, sorry it was behind your back or whatever but what else were we supposed to do? Let you overdose and explain to your brain fucking dead husband that you hate yourself and everything else around you?"

"Yes, exactly! And he's not fucking brain dead! He's brain damaged. Learn the difference."

"Either way, you can't keep doing this! There's only so many attempts your body can take before it packs in."

"That's the fucking point, genius!"

Sebastian sighs. "If you want to see him, he can come next week, okay? This doesn't need to be a big deal. You're supposed to be here to get better, not to have a fucking meltdown every time he's brought up."

"You call this a meltdown? Oh, Jesus Christ, you're impossible."

"Can we just change the subject?" Emerson asks.

Andy glares at him. "Whatever butters your bread," he mumbles, "but for the record, fuck you."

"What happened to your hand?" Sebastian asks, noticing the bandage.

The man shrugs. "Tried smashing the mirror. Didn't work."

"Andy-"

"You came to cheer me up so start doing that, why don't you? I'm not exactly having the time of my life in here."

"You're making it difficult to cheer you up, you know," Sebastian tells him, partly joking.

Andy rolls his eyes. "I know, sorry about that. I'm in a bad mood. This room sucks, the food is bland as fuck, they make me do shit that I don't wanna do, like fucking reading groups, which are pointless." He prods at the bandage on his hand. "I'm grateful for you wanting to help and that but please let me go home."

"You know that's not possible, Andy. You're not safe at home."

"I know," the man mumbles, "but everyone here are cunts."

"You'll fit right in," Emerson teases. "But seriously, it's only been a day, give it a chance."

Andy, getting off the bed, picks up the book they're looking at in the reading group. "Tell me you wouldn't wanna off yourself if you had to read this." He hands it to the younger brother. "Look, I know it's for my safety or whatever and I am grateful that you care enough to sort this out, and I will try to not murder anyone here, but listen...I make no promises."

"Oh, this is shit," Emerson chimes, after reading the blurb of the book. "That's all we ask of you, Andy. Thank you."

"But if it doesn't work and I still wanna die after, please just let me."

"Yeah, I don't think so," the elder brother says, "nice try, though."

Remington is sitting on Emerson's couch when he returns home after the visit with his phone. It wasn't given to him for a while as to keep from overwhelming or confusing him with too much information. He looks up at his brother and asks, "what's the royal council?"

Emerson smiles. "It's what we call our fanbase."

"And what is 'remdy'?"

"It's, uh, the ship name for you and Andy."

"Ship name?"

The drummer reaches for the television remote. "Your couple name, basically."

"Oh, right, 'cause we're a couple..."

Emerson hums and Shy comes through the door. "You're a couple," he confirms. "Hi babe."

"Evening, Em. How was Andy?"

"Alright, I guess. The hospital is the last place he wants to be, but y'know, we had to do it."

"Why is he there?" Remington asks, "is it because he was shouting at...at Sebastian?"

"That's right," Emerson says, glancing at his girlfriend. "And because he still wants to die."

"He wants to die?"

"You forgot?"

"Did I already know?"

"Shit," the drummer mutters. "Andy's in a psychiatric hospital to keep him safe because he isn't able to keep himself safe at the moment."

"Why not?"

"Because he's very sad and if he isn't looked after, he'll try and kill himself."

"Okay." He frowns. "Am I forgetting again?"

Emerson hesitates before answering. "I'm not sure, we'll keep an eye on it."

"Okay."